Choppy Water

17

Colonel Sykes didn’t broach political views on that first occasion, and neither did Bess. By the time he had gotten around to that they had had three or four dinners. He had not made a move of any kind, but he had done his research. He knew what she earned at Justice, that she shared a small apartment with an older woman, and best of all, that she felt her job was a dead end, and she had another fifteen years before she could retire on her pension.

Then one evening she seemed a little depressed, and he gently asked her why.

“My boss won a case today, one that should have never been prosecuted.”

“What sort of case?”

“You’ve probably read about it in the Post,” she said. “A kid was stopped for a broken taillight, the police found an illegal gun and white-supremacist pamphlets in his car.”

“I don’t read the Post,” he replied. “I like my news unfiltered by the liberal press.”

“So do I, but I have to read it for work.”

“What did this kid get?”

“He hasn’t been sentenced yet, but my boss is recommending eight to twelve, out in six, if he keeps his nose clean and his mouth shut.”

“Who is he?”

“Willard Simmons.”

He slid his card across the table. “I may be able to help. Can you get me a copy of his file and his presentencing investigation and the name of the judge?”

She looked at him closely. “You? How could you help?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, I’ll get you the file. A thumb drive okay?”

“Fine.”

“You didn’t answer my question, either.”

“It’s better if you don’t know now. Maybe later.”

She reached into her purse and came up with a thumb drive. “I was taking this home for myself, but you can have it. The judge is Stanton Rutledge.”

Sykes slipped the drive into his pocket.

She seemed to look at him with new interest.

Sykes went home and plugged the thumb drive into his computer. The boy was Willard Simmons — he knew that from Bess. He was twenty-four, had two years of college at Georgetown, had been kicked out over an incident involving a racial slur, followed by a fistfight.

He knew something about the judge, too: from an old Virginia family, once considered for a slot on the federal bench, until the newspapers had published a college yearbook with a photograph of him in blackface at a frat party. He and Sykes belonged to the same club in D.C. and had met a couple of times. There was something else, too. He fished a copy of the club’s monthly newsletter out of a pigeonhole in his desk and scanned it. Yes, there it was.

It was not hard to find Judge Rutledge in the early evenings, since each day he devoted an hour to relaxation in the club’s bar, followed by dinner in the dining room. The judge was a widower and had no one to go home to.

Sykes got a drink from the bar and turned to find the judge at a nearby table. He strolled over. “Good evening, Judge,” he said.

“Hello there, Sykes. Join me?”

“Thank you, I will.” He sat down. “Can I get you the other half of that?” He nodded at the judge’s nearly empty glass.

“Don’t mind if you do. It’s bourbon. Doesn’t matter what kind.”

Sykes raised a finger to a waiter. “A Knob Creek on the rocks for the judge, please.”

The drink was there in a flash, and the judge took a sip. “Why, that’s remarkable. What is it again?”

Sykes told him, and the judge made a note.

There was a copy of the club newsletter on the table between them. Sykes picked it up and pretended to scan it. “I see there’s a Rutledge who has been proposed for membership. Any relation?”

“Yes, my nephew, Carter. He’s just moved up from Richmond to take a job at State. Doesn’t know all that many people in town.”

Sykes slid his card across the table. “E-mail me his CV, and I’ll be glad to put something together.”

“That’s very decent of you, Colonel.”

“Not at all. Someone I didn’t know was kind enough to write a letter for me, some years back. Now I can pass on the favor.”

They chatted on amiably for a few minutes. Sykes had hoped the judge might bring up the case, but he didn’t. So he made his own move. “Didn’t I see in the Post that you heard the case of this young man, Simmons?”

“Yes, a tragedy at his age.”

“It read like nothing more than a young man’s high jinks,” Sykes said. “Has he been sentenced?”

“Next Monday. The DA wants eight to twelve.”

“Whew! That’s mean! Does the prosecutor have some personal interest in the case?”

“I don’t believe so, but he came to Justice from the ACLU. I had the feeling he was personally offended by what the boy had done.” The judge looked around to be sure they were out of other members’ hearing range. “The attorney general is Jewish, you know.”

Sykes nodded sagely. “What a shame. I know some of the boy’s folks down in my neck of the woods, and they’re fine people to a man. He’s the sort of young fellow I’d offer a job to when he’s out.”

“Really?”

“Really, Judge. I think justice should be merciful, when possible, not just mean.”

“That’s my philosophy, too. I’m going to read his record again, see what I can do.”

“God bless you,” Sykes said. “You’re a humanitarian, Judge.”

The judge waved off the compliment. “One does what one can.”

A few days later, Sykes asked Bess to dinner again.

“Did you see the papers today?” she asked.

“No.”

“The Simmons boy got time served and four years of probation. My boss was beside himself!”

“Sometimes justice does prevail,” Sykes said.

“Did you have anything to do with that?”

“I ran into the judge at a club we both belong to, and we had a drink. I offered to write a letter to the admissions committee on behalf of his nephew, who is a candidate for membership. The judge asked if there was anything he could do for me.” He shrugged. “I guess he wasn’t just saying that.”

“You are wonderful,” she said, squeezing his arm.