The Judge

CHAPTER 10

With Acosta’s scalp hanging from his belt, Lano possesses a fear factor that can be measured only by the collective knocking of knees on the Richter scale. Under these circumstances it is not likely that elected officials will open another grand jury probe into the affairs of his association.

I had hoped that we could ride on the back of the official investigation, revelations that could be used to mount a defense on behalf of Acosta, a crusading judge, set up and framed by dirty cops. This undoubtedly will be a major theme of our defense. Now we have a problem. Prosecutors will be able to argue that while at one time there may have been an investigation, no evidence of corruption was found. If there’s no dirty linen, nothing to turn up, why would the cops go out of their way to silence a crusading judge?

The other half of our case is to put a face on the real killer. As much as I dislike the man, I don’t believe that Acosta is a murderer. Lenore and I are still engaged in mental casting calls for that role.

If I had to hazard a guess at this moment, it is that Brittany Hall’s death is related not to the judge, but perhaps to a jealous lover, a random burglary that went awry, or a sex crime. The problem with the cops’ current theory as it regards the last two is that she knew her killer and let him in.

It is Friday night, and I am working in the office late. We spent the afternoon, the three of us, Harry, Lenore, and I, poring through more documents of discovery, including videotapes of the investigation in the alley where the body was found, and later shots outside Brittany Hall’s apartment. Some of these have been taken by police photographers, others we have subpoenaed from two local television stations.

I am bleary-eyed. Lenore left early because of a social commitment. Harry pitched it in an hour ago and went home.

It is nearly ten when I hear a key in the lock to the outer office door, some clicking of the latch, and then the door closing.

When I look up, Lenore is standing in my doorway, in a sleek black evening dress, tight at the hips, with a hem that ends at midthigh, her bare shoulders aglow. She holds a pair of three-inch spiked heels, made of black patent leather, hooked on two fingers of one hand.

“Got anything for blisters?” she asks.

Lenore has been partying, a social engagement that she committed to months ago, before she left the D.A.’s office, some prosecutor’s bash.

She shows me a hole in her nylons, worn through at the heel on one foot.

“Walked half a mile,” she says.

“So how was the date?” I ask.

“You don’t want to know.”

I feel better already. Standing in my doorway, a slender hip thrust against the frame, with tasteful gold earrings dangling from her ears, and lips glossed to a sexy sheen, Lenore is a remarkably beautiful woman. Tonight her hair is up, lending an air of mystery.

“I take it you didn’t hit it off with Herb?” I try not to sound too satisfied.

Herb Conners is one of the supervisors in the prosecutor’s office, a corporate climber and tight-ass extraordinaire. We had a bet, Lenore and I. She bet Conners would find some excuse to break their date. Lenore figured she was damaged goods, a social liability for any ambitious climber in the office since Kline had fired her. I told her that in any contest between career and libido, lust always wins out. It seems I was right. I think Lenore kept the date herself only because she refused to be cowed by Kline, who would most certainly be present.

“Conners grew hands from every appendage on his body in the car on the way home,” she says.

“Horny devil,” I tell her.

“Not anymore.” Lenore gives me a wicked smile, leaving me to wonder what she did to him.

“I got out four blocks from here, tried to hail a cab, and missed. So I walked. Saw your light on.”

With the visage of this woman in my doorway, Conners is no doubt now huddled in a cold shower somewhere.

I’m fishing in my drawer for a Band-Aid. I find it and hand it to her.

She drops her shoes on the corner of my desk, and the fragrance of her perfume envelops me like mustard gas on a doughboy in the trenches.

Lenore is one of those women who can turn her sensuality on and off like a light switch. One minute she is all business, with the lawyer’s professional eye and gnashing teeth, the next minute she is a vamp, as she is tonight. Unfortunately, now, when I am mired in the details of work, Lenore does not have her business switch turned on.

“You’re burning the oil awfully late,” she says. “You ought to go home.”

“Somebody has to work,” I tell her.

“Still trying to figure out how we pick up the pieces of the broken cop show?” She’s talking about the abandoned grand jury probe.

“You got it.”

