Legally Wasted (16 page)

“We are asking the questions,” said the
Justice.

Larkin smiled at Kincaid who looked about as
pleased as a scolded dog. “If this is an interview,” said Larkin,
“even in an interview, the interviewee can ask a few
questions.”

“Mr. Monroe,” started Kincaid, but this time
it was Larkin’s turn to cut him off.

“No, no,” said Larkin. “If this is going to
go down, I want a few questions answered. Where did you learn
criminal procedure?”

“Hamblen,” spat the Justice. “Harvard.”

“I’m assuming Hamblen is a name? A professor
at Harvard? I like how you say that, as if everyone should know who
or what you’re talking about. Do you do that in your judicial
opinions?”

The Justice did not respond. He crossed his
arms and stared gravely, looking like an etched profile on a
Confederate note. With those eyebrows, it was unlikely that the man
could do anything
not
gravely. “Why do I doubt that you read
very many of the Court’s opinions? There’s been a death, Mr.
Monroe. Let’s get on point.”

“Your doubts would be fairly justified. Do
you know where I learned criminal procedure?”

“I know that you never attended any law
school; that you learned by reading for the bar.”

“Wrong. I learned crim pro from an old con
named Randall Calloway. He wasn’t my first case, maybe my second or
third. The guy had seen - - hell, he had
lived
criminal
procedure, virtually every aspect of it, for the past fifty or
sixty years. He knew everything. The real knowledge, the practical
nuts and bolts. Not that phony baloney theory that Hamburger fed
you.”

“This is pointless,” said the Justice as he
raised his hands in disgust.

“Mr. Monroe,” snarled Kincaid, “I can keep
you in a holding cell for as long as you’d like. I’ll make you
intimately familiar with nuts and bolts of criminal procedure that
even you’ve never seen.”

“Just a second, Detective.” Larkin looked to
the Justice and matched Kincaid’s pointed finger with his own
finger pointed squarely at the Justice. The Justice raised his
eyebrows ever so slightly. “Do you know what Randall Calloway
taught me about criminal procedure? He said that if you’re ever
being questioned by a dirty cop that you should let him know that
you know he’s dirty. But you shouldn’t say it outright. That would
be the worst thing you could ever do. But you make sure that
there’s an understanding between the two of you. You let him know
that you ain’t stupid, that you get it. Let him know that you know,
but you keep the tape recorder dumb to that fact.” Larkin held his
finger toward the judge for as long as his confidence would allow.
The room grew hotter.

Kincaid stared at Larkin’s finger and then at
the Justice. For a moment, Larkin truly believed that he had
rattled the older man’s cage. But then the Justice simply
straightened his tie and leaned forward.

“When did you first meet Alex?” he asked.

“I’ve never met Alex Jordan.”

“Is that the truth?” asked the Justice. He
leaned in. Larkin could smell his aftershave. It smelled nice and
overpriced, like something you would buy at the Greenbrier gift
shop.

“Yes.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“You don’t want to know what I think.”

“Fine. Let us operate under the false
assumption that you never in fact met Alex. What did you know of
her?”

Larkin shrugged. “Not much.”

The Justice clenched his right hand into a
fist and raised it as if to pound the table. He brought it down
swiftly, but paused just before striking the surface. He instead
tapped the molded plastic and relaxed his hand.

Larkin looked to Kincaid. “Rage issues,” he
said. “Heat of passion.”

White eyebrows descended. The Justice’s mouth
chewed on words that Larkin assumed would be akin to the
four-letter variety. Larkin doubted that the Justice could truly
curse a blue streak. He probably used antiquated utterances like
“balderdash” or “drat.” The Justice swiveled in his seat and
directed some of his ire toward Kincaid. The detective seemed
thankful to be handed the reins.

“Mr. Monroe,” started Kincaid, “we’ve already
talked about the fact that Ms. Jordan had your business card on her
person when she was found. Twelve hours later, you’re standing over
her body in the morgue. Half a day after that, you’re hosting a
known felon who - -”

“Marijuana possession,” said Larkin.

“A known felon who had a number of private
conversations online with Ms. Jordan immediately before her
death.”

“That was quick,” said Larkin. “Did Melody
tell you that?”

“I wouldn’t worry about Mr. Hughes’
cooperation at the moment.”

