Past Due

Chapter 46

AFTER SCOWLING AT the security camera and being buzzed through the security doors, I barged into the justice’s reception area loaded for bear. The closest thing I found was Curtis Lobban, the justice’s clerk. He was waiting for me, standing tall and broad, his suit black, his shirt white, his muted tie tied tight. His huge hands, empty of files or books, hung ready at his sides. He stood there before me like the personification of somber power and I stopped my barging at the very sight of him.

“These chambers, they are off limits to the public,” he said, his deep voice soft and yet all the more menacing for its tone.

“I’m not here as a member of the public,” I said.

“But that’s all you are,” he said. “A insignificant man without a scintilla of importance. You are not welcome here. You will leave one way or the other. One way is preferable to you, I suppose, but as to me, I don’t care. Just so you leave.”

The justice’s secretary was away from her desk, there was no one waiting in the waiting room. It was Curtis who had buzzed me through and now it was just me and him, and him took a step forward.

“You’re going to throw me out bodily?”

“If I must.”

“You and what army?”

He looked at me, big somber Curtis Lobban, he looked at my pencil neck, my flagpole arms, my fists like pale undersized fish. “Do everyone a favor, Mr. Carl, especially yourself. Go on away home and leave us be.”

“Who are you talking for?”

“All of us, the justice, Mrs. Straczynski, my own wife.”

“Your wife?”

His fists clenched. “Don’t think I don’t know about the man you sent around to spy on us.”

“I didn’t send anyone to spy on your wife.”

“She is ill. You have disturbed her delicate equilibrium. This whole affair has left her distraught. Go away, Mr. Carl, leave us alone. Leave us in peace.”

“I’m here to see the justice, Curtis.”

“He doesn’t want to see you.”

“He’ll see me.”

“No, he won’t. And you know how I know? Because I am his file clerk. He does nothing without my say so. If a file is pushed to the top of the list, action is taken immediately, a decision is made, an opinion is written, an appeal denied or granted. Life moves on either way because I said it should. And if a file is shuffled to the bottom of the pile, or is somehow for some reason mysteriously misplaced, then it is as if time itself has stopped its course. There is no yes, there is no no, there is nothing. And all the world waits. You see, Mr. Carl, I keep the files, create the schedule, man the doors. I decide who comes in and who stays out.”

“So you’re the gatekeeper of justice, is that it? The gray ferry-man with glowing eyes?”

“Yes, that it is, exactly. You know who got it for me, this job? The Mrs.”

“Alura?”

“She is something of a saint.”

“She’s a spider.”

“Maybe that too. But you only know that part of her, not the other part.”

“I know enough.”

“You know nothing. Go away, Mr. Carl. Go away and stay away and maybe things will take care of themselves. But know this,” he hissed, “you are trespassing and you’ve had your warning.”

There it was, that same voice, the exact same words. He had hid his accent that night in the vestibule, but I could still tell. You are not welcome here, he had said. You are trespassing, he had said. And the word “scintilla,” a legal term that rolled so easily off his tongue, sort of like the rules of adverse possession had rolled so easily off his tongue when his foot was on my face.

“So it was you,” I said, “along with your buddy O’Brien.”

“If you persist, I’ll have you arrested.”

“You can do better than that, Curtis,” I said. “You already had me arrested, in Traffic Court, and still, here I am. I’ve been beaten, thrown in jail, cited for contempt, and now my client has ended up totally screwed by some Common Pleas hack. So what’s next? What’s your boss going to do to me now? Revoke my citizenship? Have me deported to Lithuania? What?”

“You do not understand.”

“Enlighten me.”

“He is an important man.”

“No, he’s not. He’s a speck of dirt in the public eye.”

His eyes opened wide, a smile appeared. “So, this is political after all.”

“No, Curtis. It’s not political, it’s personal.”

I started for the library.

He took a step in the same direction.

I stopped.

He stopped.

Then I was off, tearing to the entrance to the library, throwing open the door, sprinting toward the big oaken table, Curtis following close by my heels. A law clerk was sitting at the big table, looking up from her book, her jaw dropping at the sight of me rushing in and Curtis Lobban rushing after me.

When I reached the table I tossed an empty chair behind me. I heard a smack, something falling, a grunt, a curse.

The law clerk stood up and said something snooty. I tossed her chair too.

When I reached the end of the room, I flung open the justice’s door. He was sitting at his desk, hunched over a document. The justice looked up just as Curtis Lobban reached me and flung his thick arm around my neck.

“Mr. Carl,” said the justice as Curtis lifted me off the ground. “I didn’t know you had an appointment.”

I let out an unintelligible grunt.

“No appointment?” he said. “I suppose that explains Curtis’s handling of the matter.”

I let out an unintelligible bray.

“A grip like that, you know, can be fatal. There have been cases. You really should have made an appointment.”

I let out an unintelligible bleat.

“I’ll hold him for the police,” said Curtis, starting to drag me away even as I flailed at his arm.

“No, let him go. Men like Mr. Carl are like the weather. You have no choice but to suffer through them until a strong enough wind comes to blow them away.”

Curtis tightened his grip. My eyes bulged.

“Let him go,” said the justice.

