Fatal Judgment Page 16

  A shaft of pain seared through her.

  Last Friday at this hour, she’d been wrapping things up at the courthouse, looking forward to a spaghetti dinner and long gab session with her sister. Clueless about the nightmare that lay ahead.

  Everything that had transpired in the past week felt surreal. As if any second she’d awaken to find it had been just a bad dream.

  Only it was all too real.

  A film of moisture blurred her vision and she rose abruptly, determined not to succumb to tears again. She was tired of crying. She felt as if she’d done nothing but shed tears during the quiet, lonely hours she’d spent sequestered in this condo.

  Arching her back, she rotated her neck, trying to get the kinks out as she walked toward the kitchen. She’d been culling through her files since late yesterday morning, stopping only to stretch out on the bed for a few fitful hours of sleep last night and to grab a piece of fruit or a bowl of dry cereal when her stomach protested her neglect. Tonight she needed something heartier. Perhaps one of the dinners that had been stocked in the freezer when she’d arrived.

  She pulled out the first one her hand touched and read the label. Roasted chicken breast, rice pilaf, broccoli. That would do. After sliding it into the microwave, she leaned back against the counter, trying not to be disheartened as she surveyed the dining room table through the pass-through between the granite countertop and the hanging kitchen cabinets.

  It was tough to keep her spirits up, though. She was getting nowhere with her search. Mark’s comment that there was a loser in every case and that not everyone was a good loser was true. Meaning any loser in any case she’d tried could have decided he or she wanted revenge. How could she know who might have a penchant for violence? Appearances were often deceptive. The most normal-looking person could have a substance abuse problem. Or anger issues. Or be depressed. A pillar of the community could be a wife beater. Or a killer.

  With that in mind, she’d amassed a towering stack of files to give to the FBI. Far too many. In the end, she’d culled it back dramatically, deciding to pass on only those cases in which someone had left a strong negative impression.

  Using that criterion, after reviewing almost two years worth of cases, she’d earmarked just three for further investigation. A bank robbery case she’d heard during her first month on the federal bench, plus a domestic violence case and a drug case from her days on the state circuit court. She’d handed those over to Mark earlier this afternoon, when he and Jake had come by.

  At the thought of the tall, dark-haired marshal, her pulse lost its steady cadence and her hand stilled as she pulled out the cutlery drawer. Since their tête-à-tête yesterday morning, she’d felt off balance. Especially after that charged moment at the door, when she’d half expected him to put down the plate of cannoli and pull her into his arms.

  Had wanted him to pull her into his arms.

  In fact—though it shocked her to admit it—she wouldn’t even have objected if he’d kissed her.

  The high-pitched beep of the microwave shattered the stillness like a red alert, and she jumped at the raucous intrusion.

  Shutting the drawer with her hip, she removed her dinner and slid onto a stool at the counter. The red-alert analogy was apt, and she ought to heed it. Thinking about Jake in romantic terms wasn’t wise. After the emotional roller coaster of the past week, she shouldn’t trust anything she was feeling right now. She was too vulnerable. Too prone to overreact to attention—and perhaps misinterpret it.

  Like the glint of appreciation in his eyes when she’d appeared at the door in her workout attire. It probably hadn’t meant a thing. She had a decent body. And men noticed that kind of stuff. A look of admiration was par for the course, indicating nothing more than a spurt of testosterone.

  The wise thing to do in this situation was let things settle for a while.

  Yet as she speared a bite of chicken with her fork, the steam rising from the nuked meal in front of her reminded her of how she’d felt yesterday at Jake’s departure. The shiver that had run through her when his brown eyes had locked on hers, then delved deep into her soul, hadn’t had a thing to do with the temperature in the room, despite the excuse she’d given him. It had been a shiver of excitement.

  And the man himself had been the cause.

  The aroma wafting up from her meal set off a rumble in her stomach, and she popped the piece of chicken in her mouth—promptly burning her tongue. Opening her mouth again, she fanned it and groped for her water. Took a mouthful. Swished.

