Judgment

47

Your Ukrainian friend did it,” she said.

There was a long silence on the line. Then Philip Hersh said, “That was fast.”

“Are you still okay to help me go through the—”

“I’m going to send you a link and a password,” Hersh interrupted.

“Do you have an app called Signal or WhatsApp installed on your phone?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah,” said Hersh. “You do?”

“Your Ukrainian friend recommended it.”

“He tends to be on the paranoid side. Occupational hazard. But in this instance, I actually think it may be wise.”

She remembered the phrase the hacker had used — “scary players” — and wondered whether that was nothing more than the manifestation of a paranoid mind-set. Or whether there was something to it. It filled her with dread.

And something else: she was in possession of someone’s stolen private e-mail correspondence. She had been party to an illegal act.

It was funny, she reflected: she waited for a Walk sign even when no cars were coming; she’d never cheat on her taxes; and back when she was in private practice, she never rounded up her billable hours. Yet she’d broken her marriage vows, and she’d just broken into someone’s e-mail, and she wasn’t so sure she was in the wrong.

She remembered once reading about a thought experiment: A man’s wife is dying. There’s one drug that can save her life, but it’s prohibitively expensive. The pharmacist won’t lower the price, and the man doesn’t have the money. What should the man do? Should he steal the drug?

To Juliana, the real question was, who wouldn’t?

Sitting every day at that vast judicial bench, a big hunk of oak separating her and the defendants and plaintiffs who came to her courtroom, it was easy to imagine she belonged to a different tribe. But it was a reassuring lie. Because she knew that they were separated only by circumstance, by situation, by a cascade of decisions. The person wielding the gavel, the person in the dock — how hard, really, was it for them to trade places? Martha Connolly liked to quote somebody, Juliana didn’t know who: life is a garden of forking paths.

“I could use your help going through it,” she said to Hersh. “You’ll know what to look for.”

“Understood.”

When they hung up, she launched Signal and was about to send him the link, when there was a knock on her door.

“Come in,” she called out.

Kaitlyn was holding a thick manila folder. She handed it to Juliana. Inside was a bundle of papers. The top page was titled “Motion for Summary Judgment.”

If she granted the motion, that meant the case was over. She’d be saying there was no case, no cause of action, no material facts at issue. No trial.

Just as Donald Greaves had promised. She had one week, he’d said, to allow it. One week to do the right thing.