Judgment

37

She tried Lyft, but the app said there were no drivers available and she didn’t want to be late for the interview with the detectives. So she requested a Wheelz black car, and the app said the driver, whose name was Mohammed, would be arriving in seven minutes. Gradually the time counted down to one minute and then “arriving now,” and a moment later a black BMW 7 Series limousine pulled up to the curb. It glinted in the watery light of dusk. She said good-bye to her husband and son and got into the back of the car.

She greeted Mohammed. The BMW smelled new. She sat back and tried to relax, checking her e-mail on her phone. The sedan pulled into the rush-hour traffic on Beacon Street.

Jake had been understandably defensive. He said his math teacher was “overreacting” and that he promised he’d do better in math. No, he didn’t want a tutor. He apologized for “kinda lying” about going to soccer practice, but he was doing homework in the library and working on a “project” that he didn’t want to talk about.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t been particularly engaged during their talk with him. She’d been far too distracted. She kept mulling over what the state trooper had said. A couple things have come up.

That could be any number of things. He had sounded reasonable and accommodating, but that was the pose of a guy with a winning hand. It made her nervous.

“Judge Brody, it’s time,” the driver said.

She looked up. Surely she had misheard him. For an instant she wondered how the hell he knew she was a judge. As far as he knew, her name was Juliana, no last name. That was the most information Wheelz gave the driver, the passenger’s first name and a number, the average score other drivers had given her.

Then she recognized the man’s face, and an electric charge crackled down her spine. Greaves.

“Pull over,” she said. “Now.”

“I’m afraid we have something to discuss.”

“I have nothing to say to you. Pull over.”

“My employers are running out of patience. You’ve already hit your deadline. Tell me why we should give you any more time.”

“I have nothing to say to you.” She grabbed at the door handle and tried to yank it open, without success. She tried again. It was locked from the inside.

“You think you’re calling the shots, but you’re not.”

“Are you?” She inhaled sharply. Her heart was racing.

“I’m a messenger. Nothing more.”

“I know who you are. You’re Donald James Greaves, dishonorably discharged from the Marines twelve years ago for assaulting your commanding officer. Employed by Fidelis Integrated Security for eight years. You’ve lived in Jacksonville, North Carolina, and Memphis. You’re certified, level two, in Russian kettlebells, you take Lipitor for high cholesterol, and I know who you took to your high school senior prom.”

Greaves was silent for several seconds.

“So pull the goddamned car over and let me out now.”

“We’re almost finished, Judge. Plus, we’ll be arriving at your destination in a few minutes.”

“We’re finished.”

“I think you need me to explain your situation. As clearly as possible. You have not been cooperative, and my employers are not happy about this. So the requirements have escalated. Listen to me closely, please. The defense will be filing a motion for summary judgment. You will respond in the usual way. You’ll schedule an oral argument, you will take the motion under advisement, and then you will issue a written decision granting that motion, thereby ending the case. This will all happen quickly: once the defense files the motion, you will have no more than a week to grant it.”

“And if I deny the motion?”

“First up would be a scandal that totally incinerates your career.”

“Maybe I can live with that.”

“Oh, but that’s the thing. You can’t. After a very public disgrace like that? No one’s going to question your decision.”

“My decision.”

“You’ll have it easy. It’s your husband and your children — they’re going to have to live with it. You — who knows how it happens. Is it an overdose of pills? A leap out the window of a tall building? Suicide by motor vehicle, like your brother? Do you want to write it, or shall I?”

“What the hell are you talking about? Write what?”

“Your suicide note.” He was silent for a beat. “You have some pondering to do.”