“How can you honestly look at that body and
call her Mr. Hughes?”

“It’s what’s written in the file,” said
Kincaid.

“Does it say that I killed Alex Jordan in the
file?”

The Justice audibly cleared his throat. “

Larkin snapped his fingers. “Come on, guys.
Didn’t you talk to her? Did you read the messages?” He looked to
the Justice. “I’ll break this down into very simple sentences that
even Hamburger could understand. Your clerk was having gender
identity issues. Melody was trying to help. I had helped Melody in
the past. Maybe Melody thought that since I was a lawyer, I could
help Alex too, or listen to her, or maybe I could buy her a goddamn
drink, who knows? You should really ask Melody.”

“We know more than you may think,” said
Kincaid.

“Damn,” said Larkin. “Where’s the Law and
Order ringtone when you need it?” He crossed his arms and
half-remembered the half-baked conspiracies from the prior evening.
“Was Alex working on a significant opinion before she died? Maybe
something controversial?”

The eyebrows raised a bit before lowering
right back to bird of prey setting. “All of the opinions at the
Supreme Court are significant. And you’re being absurd merely for
the sake of absurdity.”

“That’s not a denial,” said Larkin, although
he spoke directly to Kincaid.

“This is getting nowhere,” said the Justice.
“We’re asking the questions, here.” It was then Kincaid’s turn to
raise his eyebrows. “What exactly was your relationship to this Mr.
Hughes person?”

“If you cooperate now, Mr. Monroe,” said
Kincaid, “it will only help you out later.”

“You can’t make any deals, only the
prosecutor can.” He turned to the Justice. “What exactly was
your
relationship to Ms. Jordan?” he asked.

The Justice’s body language gave no hints.
“Are you aware that the rules of professional conduct in Virginia
prohibit a lawyer from asserting that impropriety even
may
exist in the judiciary?”

“Seems a pretty paltry consideration when I’m
being framed for murder.”

“Notwithstanding your opinion or your inane
behavior,” said the Justice. He spoke like he should have been
bound in old leather. “But Ms. Jordan and I enjoyed a professional
relationship. She was an incredibly intelligent woman and - - ”

“And you’re worried,” said Larkin, “that
since she was found floating belly up in Smith Mountain Lake that
this will in some way affect your chances of getting that seat on
the Fourth Circuit. Not to mention the fact that she pissed while
standing in heels.”

“Rubbish,” said the Justice.

Larkin nodded. He had forgotten about
‘rubbish.’ “That part ain’t false, buster.” He looked to Kincaid.
“What was his reaction when you told him about Jordan’s secret? I
bet he acted surprised. Come on, Detective. You’ve probably been up
with six cups of coffee by now, but don’t tell me you couldn’t read
him. He knew the whole time. He probably found out about ninety
seconds before she was dumped in the lake.”

The Justice stood slowly. He carefully
buttoned the bottom two buttons of his coat and stepped away from
the table. With his right hand, he pushed the plastic chair back
beneath the similarly constructed table. The metal capped feet
scraped against the floor not unlike fingernails against a
chalkboard. This action seemed both deliberate and oddly pleasing
to the Justice. When the screeching had finished, without a look
toward anyone in particular, he said “Show him the e-mail,” before
leaving the room.

Larkin raised his eyebrows. “What
e-mail?”

Kincaid rifled through the papers in the
folder before him and withdrew a single sheet of paper. He then
handed the e-mail to Larkin.

“Shit,” said Larkin.

The detective nodded.

The email was sent from
[email protected]. It was addressed to a
[email protected]. The body of the email read as
follows:

Dear Alex,

I had such a time last night. I’ve always
dreamed of meeting someone just like you. You have shared something
with me that I will never forget. I will now share something with
you. If you’re never going to love me like I love you, I’m going to
have to end it once and for all. It will be done.

--LM, Esq.

