Chasing The Dead

Chapter Six

Alex’s clients had taught her a lot about the human capacity for shifting blame, dodging responsibility, and denying guilt. Some were robbers or rapists. Some beat their women and abused their children. Some killed for kicks or because of uncontrollable rage. Some blamed their victims, some said they were entitled, and some said they just didn’t care. Regardless of their crime or their excuse, every explanation came down to the same refrain-mistakes were made, but not by me.

Alex was too harsh a critic of her own actions to take refuge in that sort of self-justification. She owned what she’d done. Dwayne Reed was dead. Nothing to be done about that except hope the nightmares would one day end. As for her deal with the judge, that was another matter altogether.

As she drove to his ranch, she realized that John Atwell’s case had persuaded her that her partnership with the judge was over. She’d done her job for Atwell because of what she owed him as his lawyer, no matter the crimes he’d committed in the past or might commit in the future. There was more than honor in fulfilling her duty; there was power in doing the right thing, power that gave her the strength she needed to move on from Dwayne Reed and the deal she’d made with the judge. It was time to walk away.

She was nervous about telling him. She’d represented enough partners in crime to know what happened when one of them backed out of the deal. The other was rarely satisfied with his future former partner’s vow to keep his mouth shut, often closing it for him-permanently. While she didn’t think Judge West would kill her, she wouldn’t underestimate his reaction. But knowing how good she would feel when she was free of him turned her dread to the joyful anticipation of something wonderful about to happen.

The judge’s ranch was off Little Blue Road near the eastern edge of the city limits, the wooded, hilly acreage far removed from the county courthouse in downtown Kansas City. There was an old house and an older barn that housed half a dozen horses and a pony for his grandchildren to ride. It had the one thing that he valued more than anything else: privacy.

It was dark when Alex arrived, her headlights bouncing off the front porch of the house. Judge West’s wife, Millie, was standing on the porch smoking a cigarette. She flicked it into the yard, turned, and went back in the house as Alex got out of her car, not even a wave to acknowledge her arrival.

It was always the same whenever Alex saw Millie at the ranch. They never exchanged a word, each of them pretending the other didn’t exist. She’d learned Millie’s name only when she found an article in the online archives of the Kansas City Star profiling the judge when he was appointed to the bench twenty-five years ago. The one time she’d asked him why they always met in the barn, never in the house, he said it was because his wife was bat-shit crazy and constantly accused him of having an affair anytime she saw him talking to another woman. He said it without elaboration and Alex never brought the subject up again.

It was a cool evening, and Alex gathered her light jacket around her as she made her way to the barn, the smell of manure hitting her in waves the closer she got. The barn door was open, a string of low-wattage lightbulbs casting weak light down the center of the barn. She stood at the door for a moment, watching the judge shoveling straw and manure from one of the stalls and dumping it into a wheelbarrow, his knee-high rubber boots caked in mud and muck.

“Come on in, or are you afraid of stepping in some shit?” he asked.

Alex glanced at her scuffed Danner boots and laughed. “It’s nothing that won’t wash off.”

West smiled. “Then grab that pitchfork,” he said, pointing to one hung on the wall to the right of the door, “and lend me a hand.”

Alex didn’t mind the work, though he’d never asked her to do it on any of her prior visits, welcoming it after a long day, glad for the chance to loosen her muscles and keep her mind off what she had to tell the judge. She quickly churned up a sweat, removing her jacket and getting into a rhythm as the judge cleaned out the stalls and she layered in fresh straw and bedding. An hour later they were finished and sitting on a wooden bench, each holding a cold bottle of beer.

“After a while,” West said, “you don’t even notice the smell.”

“I’ll take your word for it because I’m not there yet.”

“Well, don’t worry,” he said, patting her knee. “Given enough time, you can get used to just about anything.”

Alex flinched at his touch, pulling away as she set her bottle on the bench. “Why do I think you’re not talking about horseshit?”

“Horseshit or bullshit, it all stinks, and somebody’s got to clean it up. That’s what you and I are doing. These stalls are no different than the people you defend, though my horses are a hell of a lot smarter. Your clients go through life crapping on everyone and everything, and, hell, half the time they get community service or probation. And the ones that go to prison don’t stay there long enough because the fucking prosecutor gave them a sweetheart deal or because the prison is overcrowded. And you know what they do when they get out? They rape, rob, or murder someone else. Over half of them are back behind bars three years after they get out. You know what Missouri’s recidivism rate is? It’s fifty-four point goddamn four percent, third highest in the entire goddamn country.”

Alex had heard the judge’s speech enough times to know it by heart. For him, the statistics were personal insults.

“I know,” Alex said as she stood and faced the judge.

He squinted at her, his head turned slightly to one side as if to get a better view of her.

“You look like someone who’s got more to say, and I don’t think I’m going to like it.”

She took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.”

“All right. I’ll clean the stalls on my own from now on.”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about. Kalena Greene offered John Atwell a deal for fifteen years. He told me to take it and I did.”

“You know that I was going to deny your motion.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“And what would have happened after that?”

Alex stiffened and stuck her hands in her jeans pockets, resenting that he was treating her like a schoolgirl. “Kalena would have withdrawn her offer and my client would have been convicted.”