  And as the pain subsided, she decided to take the incident as a warning: use caution when sampling anything hot—or you could get burned.

  Fifteen minutes later, when her doorbell rang, Liz was still dawdling over her dinner. No way did she intend to put another blister on her tongue. Caution had become her operative word.

  Setting down her fork, she slipped off the stool and headed toward the door. Jake stood on the other side of the peephole, broad shoulders front and center, white shirt crisp beneath his dark suit. And though her new operative word was still echoing in her mind, she couldn’t stop the little rush of pleasure that warmed her as she twisted the knob.

  “Hi.” She forced her lips into a shaky smile. “Would you like to come in, or are you heading out for the day?”

  “Heading out. I promised to meet Cole for dinner. I just wanted to say good night and see how you were doing with the case review.”

  She made a face. “It’s slow going. And I’m not seeing many red flags, even though it’s very possible there’s a sleeper I’m missing in one of these cases.” Leaning against the doorframe, she slid her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “To be honest, it feels like an exercise in futility.”

  “Hang in there. The odds are our killer is imbedded somewhere in one of your cases. Unless you’ve got some enemies you haven’t told us about.”

  “No. I can’t think of anyone I’ve ever met who disliked me enough to want me dead.”

  “Have you been at it all day?” He hooked a thumb toward the dining room.

  “Yes. Except for when you and Mark stopped by earlier.”

  “Did you eat dinner?”

  “Finishing up now. Tonight’s special was nuked rubber chicken with mystery sauce.” She smiled.

  Instead of reciprocating, he frowned. “Not much of a dinner. We can send out for food, if you’d rather.”

  “That’s okay. I haven’t been that hungry, anyway.” The ring of her cell phone sounded from the living room, and she pulled the door wide. “Do you mind if I grab that?”

  “No. Go ahead.” He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

  Liz dashed for the phone, delighted to discover Delores on the other end.

  “I’m not interrupting anything, am I, my dear?”

  “Not at all.” Liz motioned Jake into the living room. “How are you?”

  “We’re fine. But the real question is, how are you? Harold and I haven’t been able to get you off our mind.”

  “I’m doing okay. The marshals are taking good care of me.” She aimed a smile at Jake and mouthed “Delores Moretti.”

  “I’m sure they are. But it’s not like having friends around. So Harold and I were wondering if you might like some visitors. We could stop by tomorrow while we’re out and about doing errands. Assuming you can tell us where you are, that is.”

  “That would be lovely. Let me ask. One of the marshals is standing here as we speak.” She pressed the mute button and gave Jake a recap of the conversation. “Would that be okay?”

  “I don’t see why not. We’ll need to do a security clearance on them, but I don’t expect there will be any problem. Can you let her know first thing in the morning?”

  “That should be fine.” Liz pressed the mute button again to disengage the feature. “Delores? I think that will work. They need to run some security checks, though. Can I call you first thing tomorrow morning?”

  “Of course. Security, hmm? Do you
think the parking ticket I got two years ago will count against me?”

  At the woman’s serious tone, Liz smiled and angled toward Jake. “I’m sure a parking violation won’t be an issue, Delores.” Jake’s lips hitched into a one-sided grin. “I’ll get back to you, okay?”

  “Sounds good. You take care.”

  As Liz rang off, Jake started toward the door. “I’ll stop by the CP before I leave and get the security clearance started.”

  She trailed behind. “Are you off this weekend?”

  “Yes. But I’ll be by a time or two. And you can always call me on my BlackBerry. We’ll regroup on your court schedule Sunday.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  She closed the door. Locked it. Watched through the peephole until he disappeared.

  Back to work.

  But as she dumped the remains of her dinner in the garbage disposal and returned to the dining room, she was suddenly grateful for the task that would keep her grief, her loneliness—and thoughts of Jake—at bay.