“Wow. I really am being framed for murder,”
said Larkin. For the first time since entering the room, he began
to perspire. He then knew exactly why the room smelled the way it
did. “I didn’t write this. This isn’t even my e-mail address. Did
he give it you? Come on, Kincaid! He practically has the words
‘chief suspect’ tattooed on his pompous forehead. You’ve seen my
business card. It has my real e-mail on that. This,” he waved the
sheet. Kincaid snatched it from his hands. “This is garbage, a
fake. I don’t even know how to open an e-mail account. My wife had
to set up my last one and half of the time I still can’t get into
it. Shit. You’ve got to be smarter than this. You’ve got to
understand that I’m being set up here. He’s making me the fall guy
because he doesn’t want to ruin his goddamned civil fucking servant
career. There are red flags popping up all over the place. Don’t
tell me you can’t see them. I never wrote that. When does it say I
wrote it? I bet you I can prove I was elsewhere. Check my damn
computer. Get your ass out of this room and go get a blasted
warrant. There’s nothing on my computer close to anything like that
e-mail. There’s data on there that your guys can check, right?
Didn’t you see how mad the guy got at me when I started probing?
Couldn’t you see the way I was pushing his buttons? I had him
squirming in that goddamned thousand dollar suit. I’m innocent,
Kincaid. I didn’t do it. I’m not capable of murder. I’m incapable
of almost everything. I did not do it.” Larkin would have said
more, but he was out of breath. His hands appeared blanched and he
wondered if he would pass out again.

“What was it you said about the Law and Order
theme song?” asked Kincaid.

“Am I going to be charged with murder?”

Kincaid rubbed his beard. “Murder,
manslaughter. Maybe a few others.”

“With absolutely no forensic evidence
whatsoever. No opportunity to kill her if you cared to look. You
can’t really believe that I would kill her, Kincaid. The charges
won’t stick.”

“I think you can appreciate the gravity of
the situation.” His eyes glanced toward the chair that the Justice
had neatly and loudly tucked beneath the table.

“Does the gravity of the situation outweigh
reasonable doubt? The Fourth Amendment? And what about common
sense?” He leaned back in his chair. “God I need a drink.”

Kincaid made a curious gesture with his left
hand, a quick lateral movement of his index finger across his
neck.

“Ahhh,” said Larkin. The conversation would
continue off the record. “I mean, I knew you were recording me
earlier, but shouldn’t you have told me?”

Kincaid leaned back in his chair. He stared
at the foam insulation affixed to the ceiling. As the seconds
ticked away, Larkin was half-convinced that Kincaid was counting
the panels.

“You know what’s a great word?” he finally
asked.

Larkin remained silent.

“Bupkus. You don’t hear that much down here.
It’s a bit Yankee, maybe even Midwestern. My wife’s family is from
Illinois. Her father used to say it. He loved the Bears too. Maybe
he liked saying it because it sounded close to Dick Butkus.”

“Witch hunt is another good word,” said
Larkin. “Words.”

Kincaid eyed him for a moment before
retreating to the panels. “A whole court of smarties in robes. Men
and women who would sure as hell fire release a criminal, even if
they knew he was particularly guilty. But because the cop had made
some procedural muck up, the evidence had to be suppressed. And
they tell us to accept it because they’re smarter than us and it’s
the correct decision. But they’re not the ones who unlock the guy
and send him on his way. They don’t have to do that.”

“That’s the law,” said Larkin. “It’s not
Justice. She’s a blind woman that collects dust behind a Judge’s
office chair.”

Kincaid nodded. “It’s interesting what
happens when the dart hits close.”

“You mean, when someone rocks the boat? When
it hits close to the ivory tower? Look, lock me up if you want, or
if it’s because you have to do it, but tell me you’re investigating
that pretentious ass. The scene is easy to paint. Old Powdered Wig
takes a fancy midnight boat ride and the two are canoodling on his
yacht or Boston Whaler. One thing leads to another and he discovers
something that may not only disgust him, but threaten his whole
career. And then the rage kicks into overdrive. You saw that in
here. He’s got a temper. A fiery one. Don’t tell me that this
wasn’t the first thing you thought of.”

Kincaid cracked his knuckles. “It was on the
list.”

“And?”

Kincaid looked away.

“Alibi,” said Larkin knowingly. “He’s got a
rock solid alibi. A dozen senators, the chief of police, my mother
and the head nun of the convent all swear up and down that they
were with Old Powdered Wig at the time of her death.” Larkin ran
his fingers over his scalp. He sighed. “And the only witnesses to
my whereabouts are an obese cat and a bottle of eighty-proof.”