“That’s right. And I would have sentenced him to life on the robbery and a hundred years on the armed criminal action and he would have been off the street forever. You do understand that.”

Alex bristled. “Of course I do.”

The judge rose, his face reddening. “That day you came in my chambers crying about what a bad man Dwayne Reed was, you told me that you’d do whatever it took to get rid of him and all the others like him. So what happened? Did you stay up late last night reading a John Grisham fairy tale and get all excited about the majesty of the law?”

Alex planted her hands on her hips, not backing down. They weren’t in the courtroom, where she had to feign respect.

“Something like that. Anyway, I’m done. From now on, I’m playing all my cases straight. You and I can’t meet like this anymore.”

“For Christ’s sake, Alex! You had the balls to shoot Dwayne Reed to death and now you’re telling me that because you had a conscience fart you’re gonna let John Atwell get off with fifteen years, which isn’t even fifteen because he’ll be eligible for parole in three fucking years!”

They stared at each other, Alex refusing to blink. “Kalena made the offer, I conveyed it, and my client accepted it. End of story. You and I are done.”

“I don’t think so. Wait here,” Judge West said. He lumbered toward his house, went inside, and returned a few minutes later, handing Alex a large manila envelope. “Take a look.”

She slipped her finger under the seal and pulled out a grainy eight-by-ten-inch photograph of her kneeling next to Dwayne Reed’s body. In the photograph, she was holding his raised arm, the gun in his hand aimed at the ceiling, his finger on the trigger. Her hand was wrapped around his, her trigger finger on top of his.

Alex’s skin burned, her gut twisting, as she glared at the judge.

“Where did you get this?”

“Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that this photograph corroborates the prosecution’s claim that you shot Dwayne Reed in cold blood and then fired his gun to make it look like self-defense. Now, the good news for you is that I acquitted you on the murder charge and double jeopardy prevents you being charged again, in state court, anyway. However, the U.S. attorney might take an interest in charging you with depriving your client of his civil rights. The Justice Department takes that sort of thing so seriously they’re still trying to solve murders of black people in Mississippi back in the 1960s. What do you think they’ll do with a murder of a black man by his white lawyer from last year?”

Alex’s head was buzzing with questions. Where had the photo come from? How had the judge gotten his hands on it? Who could have taken it? There were no answers that made any sense. She swallowed hard, forcing the bile in her throat back into her stomach. If the photo was real, she was dead. If it wasn’t, she was just as dead unless she could prove it was phony. Since she couldn’t accept that it was real, she counterattacked.

“Nothing, because the photo is a fake,” she said through clenched teeth. “I don’t know who Photoshopped it or where you got it or how, but it’s a fake.”

“Are you saying that’s not the way it happened?”

“I’m saying it’s a fake and we both know it.”

She slipped the photograph back into the envelope and threw it on the floor. Judge West bent down and picked it up, grunting with the effort.

“Well, now, that’ll be for the jury to decide if it comes to that. And I don’t know any lawyer whose career can survive two trials for killing the same man, even if she’s acquitted both times.”

Neither did Alex, though she wouldn’t admit it. One of the lessons she’d learned in courtroom combat was to counterpunch when the prosecution thought they had the upper hand. It was the same lesson her mother had taught her when she was a little girl-never let them see you sweat, even if you’re about to pee your pants.

“And I don’t know of any judge who could explain how he tried to sucker the U.S. attorney into a bogus prosecution with a bullshit piece of evidence like this. I thought you were too smart for that, but if you’re not, be my guest. I won’t be bullied and I won’t be blackmailed.”

West grinned. “That’s what I like about you, Alex. You’re always ready for a fight, even if it’s the wrong one, and that’s enough to get most people to back off. But I’m not most people. If and when this photograph lands on the U.S. attorney’s desk, my fingerprints won’t be on it, but yours will be.”

She shook her head, not believing she’d been so easily duped. Her fingerprints would give the photograph more credibility, especially since no one would believe her when she explained how they got there. She eyed the judge and the envelope, measuring the distance between them, arms at her sides, fists balled, and considered whether to try to wrestle the envelope away from him. He was bigger, maybe stronger, but she was younger, faster, and motivated.

West grunted, stepped back, and wrapped his free hand around the pitchfork.

“Tell me you aren’t that stupid, Alex.”

She let out a breath, releasing the tension in her coiled muscles.

“Not tonight. What do you want?”

“I want you to honor our agreement. Now, I’m willing to forget about the Atwell case.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t give me a choice. I’m bound by the plea agreement. And I’m more interested in how you handle your next case, not your last one.”

“I’ve got a stack of cases on my desk. Which one are you talking about?”

“None of them. You’re going to be assigned to a new case tomorrow. Your client has already confessed to a gruesome murder. All you have to do is go through the motions, get the discovery you’re entitled to from the prosecutor, conduct a limited-and I mean limited-investigation so you can say you did, and when the prosecutor offers to let him plead guilty and be sentenced to life without possibility of parole instead of being executed, you will convince him to take that deal. Now, if you do that, why, then, this photograph will go back to where it came from and it will stay there.”

First the judge hit her with the photograph and now he was telling her about her next case. She couldn’t imagine how he knew what it would be. All she wanted was to get out of there.

“My new client, what’s his name?”

“Jared Bell,” Judge West said.