  As the sun peeked over the horizon on Saturday, Martin lifted his coffee from the cup holder next to the driver’s seat and took a sip, inspecting the apartment building in the Central West End where Neil Clark lived. It was amazing how much you could find out by simply hanging around. Waiting. Watching. That was how he’d gathered the information he’d needed to devise his first plan to rid the world of Judge Elizabeth Michaels.

  Even though it hadn’t succeeded, the plan had been good. The outcome wasn’t due to faulty thinking or planning. He was always thorough and meticulous. That was why he’d excelled at his job. Why his bosses had put him on the space shuttle assembly work. And the Apache helicopter project. And the Harrier contract. They knew they could count on Martin Reynolds to get the job done right.

  Just as he intended to get this job done right.

  The front door of the apartment opened and Neil emerged, his rollerblades already on. The kid looked like he was about fifteen, with that shock of hair falling into his face and his gangly adolescent build. And he was as predictable as the bells that tolled each hour at the church on the corner of Martin’s street. Every Saturday morning at 7:00, Neil went rollerblading. Then he headed to the courthouse for a few hours, always dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, lugging a bulky satchel.

  Watching the kid take off down the street toward Forest Park, Martin eased his car away from the curb and followed him. When he was first formulating his plan, he’d thought there might be a way to use Neil to gain access to the judge. After seeing the two of them come out of the courthouse together, he’d trailed them on foot when they’d walked down the street to a crowded sandwich shop. The lunch rush had made it easy to get close enough to eavesdrop without being noticed. From their conversation, he’d figured out the kid worked for her as a clerk.

  But he hadn’t ended up needing Neil. It had been easy to follow the judge home, and easier still to do a little reconnaissance in her secluded backyard. One visit had told him the basement window would provide easy access to the house under the cover of darkness. And one look through the laundry room window had given him a good view of the keypad for her home security system. It was a standard variety. The kind you turned on at night and when you left the house. He’d dealt with enough sophisticated security systems at his old job, with all the classified stuff going on there, to recognize a basic model.

  He’d also spent a couple of weeks sitting outside her house, studying her habits. What time she left in the morning, what time she returned, when she tended to run errands, who she talked to. She seemed especially chummy with her neighbors across the street—Delores and Harold Moretti.

  No, there had been nothing wrong with his plan. He’d gotten in and out clean, and the police had no clue who the perpetrator was.

  His only mistake had been killing the wrong woman.

  Next time, there would be no mistake.

  He turned into the park, following Neil at a safe distance. It wasn’t going to be as easy on the second try, though. The judge wasn’t in her house anymore. She was sequestered in a high-rise condo not far from the courthouse, surrounded by marshals. At least he was pretty sure that’s where she was, after following Neil there a couple of days ago from the courthouse and watching him haul half a dozen boxes in from his car. Martin had figured she’d eventually want some stuff from her office, and the wet-behind-the-ears clerk had seemed the most likely person to be tapped as a delivery boy. So he’d been sticking like glue.

  And it had paid off.

  He was hoping the kid would make another trip there, just to confirm the judge’s location.

  An hour and a half later, as he sat behind the wheel, killing time across from the courthouse parking garage by reading the Saturday paper, he hit pay dirt. The kid’s car pulled out less than fifteen minutes after he’d arrived, and instead of moving west, toward his apartment, it headed south. Toward the judge’s condo.

  Just as he’d done on his last visit, he parked in front. Hauled a box out of his trunk. Headed for the door.

  Ten minutes later, he exited, returned to his car, and pulled away from the building.

  Martin tapped the wheel, debating his next move. He didn’t see any reason to follow the clerk again. The kid had served his purpose. His two trips to the condo were pretty convincing proof the judge was inside.

  But why not stick around here for a while? He’d learned a lot by doing that the first time around, at the judge’s house. It was possible he’d pick up some more useful information. And you could never have enough information in the planning stage.

  Especially when the stakes were this high.

