The Hanging Judge (44 page)

“You have ripe mangos.” David felt his pulse quicken and something press against the back of his throat. He swallowed.

“Yep,” Claire said. “I brought them back for you from Maui.” Her voice was carefully innocent, but her eyes were alight. “They’re very juicy.”

When the waiter returned to take their order, David said, “I think we’ll stick with coffee. We’re in more of a hurry than we thought.”

Smirking ridiculously, they gulped down their coffee and agreed to reconvene at Claire’s house in fifteen minutes.

As he made his way down the stone walk leading from the inn, David paused to gaze across the Common, brought to a stop by the happiness ballooning inside him, beyond hope or dream. The morning air was sweet, with the nip of early spring entirely gone. The grass of the Common, a deep crayon green, sloped down toward him from Pleasant Street onto a broad shelf the length of a football field. Sugar maples on the perimeter and on the higher ground up by the parking area were tossing great pompoms of vivid leaf against the blue sky. Everything was soundlessly cheering, especially him.

Two students, a girl and a boy, were flinging a red Frisbee nearly the entire length of the Common. Their exuberance, the power and accuracy of their throws, seemed to David almost magical. As he resumed his walk in their direction, the girl dashed toward him, thumping the earth so hard he could feel the vibrations through the sidewalk. Ten feet away, she leaped with a grunt and stretched full-length, straight up, to snatch the Frisbee out of the air, then twirled as she landed and fired her return like a bullet, four feet off the ground a good sixty yards down the grass, where the boy caught it, galloping like a colt. The girl cast David the briefest of looks, wiped her nose on the sleeve of her purple sweatshirt, and trotted off again as the Frisbee floated back toward her, an easy toss.

David lifted his eyes once more to the tops of the scrubbing maples, the boundless sky over the town’s low brick buildings, and the distant hills. The Wife of Bath swung by his side in her bag, matching her fantasies to his, and the whole weekend spread out before him, as spacious as the heavens, with nothing to do until Monday.

The last phase of
Hudson
was still there, of course, nagging at him. He kept imagining the moment, if the jury opted for death, when he would be sitting at his desk, pen poised, preparing to put his name on the execution order. He pushed down the thought. Who really knew what would happen? At least now the end was in sight. Soon Hudson would be off to Texas to begin his life sentence, or to Indiana for the long wait before his appointment with the Bureau of Prisons’ medical team. In a few days, a week at the most, a new parcel of baffled jurors and a new cast of attorneys and witnesses would be assembling before him.
United States v. Hudson
, whatever its outcome, would begin its slide into oblivion.

David didn’t notice Mrs. Abercrombie until she bustled into view around the rear of his Outback, five or six car-lengths away. A small wicker basket covered with a red-and-white checked napkin was dangling from her left hand.

Heaven help me,
David thought.
More ginger snaps.

He kept walking; somehow, he was not surprised. This was exactly the sort of thing the dear old crackpot would do. But it had to stop. It was way past time to get Mrs. Abercrombie out of his in-box. If she kept stalking him like this, he’d end up having to send the marshals to pay her a visit, maybe have to stick her gnarled old bottom in a jail cell.

She was waiting for him next to the driver’s side door where he could not avoid her. Her body seemed to be teetering, so rickety it looked as though it might fly off on the next puff of wind.

“Hello!” She waved.

When David drew up, the old woman dropped her voice and nodded at the basket. Something about her appearance was worse, even odder than when he’d seen her earlier. Her eyes narrowed in a kind of squint.

“I’ve got something for you,” Mrs. Abercrombie said. “I made it up myself.”

“Ma’am, we really do have to talk.” He shifted the bag to his left hand. “You have to stop doing this. Really.”

“You want to talk now? This is a good time?”

“It may be the best time we’re going to get, Mrs. Abercrombie.”

She shook her head, looking down at the pavement, then back up at him. “No.” Her eyes were searching up, as though she didn’t quite have him in focus. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Everyone’s always sorry.” She glanced down at the basket. How small she’d gotten!

Her face broke into a frowning grimace as she reached under the red-and-white napkin and drew out a tiny silver pistol. David, focusing on the hole at end of the barrel, drew in his chin. Was it real? The contraption was pointed directly at his heart, less than a two feet away.