Curtis released me. I landed on two shaky legs and lurched this way and that, trying to catch my breath and my balance, staggering around like a drunken Groucho Marx.

“You can leave us, Curtis.”

“But Mr. Justice, he-”

“It will be fine, Curtis. I think I can handle Mr. Carl myself.”

Curtis Lobban glared at me for a moment and then spun around and left, heading to some far off room. The justice went back to his paperwork. I collapsed into one of the chairs before his ornate desk and rubbed my neck. It wasn’t long before one of the lines on the phone lit. The justice turned his head to the lit line, then raised his eyes to see that I had seen it too.

“He’s calling your wife,” I said.

“Most likely,” he said, just as the white cat leaped atop his desk. “She makes it a practice of being kept informed of my business.”

“And you’re kept informed of hers?”

“As much as I care to,” he said, scratching the cat’s back, “which isn’t much. You don’t have an appointment. I don’t see lawyers without appointments.”

“I came about Rashard Porter,” I said.

“Porter?” said the justice. “Rashard Porter? I don’t recognize the name.”

“He’s a client. He was sentenced this afternoon to a year in prison for a crime that warranted probation at worst.”

“And you’ve come to see me about a case? How wonderfully improper. An ex-parte discussion with a sitting Supreme Court justice about an ongoing criminal case.” The cat curled to sitting on the corner of the desk, the justice went back to his paperwork. “I suppose the Bar Association will have something to say about this.”

“The DA and the presentencing officer in Mr. Porter’s case all agreed that probation was the proper sentence. He’s a kid with a future. He was accepted into art school. Everything was set until the judge turned around and slammed him with a year.”

“Then it appears you have grounds for your appeal. But until it reaches my level there is nothing I can do, and now, because of this meeting, I would have to recuse myself in any event. Is that all you came in here for, to ruin your career? Because trust me, Mr. Carl, when the Bar Association gets through with you, it will be ruined.”

“He was sentenced to a year because I was his lawyer, and because the word is out that I am to get screwed at every turn.”

“Really? That is troubling – for you. And who put out the word?”

“Don’t play the ignorant puss with me.”

“Oh, Mr. Carl. You’ve become paranoid.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean you’re not out to get me. After our first meeting you chewed out the District Attorney and I got hauled into the DA’s office and had my ass chewed out in turn. And right after that you ordered the sheriff to stop helping my collection action against Derek Manley. Then you had my name incorrectly placed on a bench warrant from Lackawanna County that ended up sending me to jail. And now you unjustly screwed my client, Rashard Porter, to the wall.”

“I did all this.”

“Of course you did.” Pause. “Didn’t you?”

It wasn’t any denial that caused my doubt, it was the evident pain on his face. As I went through the litany of indignities recently heaped upon me by the law, he seemed more and more in agony, as if a kidney stone was starting to move slowly and painfully through his system. And even as he spoke, it was as if the stone continued to move, push, chew its way through.

“Have you learned anything new about Tommy Greeley’s disappearance?” he said.

“Worried?”

“Curious. About a lost friend.”

“I’ve learned that just before his disappearance he was cheating on his girlfriend.”

“Cheating on Sylvia?”

“That’s right. With two different women, both married.”

“Tommy was ever the dog, wasn’t he?”

“One was a woman named Chelsea. Her husband, Lonnie, was pretty steamed about it. Did you ever meet him? Lonnie Chambers?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Owns a motorcycle shop in Queens Village.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“And the other woman he was sleeping with was your wife.”

The justice winced, but not from shock. He twisted around as if in utter pain, as if the kidney stone was continuing to grind its way. The white cat stood up, stared at me for a moment, then stepped over to rub its cheek on the back of the justice’s neck.

“Where did you hear that?” the justice said.

“She told me.”

“Of course she did.”

“Are you all right, Mr. Justice?”

“I think you should go.”

“My client. Rashard Porter.”

“Who was the judge?”

“Wellman.”

“Common Pleas?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll take a look.”

“I want more than a look.”

“We all want more than we can have. Good evening, Mr. Carl.”

He turned around to face me, grimaced, pushed the cat off his desk even as he dismissed me with a wave. The cat stalked off. I waited for a bit and then stood, walked toward the entrance. But before I reached the door I stopped and turned around.

“Did you know about Tommy and your wife?”

“Does it matter?” he said without looking up.

“Yes, it does.”

“I don’t intrude on my wife’s affairs.”

“But maybe they intruded on their own. Lonnie Chambers. He came to you, didn’t he?”

“I said I didn’t recognize the name.”

“Then we’ll have to see if he recognizes yours.”

“Good evening, Mr. Carl.”

I stayed there for a moment more, watching him try to work. His head was down, his pen was moving, but the pain was still there, the stone was still working its brutal way through his system, and I sensed just then that it had been working its way through his system for many many years.

“Why do you stay with her?” I said.

He looked up, puzzled for a moment at the question, and then nodded his head. “You’re not married, are you, Mr. Carl?” he said.

“No.”

“Well, then, here’s some advice from an old married man. Don’t ever presume to understand what is happening between a husband and a wife. Nothing in this world appears more transparent, and yet is more inscrutable, than someone else’s marriage.”