Fatal Judgment (12 page)

Liz had never seen Jake in work mode until the past week. She suspected, however, that he was generally all business. He struck her as dedicated, diligent, and buttoned up. A solid professional with the highest integrity, who never let personal feelings interfere with his job.

She’d felt that way even last Friday, when he’d shown up in the ER. Despite his reserve and her impression that he wasn’t thrilled by his assignment, she’d had every confidence he would do his best to protect her.

Now, she sensed his dedication to keeping her safe had a personal element. His demeanor, and the hand resting on hers, seemed evidence of that.

But perhaps Jake would offer the same kind of emotional support to anyone in his charge.

There would be time later to figure all this out, she decided as he gave her hand a squeeze and turned back to the front. When her emotions weren’t so tattered and he wasn’t occupied with a killer still on the loose—and possibly interested in finishing the job he’d started. They both had enough on their plates for the moment.

But after things calmed down, Liz had every intention of returning to their interrupted conversation at Doug’s grave.

And setting the record straight about her marriage to his best friend.

______

“My friends and fellow patriots, we live in troubled times. Dangerous times. Day by day, the unalienable rights set forth in the documents so painstakingly prepared by our founding fathers are being eroded through apathy and ignorance. While many people complain, few take action. I applaud all of you for attending this meeting. It means you share my concern about the fate of our great country. It means you want to learn the truth. But education without action is meaningless. How many of you here tonight can stand up and say, ‘I did something’!”

A murmur ran through the crowd as Jarrod Williams leaned forward on the flag-draped podium in the back room of Express Copies and surveyed the seventy or eighty people occupying the rows of folding chairs in front of him.

In his seat near the rear, Martin shifted as he sought a more comfortable position. He’d tried to do something—but he’d screwed it up. And he felt bad about that. Real bad. After reading the story about the judge’s sister last night, he’d tossed until the early hours of the morning.

But mistakes happened. When you had the courage to take a stand, there was always the chance of collateral damage, as Jarrod had once called it. It was unfortunate—yet justifiable if it advanced the cause.

“My fellow patriots, we must save our Constitution and Bill of Rights before it’s too late.” Martin refocused as Jarrod continued. “Even as we speak, the judiciary is conspiring to oppress us. Despite the Second Amendment, the federal courts want to disarm all Americans. They want to deny us our constitutional right to keep and bear arms. If you think I exaggerate, consider how difficult it has become to own a firearm. Have you tried to buy a gun lately? The regulations and licensing requirements make it an exercise in frustration.”

There were murmurs of assent from the crowd, and Martin nodded in agreement. He was lucky. He’d had a number of weapons for years, all now stashed in a locked cabinet in his basement. Purchased before the courts and the government began plotting to undermine the Second Amendment. It was too bad he’d had to drop his favorite .45 into the river as he left town on Friday night. But he’d used it for a good cause. And he had other handguns.

Martin watched as Jarrod came out from behind the podium and moved closer to the crowd. Tall and spare, always dressed in a suit and tie, his face shone with intelligence beneath his shock of white hair. He was a mesmerizing speaker, and Martin had been hooked ever since Tom Harris, the owner of Express Copies, had invited him to attend his first meeting. Here, he’d found like-minded people. Citizens who loved their
country
—not the corrupt government.

“My friends, the press and the terrocrats have called organizations like ours disgruntled fringe groups and subversive factions. Let me tell you something—we’re in good company. That’s what they called our founding fathers too. Now, like then, the cause is righteous. And we are at a crossroads. America’s demise is accelerating, and I fear that in our lifetime, the flickering light of liberty may be extinguished forever.

“Remember this, fellow patriots. Truth and justice are on our side. When your natural birthrights are violated, it is your right to ask for redress from the government. And if our corrupt courts fail you, if our tyrannical government fails you, you are under no obligation to offer them your allegiance or obedience.”

He joined his hands in front of him, fingertips touching. Almost like he was praying, Martin reflected.

“Let me leave you with one more thought. Whatever actions you take to reclaim our country, don’t keep them hidden. As Matthew reminds us in the Holy Bible, expose them to the world so everyone can see the light. ‘Neither do men light a candle and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.’ Spread the light, my friends. With pride. And if you are persecuted for your commitment to freedom, so be it. For it is up to us to keep the light of liberty burning strong. That is a cause worthy of martyrdom.”

The room erupted in applause, and Martin joined the others as they rose to their feet and gave Jarrod a rousing ovation.

But his mind was whirling as he pondered Jarrod’s closing comment.

He’d tried to do a good thing, and he planned to finish the job. But perhaps his method was wrong. He’d thought taking out a judge was sufficient. One less judge in America was a good thing, after all. Especially
that
judge. But no one would have known why she died. And that was important. To advance their cause, the world needed to know the reason for such a death. That it wasn’t a personal vendetta but part of a bigger purpose.

Suddenly, he saw his failure in a new light—as a God-given opportunity. A second chance to get it right. To shine the light on his actions through the media, so the world would know there were brave patriots dedicated to restoring America to its former glory.

“He was great tonight, wasn’t he?”

As the applause died down and the murmur of conversation replaced Jarrod’s stirring rhetoric, Martin turned toward Tom Harris. If it hadn’t been for Tom, he’d never have found out about this organization. Lucky for him, Tom had struck up a conversation with him fifteen months ago when he’d stopped in to copy some tax records after receiving a letter from the IRS claiming he’d underpaid his taxes. Tom had listened as he’d railed about the obscene fine he’d been slapped with for making an honest mistake, then invited him to his first Patriot Constitutionalists meeting. He hadn’t missed one since.

“Yeah. He’s always good.”