Mrs. Abercrombie bit her lower lip, glared down at her hand, and pulled the trigger. The force of her tugs made the barrel jiggle, but the pistol merely emitted three dry clicks. David shook his head, speechless. A trickle of hot sweat was working down the inside of his arm, and his heart was racing.

“Lord, Mrs. Abercrombie,” he said finally. “You almost scared me to death with that thing. Why don’t I …” He grasped the end of the barrel and tipped it up to pry it out of her hand, working with care, not wanting to twist the old lady’s fingers. She set her lips and tightened her grip against him.

David had time to think,
This is probably not smart
, when the pistol discharged with a loud snap. He flew backward as though he’d been speared in the face by the butt of a rake handle. When he tried to gather his feet under him, his grasp fumbled against a parking meter, and he fell onto his side. The Lord & Taylor bag hit the pavement, bounced, and spat out its cardboard box. Propping himself on an elbow, David tried to force back the searing pain by pressing with his free hand against his eye and forehead. But the world was quickly growing dark, and the warm blood was pulsing through his fingers. It was difficult to get air. A smell of dirt, a wondering thought of Claire, of Marlene waiting, a thin strand of regret, and that was all.

The athletic girl stopped in her tracks to take in what had happened, allowing the red Frisbee to sail past her into the parking area and run scraping along the asphalt. When she saw the blood, she clapped her hand over her mouth, but for only for a moment. Then she began to shout fiercely, summoning the boy from far down the Common to help. The air carried the sweet smell of gunpowder.

Mrs. Abercrombie replaced the pistol back under the napkin and walked unnoticed toward her leprous old Volvo—grinning and nodding, rather in the manner of Claire’s Wife of Bath bobblehead.

60

L
ater that morning, Lydia Gomez-Larsen, her husband, and their two children were sitting down to their regular Saturday brunch. The dining room had French doors looking onto an elegant brick terrace with two rows of day lilies along one side. Just as Lydia picked up her fork, the phone rang, and she jumped up with an irritated expression to hurry into the family room.

“Go ahead and start,” she called over her shoulder in Spanish, but her husband, son, and daughter were already gobbling. Greg was not even on call this weekend; it was not fair.

“So! How’s my favorite prosecutor?” It was the too-familiar voice of Buddy Hogan.

“Uh-huh,” Gomez-Larsen said, sighing. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

She flopped onto the couch, cradling the phone against her head. Her feet were bare, and she was wearing a pair of bright white slacks and an orange rugby shirt, untucked. She stretched out her legs and propped them on the coffee table.

“Listen,” Hogan hurried on. “Sorry to harass you at home. Everybody’s saying you were brilliant yesterday, absolutely brilliant, with the O’Connor kid and everything. You’re the talk of Beacon Hill. When I get to be president, you’re going to be the best-looking broad on the Supreme Court.”

“Well,” Gomez-Larsen said, pulling a TV remote out from under her, “we’ll see what the jury does. Now that it’s almost over, I can tell you I haven’t been Señora Popularity in my extended family the past few weeks.”

“Really? Why?” Hogan asked.

“Castro shot two of my uncles. The Gomez clan is not real big on capital punishment.”

“I thought you were Puerto Rican.”

Gomez-Larsen sighed. “Have someone buy you an atlas, Buddy. You’ll be amazed how many islands there are down there.”

“Shit.” Hogan laughed uncomfortably. “If I’d known about your relatives, I might have thought twice about giving you the case.”

“So what’s up? I don’t want to be rude, but my breakfast is getting cold.”

A pause on the other end made Gomez-Larsen lift her feet from the coffee table and sit up. Something funny was coming.

“A couple of us happened to be in here on a Saturday, kicking your case around.” Hogan’s voice had lost some of its breeze. “And we realized there’s, ah, one loose end we need to tie up.”

Gomez-Larsen drew open the middle drawer of the coffee table, took out a pen, and turned over a torn envelope for scratch paper.

“And that is?” She doodled a five-pointed star.

“The wife. Was it Susan?”

“Sandra.”

“Right. We can’t let the perjury slide, Lydia. People can’t pull that crap.”

Gomez-Larsen didn’t say anything, and Hogan added, a little lamely, “So, we’ve had an intern bang up the research, but you’re obviously the best one to put the case to the grand jury.”

Gomez-Larsen set the pen down. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Why’s that?”