  Liz pulled the next file toward her and took a swig of cooling coffee. She’d worked late last night after Jake had left, tossed for a few hours in bed, and gotten up at the crack of dawn to dive back in, determined to get through five years’ worth of cases this weekend—plus the box of files Neil had just delivered, after she’d realized one was missing and called him. Not the way she’d choose to spend a Saturday, but she wanted to finish this job as soon as possible.

  Her stomach grumbled in protest at the steady infusion of coffee, and she set her mug aside. She’d stop after this file and grab a bagel. Or maybe dig out one of the breakfast sandwiches stashed in the freezer. She was having difficulty focusing this morning—a rare problem for her. No doubt due to a diet that would make a nutritionist cringe. Not to mention her bone-deep fatigue.

  Propping her head in her hand, Liz read the label on the file. Martin Reynolds v. Dr. John Voss, St. Gregory Hospital. Off the top of her head, the case rang no bells, but a quick scan of her ruling brought it all back.

  The plaintiff had sued an emergency room doctor and the hospital where he worked after his wife’s acute appendicitis was misdiagnosed as colitis. She’d died three days later.

  Liz did a closer read, refreshing her memory.

  Martin Reynolds and his wife, Helen, had been visiting her sister near Eldon when Helen had become ill after eating some popcorn. Her symptoms had worsened, and he’d driven her to a hospital in Jefferson City. After taking her history, which included a long-term colitis condition—and doing some tests that indicated she was, indeed, suffering from an attack of colitis—the ER physician had released her with instructions to rest, ingest only a clear liquid diet for twenty-four hours, and take an over-the-counter pain medication. She had also been directed to seek follow-up care if she didn’t show rapid improvement.

  Eight hours later, after all of her symptoms had worsened considerably, Reynolds and his wife had returned to the ER. A CT scan was done. The diagnosis was changed to both colitis and acute appendicitis. Before she could be rushed into surgery, her appendix ruptured. Peritonitis set in, followed by sepsis. That, in turn, had led to shock, multiple organ failure, and death. Several months later, Reynolds had filed a malpractice suit.

  As Liz p
erused the material, the details of the case came back to her. Including the plaintiff’s raw grief. It had been apparent in his eyes—along with anger and frustration. She’d understood his feelings. Sympathized, even. Yet the so-called expert hired by Reynolds’s attorney had admitted on cross-examination that he lacked the qualifications to testify on the standard of care for emergency room doctors. Since the plaintiff had failed to meet the burden of proof, the trial had been over before the defendant had even submitted his evidence. She’d had no choice but to direct a verdict in favor of the doctor. The appellate court had upheld her ruling.

  She’d tried to do her best by Reynolds, though, within the confines of the law. When the doctor’s attorney had filed a pretrial motion to disqualify the plaintiff’s expert for lacking requisite qualifications, she’d thought the motion had merit. But she’d denied it, pending the so-called expert’s testimony at trial. However, she’d advised Reynolds’s attorney that his expert might lack the qualifications to testify and to consider dismissing and refiling, which would have given him an opportunity to name a properly qualified expert. He’d refused.

  Closing the file, Liz tapped her finger against the edge of the folder. She’d dealt with several other malpractice cases during her state court days. Most had been well presented. This one hadn’t. There were a lot of marginal lawyers out there, and Martin Reynolds had unfortunately hired one of them—dooming his case.

  Liz had felt bad about the outcome. But thanks to her dad, she’d learned early on not to dwell on every case. The emotional toll was too high. He had been the most compassionate man she’d ever met, and his passion for justice had compelled him to work hard on behalf of every one of his clients, paying or pro bono. Yet he’d known how to walk away, leave it behind when he shut his office door. She’d tried hard to emulate his example.

  Hefting the file in her hand, she debated which FBI pile to put it in—yes, no, maybe. The latter pile was for the second-round cases—the ones she’d pass on to the FBI if the first group of cases didn’t yield any leads.