by Diane Capri
I narrowed my eyes and glared right back, saying nothing.
“A complaint has been filed alleging that your conduct is prejudicial to the effective administration of justice,” Oz pronounced officially, then sighed and sat back, as if his was a grievous duty. But his eyes gave him away. His solemn tone was at direct odds with the flicker of glee I saw in those old, crinkled, rheumy browns.
“A complaint? Filed by whom?” I cocked my head and kept a steady gaze aimed right at him. But my heart was pounding hard in my chest, and I held my churning gut in check with sheer force of will alone. Grace under pressure. Good goal. Hard to master.
Oz wouldn’t be attacking me unless he had support. What kind of complaint was it, and who had made it? Litigants assigned to my docket who thought they could get a better shot with a different judge? One of my colleagues? Someone higher up the food chain who didn’t like me? Maybe some politician who wanted his son installed in my job?
Could have been any or none of those options.
Even federal judges were entitled to confront their accusers. Which meant Oz would have to give me a good reason for whatever it was he meant to do. Eventually. I could wait. No rush, as far as I was concerned.
He nodded, folding his hands pompously on the desk. “A special judicial review committee has been appointed to investigate the facts and allegations contained in the complaint. You’ll be interviewed as a part of that process. And you’ll receive a copy of the report when it’s finalized.”
I gritted my teeth and stared at him in disbelief. “You mean to say you’ve started impeachment proceedings against me?”
“Please don’t make this more difficult, Willa. A man is dead. Your name is all over the internet. Courthouse personnel can’t even get our cars into the parking garage without fear,” he intoned.
“What are you talking about?” I said, dangerously calm.
“We can go through the entire process, but don’t imagine that you’ll come through this unscathed.” He looked so smug that I gripped the chair arms to avoid slapping that smirk off his face.
I held my tongue while he said all he wanted to say.
He puffed up his chest with righteousness like a Saturday night preacher in a hot, dusty parking lot. “I suggest you resign. Immediately. Save us all the scandal. Neither we, nor you, nor George for that matter, can afford any more embarrassment than you’ve already caused.”
“Resign?” I was flabbergasted. And angry. Angry, more than anything. How dare he even try to speak for George! My nostrils flared, and I struggled to control my breathing. I clenched my jaw. “No.”
“No?” Oz’s smirk surfaced again, a little longer and more gleeful this time.
“No. I’m not resigning. I’m not going anywhere.” I crossed my arms, allowing my fury to overtake the growing dread creeping up from my toes. “They haven’t even identified the man yet. Or established the manner, cause, and mechanism of his death. For all we know, he jumped out in front of my car on purpose.”
A small muscle worked in CJ’s jaw, a sign he was highly annoyed with my answer. Good. He’d be a lot more than simply annoyed by the time I finished with him.
He said, “If you can’t be reasonable, then at least show some consideration for the court. Take a leave of absence until the impeachment investigation proceedings are concluded.”
“Not only no, but hell no. Who do you think you are?” I pushed to my feet, indignation swelling in my chest, even as my tone remained level. Grace under pressure. The jerk.
Calmly, I said, “I’ve got work to do. My docket is crammed full. Like all the other judges here. Litigants are depending on me to do my job, and I won’t simply quit because you think you’ve finally found a way to get rid of me.”
“I had hoped you’d be reasonable. But since you’ve refused…” He puffed up his puny chest again and spoke in his most officious tone, “I’m sorry you’re unable to continue with your work, Judge Carson. We’re all very concerned about your predicament. Of course, I will reassign your cases during your absence.”
I widened my eyes in flat astonishment. “What? You can’t do that! You’ll create enough reversible error to clog up our dockets for years.”
Even as I said it, I realized I was wrong.
Our entire legal system assumes that people will follow the rules. When they don’t, we can’t force them. All we can do is punish them after the fact. And the truth was that we mostly failed on the punishment side, too.
The practical reality was that CJ could absolutely do precisely what he’d threatened, with nothing more than a few keystrokes on a computer.
There was no way to stop him. He was the court administrator. If I’d had to take a leave of absence due to illness or something, he’d have the power to reassign my cases. A few lawyers or litigants might object, but they’d have no real legal grounds to do so.
By reassigning my cases, CJ could effectively remove me from office.
Maybe I could get the situation turned around. Refuse to just lie down and take this. But really, what was I going to do? Sue CJ to make him stop? Beg the lawyers and litigants not to leave me? Throw a tantrum like a petulant child? Make a spectacle of myself with all the judges and lawyers in town by demanding to have my cases back? File a motion with the Court of Appeals to get rid of him? Call the president?
CJ watched as the truth made its way through my head, one crazy idea at a time, until I reached the last one and my shoulders slumped. He smirked and nodded. “It’s already done.”
I began to sputter, but he kept talking.
“We’re not going to leave you on the bench, Willa. Get used to that reality. You’ll be totally out of the way now. The last thing we need is to spend the next two years redoing everything on your docket after you’re convicted. We’ll handle your cases once and do them right the first time.” Oz, in his role as chief judge and court administrator, nodded once as if the matter was totally settled. Because, in effect, it was. At least for now. “Augustus Ralph will be instructed to be sure all documents are smoothly transitioned.”