“First of all,” Gomez-Larsen said, “I’m not a hundred percent sure she committed perjury.”

“What about Spanky Sanderson, the neighbor? She said she and Sandra were walking their kids in the park, and …”

“Spanky was so scared we’d snatch her grandson, she’d have stood on her head in the witness box if we’d asked her. I’m fairly sure she was telling the truth, or at least thought she was, but …”

“That’s close enough for me.”

A silence followed. Lydia heard the sound of the forks clicking on the plates in the other room. She bit her lip and took a deep breath through her nose. Finally, she said, “Buddy, it’s time to fold the tent on this one. It’s over.”

“It’s not over until I say it’s over.”

“Then say it’s over.”

“It’s not over,” Hogan said. “Hey, if you don’t want it, I’ll understand. You’ve been a trooper. I’ll put another assistant on it.”

“No way, Bud.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, it’s time to end this.”

“Lydia, are you listening? I just said …”

“Buddy, you know my husband is a surgeon, right?”

“Congratulations. What does that have to do with the price of bananas?”

“I don’t do this job for the money. I could step aside any time. And, um, if something happened to make me take a hike, I might have a few things to say, you know?” She paused. “I really think it would be better all around if you and I stayed friends.”

The receiver had gotten sweaty, and she switched it to her other ear. She could hear her boss open and close a desk drawer on the other end.

“Well, fuck you, Lydia,” Hogan said finally, using his most amiable voice.

“Fuck you, too, Bud,” she replied, carefully mimicking his tone.

There was a sound of muttering from Hogan’s end of the line. Was someone else in the room? No sound of breathing. If there was somebody hiding on the line, he was keeping his hand over the mouthpiece.

“You still there?” Gomez-Larsen asked.

“Not really.”

“Buddy, listen to me …”

“No, no, no, no,” he said, briskly. “It’s okay. Maybe I’ll give this one some more thought. We’ll kick it around here a couple more times. But I wouldn’t count on that Supreme Court thing, sweetheart.”

“The humidity in DC is bad for my hair, anyway.”

“Good-bye, Lydia. I’ll be in touch.”

“Good-bye, Buddy.”

Though she hadn’t raised her voice, the electricity in her words had attracted the attention of her children, Alejandro and Lucía, who had been listening closely from the next room. Eight-year-old Lucía leaned forward and solemnly whispered to her father, “Daddy, Mommy just said ‘fuck you’ to someone on the phone.” Except for the words
fuck you
, she spoke in Spanish. Alejandro, eleven, was grinning gleefully.

Greg responded, also in Spanish, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. If she said that to somebody, I’m sure he deserved it.”

Gomez-Larsen was halfway back to the dining room when the phone rang again. “Oh, mother of God!”

“Let the machine take it,” Greg called. “You’re missing out here.”

“Buddy’s thought of something else. He always does this.” But when she picked up, she heard a female voice speaking Spanish very quickly.

“This is Maria Maldonado, Pepe’s mom? I need to speak to you right away, ma’am. I know who killed the judge. I hid the gun.”

“Who is this? Maria?”

“Carlos is alive. He came to my apartment last night with another man. He took the gun with him when he left. Now he’s killed the judge.”

“The judge? What are you talking about?”

“You don’t know? It’s on the radio. They haven’t caught him, but I know it was him. It’s all my fault. I should have spoken.”

Lydia dropped onto the edge of the sofa, glancing up at the clock to jot down the time.

“Where are you? Can you come to my office at the courthouse in one hour?”

“I’m at the Sheraton. It was just on the radio. They say whoever did it is unknown. Yes, yes, I can borrow my cousin Hannah’s car.”

“Don’t speak to anyone about this.”

“My cousin knows everything. I told her.”

“Okay, no one but your cousin.”

“Ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“If I say something that makes you think that Pepe has not been telling the truth, what will happen to him? My cousin says he will go to jail for the rest of his life. Is that true?”

“No.” Gomez-Larsen spoke quickly, the way she usually did when she wasn’t sure about something. “Twenty years. He’ll get the same deal.”

Pepe’s plea agreement said that the boy would get life without the possibility of parole if he was not completely truthful. The U.S. attorney might still decide to recommend a lower sentence, but that decision would belong to Buddy, and Gomez-Larsen wouldn’t put any money on his mercy. Still, Pepe theoretically could get the twenty years, and this was no time to quibble.