The Judge’s List

9

The nickname of “Cleopatra” had followed her from the Tourism Council, a much larger state agency where she had worked for a few years as a staff attorney. Before that, there had been brief stints in state offices that dealt in such matters as mental health, air quality, and beach erosion. It would never be known who tagged her as “Cleopatra,” and it wasn’t clear, at least to those laboring at the Board on Judicial Conduct, if Charlotte was even aware what her underlings called her. It stuck because it fit, or because Elizabeth Taylor’s version was somewhat similar. Pitch-black hair, straight and long with obnoxious bangs that tickled her thick eyebrows and must have required constant care; layers of foundation that strove to fill the cracks and wrinkles the Botox couldn’t get to; and enough liner and mascara to doll up a dozen hookers in Vegas. A decade or two earlier, Charlotte might have had a chance at being pretty, but the years of constant work and misguided improvements had robbed her of all possibilities. Any lawyer whose reputation and gossip dwelled on her bad makeup and tight clothing as opposed to her legal skills was doomed to toil in the netherworld of the profession.

She had other physical problems. She liked skirts that were too short that revealed thighs that were too thick. Outside the office she wore six-inch dagger-like heels that would make a stripper blush. They were abnormal and painful to wear, and for that reason she went barefoot at her desk. She had no sense of fashion, which was okay around BJC, where slumming had become the trend. Charlotte’s problem was that she fancied herself a real trendsetter. No one was following.

Lacy was wary from day one, for two reasons. The first was that Cleo had a reputation as a climber who was always on the prowl for a bigger job, something that was hardly unusual among the agencies. The second was related to the first, but far more problematic. Cleo didn’t like women with law degrees and viewed them all as threats. She knew that most hiring was done by men, and since her entire career was predicated on the next move, she had no time for the girls.

“We may have a serious problem,” Lacy said.

Cleo frowned, though the wrinkles in her forehead were well hidden by the bangs. “Okay. Let’s have it.”

It was late on Thursday and most of the others were already gone. The door to Cleo’s large office was closed. “I’m expecting a complaint, one filed with an alias, and one that will be difficult to handle. I’m not sure what to do.”

“The judge?”

“Unidentified as of now. Circuit court, ten years on the bench.”

“Are you going to make me beg for the dirt?”

Cleo fancied herself a tough cookie, a no-nonsense lawyer with little time for small talk or bullshit. Just give her the facts, because she could damned sure handle them.

“The alleged wrongdoing is murder.”

The bangs dangled slightly. “By a sitting judge?”

“I just said that.” Lacy was not an abrupt person, but she entered into every conversation with Cleo with her guard up, her tongue ready to fight back, even to strike first.

“Yes you did. When was the alleged murder?”

“Well, there have been several. Alleged. The last was about two years ago, in Florida.”

“Several?”

“Yes, several. The complainant thinks there may be as many as six, over the past two decades.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I didn’t say it was a him. And I don’t know what I believe right now. But, I do believe that she or he is near the point of filing a complaint with this office.”

Cleo stood, much shorter without those heels, and walked to the window behind her desk. From there she had a splendid view of two other state office buildings. She spoke to the glass: “Well, the obvious question is why not go to the police? I’m sure you’ve asked that, right?”

“It is indeed obvious and it was my first question. His or her reply was that the police cannot be trusted, not at this point. No one can be trusted. And it’s obvious that there isn’t enough evidence to prove anything.”

“Then what does he or she have?”

“Some rather compelling coincidental proof. The murders took place over a twenty-year period and in several different states. All are unsolved and quite cold. At some point during the judge’s life, he crossed paths with each of his victims. And, he has his own method of murder. All of the killings are virtually the same.”

“Interesting, to a point. May I ask another obvious question?”

“You’re the boss.”

“Thank you. If these cases are indeed cold, and the local cops have given up, then how in hell are we supposed to determine that one of our judges is the killer?”

“That’s the obvious question, all right. I don’t have an answer.”

“If you ask me, she sounds like a nut, which, I guess, is about par for the course around here.”

“Clients or staff?”

“Complaining parties. We don’t have clients.”

“Right. The law says we have no choice but to investigate the allegations once a complaint is filed. What do you suggest we do?”

Cleo slid into her executive swivel and looked much taller. “I’m not sure what we will do, but I can promise you what we will not do. This office is not equipped to investigate a murder. If she files a complaint, we will have no choice but to refer it to the Florida state police. It’s that simple.”

Lacy gave a fake smile and said, “Sounds good to me. But I doubt if we’ll see the complaint.”

“Let’s hope not.”

The initial strategy was to inform Jeri by email, and try to avoid any possible histrionics. Lacy sent a terse business-like note that read: Margie. After meeting with our director, I am sorry to inform you that the complaint you suggested will not be handled by our office. If it is filed, it will be referred to the state police.

Within seconds her cell phone rang with an unidentified caller. Normally she would have ignored it but she figured it was Jeri, who began pleasantly, “You can’t go to the state police. The statute says it’s up to you to investigate the allegations.”

“Hello, Jeri. So how are you today?”

“Miserable, now, anyway. I can’t believe this. I’m willing to stick my neck out and file a complaint, but the BJC doesn’t have the balls to investigate. You’re willing to just sit by and push papers around your desk while this guy literally gets away with murder and keeps on killing.”

“I thought you didn’t like phones.”

“I don’t. But this one can’t be traced. What am I supposed to do now, Lacy? Pack up twenty years of hard work and go home, pretend like nothing ever happened? Allow my father’s killer to go free? Help me here, Lacy.”

“It’s not my decision, Jeri, I promise.”

“Did you recommend that BJC investigate?”

“There’s nothing to investigate, not until a formal complaint is filed.”

“So why bother if you’re just going to run to the police? I can’t believe this, Lacy. I really thought you had more guts than this. I’m stunned.”

“I’m sorry, Jeri, but there are some cases we’re just not equipped to handle.”

“That’s not what the statute says. The law directs the BJC to assess every complaint that’s filed against any judge. There is absolutely no language that says BJC can dump the complaint on the police until after its assessment. You want me to send you a copy of the statute?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I didn’t make the decision, Jeri. That’s why we have bosses.”

“Okay, I’ll send the statute to your boss. What’s her name? I saw her on the website.”

“Don’t do that. She knows the statutes.”

“Doesn’t sound like it. What am I supposed to do now, Lacy? Just forget about Bannick? I’ve spent the last twenty years.”

“I’m sorry, Jeri.”

“No you’re not. I was planning to drive over Saturday and meet with you in private, lay out everything from the six murders. Give me some guidance here, Lacy.”

“I’m out of town this weekend, Jeri. I’m sorry.”

“How convenient.” After a long pause, she rang off with “Think about this, Lacy. What are you going to do when he kills again? Huh? At some point you and your little BJC become complicit.”

Her line went dead.