“You staying for the seminar? Should be interesting . . . paper terrorism at the local level.” He grinned. “We’re going to bury those aldermen on this eminent domain issue.”

It was a good cause, and he wouldn’t have minded pitching in. Too bad he hadn’t known about this group when his own house had been declared blighted a year and a half ago in the interest of “progress.” Like the world had needed another strip mall. His lips curled in disgust.

But he couldn’t stay tonight.

He had plans to make.

“I’d like to, but my sister’s coming to visit, and I have some business to take care of before she arrives.”

“No problem.” Tom slapped him on the back. “You having any luck finding a job?”

That was another sore subject.

And another kick in the pants by Uncle Sam.

After six months, it was still hard for him to believe his twenty-four-year career was toast. But that’s what happened when a company had to downsize after the government reneged on its defense contracts. So at fifty-three, he’d found himself on the street. Too young to retire, too old to find a job. And no one to commiserate with, now that Helen was gone.

Except she shouldn’t be gone. Wouldn’t be gone, if that doctor hadn’t botched things in the emergency room three years ago. Not that the court had seen it that way.

Fighting back the surge of anger those rancorous memories always provoked, he did his best to keep his tone conversational. “No. Economy’s bad.”

“Yeah. I hear you. Well, good luck. Are you coming to the next meeting?”

“I plan to.” He’d make up some excuse for his absence to Patricia. Tell her he’d gone bowling, maybe. He’d been a bowler once. A long time ago. She’d buy that.

“You gonna say hi to Jarrod before you leave?”

That had been his intention. He’d looked forward to letting the leader know he wasn’t one of the cowards who complained from the sidelines without ever joining in the fight. Not that he’d intended to provide details. He’d just wanted the man to know his words had inspired someone to take action.

But he had to finish the job first. The right way.

After that . . . he’d speak with Jarrod.

“Not tonight.”

“Okay, buddy. See you next time. Keep the faith.”

As Tom dived back into the crowd, Martin headed toward the door at the rear of the copy shop. A tall, thirtysomething dark-haired guy dressed in jeans and a T-shirt was ahead of him, and he held the door open for Martin as he approached. Martin had noticed him at some recent meetings. A construction worker, he figured. Or maybe he had one of the few landscaping jobs not held by illegal Mexicans. You didn’t get those kinds of biceps sitting behind a desk.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” The man let the door close behind them and fell into step beside him as they rounded the building and headed toward their cars in the front parking lot. “Looks like we’re in for a storm.”

Martin glanced up at the night sky. The moon was hidden, and no stars twinkled through the clouds. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, low and ominous.

“Yeah. Best get home before it hits. See you around.”

“I’ll be back. You a regular?”

He lifted one shoulder. “I’ve been coming for about a year.”

“I’m newer. Name’s Mark.” He stuck out his hand.

The gesture took Martin off guard. Most people at these meetings didn’t introduce themselves. It seemed to be kind of an unwritten rule. But he didn’t see any harm in it. It was only a first name.

He returned the man’s firm grip. “Martin.”

“Nice to meet you, Martin. Drive safe going home.” Lifting his hand, he strolled toward an older model Camry on the parking lot.

Martin headed the other way, toward his newer Accord, picking up his pace as another rumble of thunder sounded. Closer now.

No question about it.

There was unsettled weather ahead.

“Thanks for bringing this by, Neil. You can set it there.” As she led the way toward the dining room in the condo, Liz gestured toward the table.

Hefting the box in his arms, the younger of her two law clerks followed. After depositing it in the spot she’d indicated, he brushed off his hands. “Hard to believe you’ve accumulated this many files after just four months on the job. There are five more boxes in my car.”

The faint hint of a smile tugged at her lips. At twenty-six, with the ink not yet dry on his law degree, Neil Clark still had much to learn.

“The practice of law is synonymous with mountains of paper, Neil. And books. That doesn’t go away once you leave law school. It only gets worse.”

He grimaced. “Good thing you hadn’t been on the job
eight
months. We would’ve had to hire a moving truck.”

“I can ask the marshals to bring up the rest of the boxes from the parking garage, if you want.”

“No, that’s okay. I’m also learning that the practice of law plays havoc with the waistline. Running around campus kept me in shape.” He patted his trim midsection. “I’ve put on a few pounds already since I’ve been at this job. Too much desk time.”

A grin twitched at her lips. She liked Neil. From the shock of unruly blond hair that persisted in falling across his forehead, to the studious horn-rimmed glasses he favored, to his perennial gee-whiz expression, he reminded her of an earnest schoolboy, always eager to please. Looking at him, no one would suspect he had an incredible analytical mind and sharp, intuitive insights. She was glad she’d hired him two weeks into her new job.

“If you’ve gained any weight while clerking for me, I haven’t noticed.”

“Victoria has.” He gave her a rueful smile.

Her other clerk had already been on the job for a year when Liz had been named to replace the retiring judge, and she valued the woman’s experience. It had helped smooth the transition. She’d also watched in amusement as Neil had fallen for her hook, line, and sinker—though as far as she could see, Victoria gave him no encouragement. The woman was a total professional and completely focused on her work. Reminding her of herself at that age.

Before she’d fallen in love with an up-and-coming financial wizard who’d stolen her heart and altered her priorities.

Before their fairy-tale marriage had fallen apart and she’d turned back to work for solace—and escape.

Her smile faded.

“I’ll be back up in a jiffy.” Neil started toward the front door.

As he shuttled the remaining cartons up from his car, Liz blocked out the melancholy memories and opened the first box. With a sigh, she poked through the contents halfheartedly. Reviewing past case files to look for a needle in a haystack—as she’d described it to Mark Sanders—was a daunting . . . and unappealing . . . prospect.