He paused. I said nothing because I could think of nothing to say.
“Go home, Willa. I can’t have you removed from the building. Yet.” He smiled again. That smarmy smirk that made my palms itch to slap him. “But you’ll be effectively invisible if you insist on hanging around.”
What I really wanted to say was how dare he take it upon himself to hand off my docket and command my judicial assistant around like his own personal lapdog.
Instead, I gritted out the only words that came to mind. “There was no vehicular homicide, Oz. A man is dead. We don’t know how or why he died. It’s looking like a drug overdose. Regardless, his death was not my fault. I will not be charged with any crime. I certainly won’t be convicted.”
“Just bad luck, then? Do you think that excuse will help you? The victim’s family will be calling for your head on a stake before this is all over.” Oz quirked a sarcastic brow at me, and then his tone turned positively mean. “Social media is already sucking up every drop of oxygen out there, slamming you, all our judges, and our jurisdiction. The other judges can barely enter and leave the building or even go to their homes. One of those damn bloggers followed me into the club last night and interrupted my meal. I won’t have it, Willa. No one is on your side in this. No one. We’re done here. Go home. Don’t come back.”
I glared at him. I wasn’t usually a violent person, but I had the sudden urge to beat him to a bloody pulp. I was pretty sure I could do it, too. The little twerp. Something close to rage filled my heart, even as I heard my mother’s oft-repeated admonition in my head again: Grace under pressure, Willa. Hold steady.
He must have sensed my hostile intentions because he quickly lowered his brow and cleared his throat. When next he spoke, he backpedaled a little. His words were almost conciliatory, and I figured what he said next would become the public version of this meeting.
“Look, Willa. I realize this must b
e difficult for you, but I have to do what’s best for our jurisdiction. You’re not the only one under the microscope here. We’re all being watched to see how we handle things.” He paused and then spoke as if we were friends. “Take some time off. It’s the smart thing to do. Until all of this sugars out.”
What a liar. Without another word, with as much dignity as I could muster, I stalked out of his private office and past the gargoyle standing watch, hoping the angry tremble in my body wasn’t as visible as it felt.
I jabbed the elevator button, and the doors slid open immediately. I stepped inside.
Until all of this sugars out…
CJ’s words sounded like a death sentence to my career. Which was exactly what he intended, make no mistake.
I rested my head against the shiny, metal elevator wall on the way down to the third floor.
Before the elevator stopped, at least one thing became crystal clear.
The dead man could no longer be left to Ben Hathaway and his team.
Thanks to Chief Justice Ozgood Richardson and his anonymous complainant, my career was now hanging in the balance.
I might not survive his kangaroo court impeachment, anyway. I knew that. CJ was a buffoon, but he was a sly one. He was right when he said I had enemies. Powerful enemies.
And I certainly wouldn’t get back to my regular courtroom duties unless Tuesday night’s accident was brought quickly to a conclusion that exonerated me completely.
Bottom line? I was the only one who could save myself.
CHAPTER TEN
Friday, November 11
11:20 a.m.
I spent the next hour or so hovering between abject depression and determined anger. Yes, I’d complained about my busy schedule and all the mundane details involved in the day-to-day running of the American judicial system. But with a blank docket for the first time since never, I didn’t like it. Not at all.
Augustus bustled about, wrangling the men who’d arrived to remove the Stingy Dudes case along with all the others. Boxes and reams of paper, assorted binders, and other documents were stacked high on each load.
As the handcarts rolled through the door, my spirits sank lower.
There was nothing I could do about any of this. But I wouldn’t sit there and feel sorry for myself, either.
I’d been knocked around by life before. The worst thing was when my mother had died. I was sixteen, and my stepfather bugged out because he couldn’t cope with his grief. Through it all, I’d learned a lot about independence.
Mainly, not to go down without a fight.
“Has the coroner’s office called yet?” I asked Augustus when he brought me a glass of iced tea. “I’m expecting the autopsy reports.”
A hint of pity entered Augustus’s dark eyes as he stared at me kindly. “Not yet, ma’am. Perhaps you should take an early lunch, go for a walk. The sunshine will do you good.”
“Oh, should I?” I snipped, more harshly than I’d intended. The last thing I wanted was to hurt Augustus. None of this was his fault. I winced. “Sorry. Lots of stress right now.”
“How about I schedule you a massage for later?” He took a step back, as if I might flip out and bite his head off or throw something heavy in his direction. Which I really wanted to do, surprisingly.
But I didn’t. Like a lot of other things he’s wrong about, CJ is wrong when he says I have no self-control.
Augustus kept talking. “A new spa just opened near Channelside. Very chic and expensive.”
I sighed. A day of pampering sounded lovely, but I didn’t want to waste the time. Plus, CJ would have a field day if the vultures caught me lounging around at some fancy spa while police investigated the death of a man I’d struck with my car.