“Any ideas?” She talks to me while she rubs the calf of one leg, her foot now raised onto the seat of the client chair across from my desk, the hem of her tight dress hiked nearly to the top of one thigh. I’m getting lots of ideas, none of them concerning this case.

I make an effort. “We can try to subpoena the grand jury records, the transcript, all their investigative files,” I tell her.

“Lotsa luck on that one,” she says. Lenore is right. Grand jury investigations, particularly those that are closed without indictment, are classified, something on the order of a missile silo’s nuclear code. It would take a court order from a senile judge to pry them open.

“We can hire an investigator, see what we can find out on our own,” I tell her. “It would take a lot of legwork.” I’m staring at her own right now.

“And maybe by the next ice age,” she says, “we would come up with something.”

“Or tonight,” I say, “you could just go over and give Herb Conners a back rub. By morning he’d back his car up to our front door and dump every file from the D.A.’s office in our reception area.”

“You give him the back rub.”

“It would take a lot longer,” I tell her.

She slips behind my open office door like she’s playing Indian to my cowboy. I am left to wonder what she’s doing back there.

“For your information,” she says, “they didn’t kill the entire grand jury probe.”

“What do you mean?”

She is still a voice behind my door. “The investigation of the drug raid, the questions regarding the shooting of that cop a couple of years ago. That,” she says, “is still viable.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

We have talked about this, Lenore and I, a sensitive point because of Tony’s involvement. She does not believe that he could have played any part in the killing of another officer. She thinks the investigation will come up empty, though she has no theory as to how the gun that killed the cop found its way from the evidence locker downtown to the scene. When it comes to Tony, she has the blind confidence of a child.

“How did you find out the investigation’s still active?” I say.

“It pays to go to some dinners,” she tells me. “You’d be surprised, the things that pass over crackers and cheese. Especially when they’re washed down by wine.”

“Was it Conners? Is he the one who told you?”

“Do I look like I submitted to that?” she says. Lenore’s not telling me her source.

I’d hoped for a broader-ranging investigation. But at least it is something. If we work at it we may be able to weave it into our case.

“This source, will he talk to you again?”

When she emerges from behind the door she is bare legged, tossing her panty hose in my wastebasket.

“He wasn’t talking to me this time,” she says. “I was an ear hiding behind my date.”

“So Herb was at least good for something,” I say.

“Tall. Big broad shoulders.” She smiles. “A good listening post.”

She’s picking lint from her dress off of one thigh, tanned and smooth, with skin like vellum. She sits down in the chair across from me and with the delicacy of a wood nymph, teasing, but never revealing, folds one leg over the other. Executing contortions only women are capable of, she applies the Band-Aid to her heel, oblivious to my stare.

By now I am breaking into an open sweat. I’m talking business, but I’m thinking frolic. A weak moment.

“Any ideas as to an investigator we might hire?”

By now she is sitting still, having attended to all the needs of first aid, her elbows on the corner of my desk next to her shoes, chin propped up by the palms of both hands, her countenance like Hepburn in her prime. She is, I think, engaged in business of her own. She ignores my question as her scent drifts across my desk.

“Where’s Sarah tonight?” she asks.

“At a friend’s house. Sleeping over.”

“My girls are at Grandma’s,” she says. “For the night”

A smile spreads on her generous, glossed lips.

There’s an awkward moment of silence; telepathy, as we consider the possibilities. By mutual consent we have studiously ignored the undercurrent of lust in our relationship. The complications of working together on a difficult case, the downsides of office romances, children-there are a hundred reasons we should not do this. At the moment I can’t remember a single one of them.

“So what are you going to do,” she says, “work all night?”

She is looking at me with bewitching eyes as the glint of gold plays from one earring: the delicate chiseled features of her face, her tawny complexion almost ethereal, a frame of film shot through gauze. Like a junkie craving a hit, I suck in this image.

“I should say good night and go home,” I tell her.

Her gaze back is trancelike. Suddenly I find myself standing at the door, coat over my shoulder, not knowing how I got there, Lenore’s hand holding mine.

“Yes,” she says, “we should go home and say good night.”