Judgment

32

Martie Connolly had sent down for dinner from the Ritz kitchen: beef tenderloin with braised leeks and mashed potatoes served in silver domes. “I can’t tell you how nice it is to have company for dinner,” she said.

“If I have to be kicked out of my own house, I can’t think of a better crash pad,” Juliana said.

But it was more than a crash pad. It felt like a sanctuary. Up here on the twenty-third floor, with security guards at the entrance, she decided she was safe, for the moment. But she didn’t feel safe. In some part of her mind, a shadow-puppet theater was playing out scenes in which faceless figures menaced her kids, her husband, anybody she cared about. Really, it was more like one of those endlessly repeating GIFs: she imagined black-clad figures emerging with outstretched, taloned claws.

When she became a mother, she realized that her children would always be phantom limbs. That wherever they were, however far away, they’d feel attached to her, a source of vulnerability. Being a mom meant she could never turn off the phone. And now she herself had raised the family’s threat level. To come after her, her enemies could well come after them. She felt her mind eddying in anxiety.

“As long as you want, honey, as long as you want.” She poured them each a glass of pinot noir. “So has Philip found you a way out of this?”

“No. Not yet. But it’s become clear to me that the documents Wheelz is trying to suppress have to do with the ownership of the company.”

“They’re trying to conceal it for some reason?”

“It looks that way.”

“Why is it a big secret?”

“I don’t know. Philip doesn’t know. He’s looking into it.”

Martie looked off into some middle distance and spoke almost to herself. “So if you allow them to exclude the chats, or some of the chats, whatever they want, you’re off the hook. But if you don’t, they’re going to release that little movie.”

Juliana nodded, cut a piece of tenderloin, chewed thoughtfully.

“So the death of this lawyer gives you an opportunity to delay your decision,” Martie said. “Buy yourself more time. String this out.”

“Yes. Good idea.” She took a sip of wine. “I got a call from that Globe columnist Austin Bream.”

“Avoid at all costs. What does he want?”

Juliana’s phone suddenly launched into the distinctive, bubbly, syncopated Skype ringtone. “It’s Ashley, calling me back. Hold on.” What time was it in Namibia? Six hours later, so it was after midnight. She’d been trying to reach Ashley but couldn’t get through.

She answered the call. “Ash, is everything good with you?”

“What do you mean? Of course.”

“I... I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Mom, what happened?”

“What happened what?”

“Jake told me you moved out!”

“Sweetie, it’s nothing permanent.”

“That’s not what it sounds like. Are you and Dad getting divorced?”

“Oh, sweetie, no, no... We just needed to take some time apart.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing serious. We’ll talk when the time is right, you and me, okay? Who’s that in the background?” She’d heard a male voice, sounding close by.

“That’s Jens.”

“And who’s Jens?”

“He’s the director of the mission. He’s Danish. He’s amazing.”

“Are you — seeing him?”

“‘Seeing him’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Are you two a couple?”

“I guess. Sort of.” Ashley paused. “When the time is right, we’ll talk.”

“Fair enough,” she said, smiling. “Just be careful.”

“About what?”

After a long pause, she said, “Men.”

“Oh, so now you’re going to offer me relationship advice?” Ashley said. “That’s hilarious, Mom.”

In the morning, when she got to work, she found a note tented upside down atop her keyboard in her lobby. It was a message left by Kaitlyn, printed in architect-style all caps, her neat hand.

She didn’t return the call.

In the afternoon, both sides in Meyers v. Wheelz were seated in their usual spots in her courtroom. They were there for a status conference, scheduled long in advance. Administrative, nothing more.

“I want to start off today by expressing my condolences on the untimely death of your colleague,” Juliana said to Harlan Madden.

“Thank you, Your Honor. It, uh, came as a shock.”

“Obviously, this is going to create some difficulty for the defense.”

“Actually, no,” Madden said. “We’re okay.”

That she hadn’t expected. “Well, I want to make sure the defendant is adequately represented. I know you’re doing a very capable job of representing the defendant, Mr. Madden, but I can’t ignore the upheaval this must have caused.”

“But, Your Honor—”

“So out of an abundance of caution, I think we ought to put the brakes on a bit. Why don’t we push out the tracking order ninety days to give everyone time to catch their breath? Make sure you all have adequate time to process this and get things in order.”

“We actually don’t need more time, Your Honor,” Madden said.

The door to the courtroom opened, and a couple of middle-aged men entered and took seats at the back. She could tell right away that they were cops, despite their civilian attire.

“Your Honor,” said Glenda Craft, “we would rather move forward with the schedule already agreed upon. Respectfully, the defense counsel here before you is more than capable, and they’re not asking for more time. So I don’t think there’s any basis for the court to delay. Both sides are in agreement on this.”

“I understand,” Juliana said, “but I have to take into account this is obviously a significant and troubling event, and I don’t want anyone to look back on this a year from now and feel that we rushed.”

“Both sides want to keep moving full steam ahead,” said Madden.

“All right,” Juliana said reluctantly. She couldn’t push any harder.

Shortly after she returned to her lobby, there was a knock on the outside door.

“Come in,” she said.

The door opened. It was the two men from the back of the courtroom.

“Judge Brody,” one of the men said, tall with swept-back gray hair and a gray goatee. “I’m Trooper Markowski from the State Police, with the Attorney General’s office, and this is Detective Krieger, with the Boston Police. We’re sorry to bother you, but we have a serious matter to discuss.”