Besides, I had more important things to do. Starting with identifying the dead man. As a private citizen, I could investigate in ways the police could not. Witnesses were more likely to chat casually with me. I could snoop without a warrant, too. Which was precisely what I planned to do.
George wouldn’t like it, and Ben would squeal, but why not? No one had more at stake here than me. And no one could accuse me of shirking my judicial responsibilities, either. Thanks to CJ, I didn’t have any.
“Another time, Augustus. I’ve got research to do.” I squared my shoulders and nodded toward the door as a suggestion that he’d overstayed his welcome. “Please let me know as soon as the coroner’s office calls.”
He gave me a puzzled stare as he left my chambers, closing the door behind him.
Research. First, who exactly was this guy? No ID when they’d searched his body and the surrounding areas at the scene. Which was weird. Who wanders around alone in an expensive business suit without a wallet or a set of keys or anything personal in his pockets?
Chief Hathaway had also said the guy had no fingerprints. The DNA results were still pending. Ben said his officers were busy going over missing-person reports for the last month, but I knew they were short-handed due to budget concerns. Cops would be out on the streets, not stuck behind a desk scrolling through paperwork to identify an accident victim.
This was a situation where the media was our friend. The publicity alone should turn up someone who recognized the guy, at the very least. And it would. Probably. Eventually.
Being a federal judge allowed me access to lots of public and private databases, including those used by law enforcement—like CODIS, NCIC, even INTERPOL.
Alone in my chambers, I closed my eyes and forced myself to remember the accident in detail. I saw the man’s body as he’d lain cold in the street. I had managed to get a glimpse of his face once they’d put him on the gurney.
Dark hair, dark brows. Maybe early thirties. His eyes had been closed, so I didn’t know his eye color. I had no idea how tall he was. I typed in what I knew and hit the enter key.
Moments later, my computer beeped. No results found.
Well, damn.
“What did you expect? Ben told you there was nothing on the guy in any of the databases.” I frowned as I chastised myself. “Get your head on straight if you’re going to do this.”
I moved on to the man’s missing fingerprints. A few keystrokes later, I’d found info on a rare disease called adermatoglyphia, which caused a certain gene marker to be switched off somehow. Those individuals were born without fingerprints. A couple other diseases were known to affect fingerprints, too.
But there were also other causes of the condition. Damage to the skin was the most common. Trauma, burns, skin problems like eczema, psoriasis, or scleroderma could result in loss of fingerprints. Some nurses and doctors literally washed their fingerprints off, after so many handwashings. People who work with a lot of paper and woodworkers could wear off their fingerprints, too.
Good for cat burglars and mob bosses. Bad for me. I shrugged. Fingerprint identification was not an option.
Next, I did a search of the local newspapers for the last week or so, trying to find stories about dark-haired, thirty-something businessmen who might have had dealings in the area. There were quite a few. Tampa Bay is a bustling business and convention area. Well-dressed, brown-haired businessmen of a certain age were pretty common. I saw dozens in my courtroom every week, in fact.
This research was getting me nothing except a long list of where not to look further.
I glanced over at the contemporary-style glass clock on my wall and saw it was only a bit after noon.
A long, long day, followed by more long, empty days stretched ahead of me like an endless ocean. I didn’t like it. Nor would I accept it. Not until I had exhausted every possible alternative.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Friday, November 11
3:00 p.m.
By the time the coroner finally called at three o’clock, I’d reorganized all the file drawers in my office and dusted the bookshelf that held assorted stuff—like photos of George and me with the president and the chief judge of the US Supreme Court on the day I’d been officially sworn into office
.
I picked up the frame and studied my younger self, proud as the president shook my hand. The confirmation hearings had been tough. So many questions from politicians more interested in being reelected than making sure I was qualified for the job. In theory, it was a barrage of inquiry meant to weed out lesser candidates for the federal courts. In practice, everyone had a hidden agenda.
I’d withstood them all, kept my cool in the face of intrusive and insulting questions, and emerged as a United States District Court judge. One of the youngest in the country at the time. A job I was well qualified for and very good at performing. Definitely not something I would simply walk away from because that little dweeb Ozgood Richardson wanted me to. Not a chance.
If CJ wanted to get rid of me, he’d have to make it happen. I’d fight him all the way. And I intended to win. Only fifteen judges had ever been impeached in more than two hundred years. Of those fifteen, only eight had ever been convicted and removed from office. The last one was removed almost a decade ago, and he’d been convicted of fraud, lying under oath, and accepting bribes from litigants.
Not only was I not accused of anything even remotely close to an impeachable offense, but the entire process was also lengthy and complicated. Years could pass before the trial was completed.
All of which meant the odds were heavily in my favor.
I’d vowed many times over the years that CJ would be gone from the bench before I was. My plan was simple. I’d outlast the bastard. I was young. I could wait.
But I needed to get out from under this cloud of uncertainty and emerge unscathed first. Which shouldn’t be too difficult. There had been federal judges who were convicted felons and didn’t lose their jobs. But I didn’t plan to take up my place in history as one of them.
So who was this guy? I refused to believe I’d killed him. There had to be a better answer. Which would be hard to find as long as he still had no name.
