Boobytrap

From the notebooks of Donald Michael Latimer

Fri., June 28 — 7:00 P.M.

The news bulletin came over the car radio as I was heading up into the mountains east of Truckee. Explosion in the garage of Judge Norris Turnbull’s Sea Cliff home at seven-forty this A.M. Turnbull dead on arrival at Mt. Zion Hospital. San Francisco police refuse to speculate on a possible motive or link between this bombing incident and the one two days ago that ended the short, miserable life of Douglas Cotter. But the news reporter had no such qualms. He hinted at a link. Could it be the work of a mad bomber with a grudge against the law?

I laughed when I heard that. Mad bomber? Hell, no. Righteous avenger was more like it. A man with one hell of a grudge against the law, specifically Chapters 2.5 and 3.2, Sections 12303.3 and 12355 of the Penal Code and the sons of bitches who interpreted, distorted, used them like weapons to all but destroy Donald Michael Latimer.

I laughed even harder when I pictured old Turnbull lying broken and bloody with his wrinkled monkey face full of metal barbs. Always hunching forward at the trial, not like an ape but like an overgrown vulture in his black robes. Always peering down through his glasses, stern-faced, eyes like hot stones, as if he thought he was God in the judgment seat. Hunched and peered once too often, didn’t you, Judge? Passed sentence once too often, didn’t you, you sanctimonious piece of shit?

I sentence you to five years in the state prison on each count, Mr. Latimer.

I sentence you straight to hell, Judge Turnbull.

Tears rolled down my cheeks, I laughed so hard.

Two down.

Next up: Patrick Dixon.