Judgment

41

When court was out for lunch, Juliana returned to her lobby, took off her robe and hung it, and sat behind her desk. She could see the big dust-free rectangle in the middle of her desktop where her computer used to be. Her phone indicated a voice mail from Hersh. Without bothering to listen to it, she called him back.

“They took some files from your file cabinet,” he said. “That and the computer, that’s all.”

“Thanks for staying.”

“That was totally unnecessary. Just a brutal show of force.”

“I told you, the AG hates me, has for years.” She hesitated. “So I have a question for you, but I’m not sure we should be talking about it on the phone.”

“It depends. Are you talking on your office landline or your mobile phone?”

“Cell. My iPhone.”

“I’m reasonably confident your iPhone is secure, and I know on my end I’m clean.”

“Well, I’d rather be careful. I’ll come by your office when court’s out this afternoon. Will you be there?”

“Call first, but I should be. Meanwhile, I think I found your ‘janissary.’”

“Really?” She remembered what Ray Marshak had told her, about how the new owner of a company might plant his own soldiers, his guys, in the company. Janissaries, he’d said. “Excellent.”

“I searched every executive hire made after the company was sold. And one of them caught my eye — the CFO, a guy named Eugene Brod.”

“I remember him. He’s the guy in the chats I read who wouldn’t let Rachel Meyers see the paperwork on Mayfair Paragon.”

“He’s Russian — his name originally was Yevgeny Brod; he worked in the Moscow office of PricewaterhouseCoopers, the accounting firm. A graduate of Moscow State Forest University.”

“Interesting,” she said.

“It makes sense for the owner to plant the CFO. He’s the keeper of all data and all knowledge. I may follow him home from work one day, see what I find.”

“Terrific. Thank you.”

She ended the call. She was hungry, and she also needed fresh air, so she took the elevator down and lined up at the pho truck in front of the courthouse. The line was long, but it was worth it. A guy got in line behind her, and then a woman. The pho truck had only recently started coming around, and it was a smash hit; it was like she and the other people in line shared a secret.

She worried about what the attorney general might do. Sure, he was probably out to get her, but what could he actually find? Then the thought hit her: Is it possible I left my fingerprints somewhere in the hotel room?

“Worth the wait?”

The guy in line behind her, in a black leather jacket.

She smiled. “Oh, for sure.”

“So, long line for a reason.”

“It goes fast.”

“Got to be better than the crap they’re peddling inside, the café on the second floor.” He had a very slight accent. Middle Eastern? Russian? She wasn’t sure. She smiled politely, looked at her phone, trying to discourage further conversation.

But the man wasn’t done. He had gray-flecked black hair, a neat part, a long, sharp nose. Black crewneck sweater that looked like cashmere, over a gray shirt. He wasn’t dressed like a lawyer. “I once got a chicken parm sandwich inside, had a hair in it. Last time I ever ate there.”

“Yuck.” She kept looking at her phone, hoping he’d take a hint.

“Always gotta be careful, all you judges. Minefield out there. Cross your eyes at the wrong person and the CJC opens an investigation, right?”

Her bowels clenched. The Commission on Judicial Conduct went after errant judges.

She looked directly at him, studying his features. Who the hell was this guy? He was in his forties and somehow gave off an air of prosperity and confidence. Brown eyes, heavy eyebrows. Strong-looking.

“Do I know you?” she said.

“You’re Judge Brody, right?” In a quieter voice he went on, “Sleep with the wrong lawyer, CJC’s going to come after you all hot and heavy, right? It’s crazy.”

Blood rushed to her face. Suddenly it was as if the sound had cut out. All she could hear was the beating of her heart. She watched the man’s mouth move.

“What do you want?” His hands were strong and callused, capable of anything.

“Once they got their hooks in you, they don’t let go. I mean, it can be career-ending stuff.” He shook his head.

Nobody in line, nobody around her, had the slightest idea anything was wrong. Even on this busy street corner, she realized, this crowded place, she was all alone. She noticed a man leaning against the courthouse, holding a wrapped sandwich. The man smiled at her and nodded. At her? Or at somebody else? Was he a stranger? An enemy? The line seemed to be blurring. She felt light-headed.

The guy in the black leather jacket glanced at her casually, then looked at his watch. “My, look at the time,” he said. “Enjoy your lunch, Judge Brody. I hear the bánh mì sandwich is the thing to get.”

And then he walked away.