Fatal Judgment. Andrew Welsh-Huggins
suit. She’s probably just taking it easy at home.”
“I don’t think that’s the case.”
“What do you mean?”
I hesitated. “I’ve been to her condo. She’s not there. And her car’s gone.”
“You went to her house?”
I acknowledged it.
“You went inside?”
“Something like that.”
“Please don’t tell me you broke in. Because that opens up a whole can of—”
“I have a key.”
“You have a key to Judge Porter’s condo? Why?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I look forward to hearing it. Just hopefully not in a deposition. OK, stay put, will you?”
He called again in fifteen minutes.
“I need you to run downtown. The sheriff’s office wants to talk to you.”
“Me? Why?”
“I’m sorry, Andy. I had to tell someone. I’m a lawyer, which makes me an officer of the court. If a judge is in trouble, and I’m aware of it, it’s my duty to alert authorities. It sounds like it’s probably just a misunderstanding. But just in case, do you mind—?”
And so it was that a few minutes later I found myself in a conference room on the fourth floor of the Franklin County sheriff’s office on South High on the other side of the street from the county justice department, seated across a table from a stone-faced detective named Chad Pinney.
“This had better be good,” he said. “This is supposed to be my day off.”
“Must be nice,” I said.
“Strike one. Start talking.”
5
I BEGAN WITH HEARING from her the previous day, proceeded to my conversation with the judge in her car, the call that interrupted our moment together—as with Burke, I left out the details of what we were doing just then—the fear on her face and my concerns someone in a van was keeping an eye on her, the discovery of the missed call hours later, and then, most precariously, my walk through her condo and the strange detail that her car was gone.
“First things first,” Pinney said. “How is it you were inside the judge’s house?”
“I have a key.”
“I gathered that. But why?”
My mind raced, trying to decide if Laura would be more upset at the disclosure of an unorthodox romantic relationship or an end-run around the powers that be at the courthouse. With no receivers to pass to on my left or my right, I decided to cradle the ball and run straight up the middle.
“I do some security consulting on the side. A while back the judge asked me to take a look at her condo, do some measuring and some surveillance. She couldn’t always be there. So—”
“So she gave you a key?”
“She said it was easier that way.”
“Easier than what?”
“Than her always having to be there, when I was working.”
“And you still have it? The key?”
Carefully, I said, “She wanted me to have it. In case my services were ever needed again.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This is not about the key, all right? I’m worried that something’s happened to the judge. It’s not like I’m hiding anything.”
“That’s up to me to decide. Especially given your record.”
“What’s that got to do with anything? I’m a licensed private investigator in good standing—”
“You’re a convicted criminal. I could care less what you do now. So let’s just get something straight here. You don’t really have any evidence that she’s in danger.”
I fumed, hoping the blood from biting my tongue wouldn’t splash both of us. Considered reminding him—as I was often forced to in this town—that I’d served my time and was considered a rehabilitated individual in the eyes of the law. I watched Pinney watching me. Hoping I’d lose it?
I decided not to take the bait. I calmed myself down, took a breath, and explained about the cat’s food bowl. He looked at me skeptically.
“I’m supposed to bother the judge on her sick day because you broke into her condo, saw that her cat’s bowl was empty, and now have this feeling something’s wrong?”
“I didn’t break in. I told you, I have a key.”
“Just answer the question.”
“All that, plus our conversation last night. And the van.”
“She said she was in trouble, according to you. Not danger—trouble. That could mean anything, right? Money trouble, car trouble, husband trouble. Though why she’d stoop to calling you for help with any of that is beyond—”
“She’s divorced, for starters. And that kind of trouble—it’s not the impression I got. And then the call she got while we were—”
“While you were what?”
“While we were talking. Everything changed. And then there’s the missed call last night. How do you explain that?”
“How about a pocket dial? Ever consider that? I get two a week from my mom, easy.” Pinney was heavyset, five ten or eleven, with short black hair that matched his black goatee, wearing jeans, a Franklin County Dive Team T-shirt, and an increasingly annoyed expression.
“The judge doesn’t seem the pocket dial kind of person.”
“So now you’re a psychologist on top of a security consultant?”
“Sticks and stones, detective. All I’m suggesting is that she could be in trouble. She’s had threats in her courtroom. Just a few weeks ago—”
“Trouble, according to you, and no one else.”
“Yes, but—”
He interrupted before I could finish. “Listen up. I’m going to make a couple of calls, mainly to cover my ass with my supervisor, not because of anything you’ve told me. You’re going to sit here and not go anywhere. Sound good?”
I nodded, though it didn’t sound good at all. The detective walked out, closing the door behind him. Still annoyed at his crack about my past, I looked around the room for some kind of consolation. I was rewarded with gray walls the color of dryer lint and an off-kilter photograph of the county commissioners. I checked the time. Just over an hour before I had to meet Mike. I’d promised him a session of football throwing so he could show off his arm to me. Against both my better wishes and those of his mom, my other ex-wife, Kym, he’d gone out for his high school team. Now, as a rising sophomore, he was the second-best quarterback on the squad and hoping to challenge for the starting position. The media was having a field day with the concept: Son of disgraced Ohio State star hopes to forge own gridiron glory. I’d turned down five requests for interviews this month alone. Like Mike needed the aggravation of his old man publicly weighing in on his prospects.
Like I needed that either.
“Well you’re either really lucky or really dumb.”
Pinney reentered the room, phone in one hand, cup of coffee in the other. No java for me, I noticed.
“I’ve been called both, sometimes in the