“Sacrosanct?”
“To outsiders, yes. There is something awesome in those black robes, sitting on the bench, sentencing people. However,” she made a fluttering gesture, “I hate to say this, but sometimes it’s all hypocrisy and sham.”
“How do you mean?”
“I have a suspicion that Edwin just may have tainted his honor.”
“In what way?”
“He was in trouble. Very deep trouble. I believe that is why he wanted to see you.”
“Please. What kind of trouble?”
“Bribery.” It soured her mouth. “They say he took money. He was being investigated.”
“By whom?”
“The Justice Department.”
“Whose money?”
“Ira Madden’s. The union man who is under prosecution in Edwin’s courtroom.”
“How do you know?”
“Edwin told me. He was upset, brooding, agitated. We were having one of our good moments together and he confided in me. He desperately needed to confide in someone. I was shocked. I do not know what evidence they have or where they got it, but if Edwin were innocent, if the charges had no substance, I cannot believe that he would have been so troubled. My husband, Mr. Jordan, was a terribly tortured man — and there was nothing I could do about it.”
I pondered the revelation. Could it possibly be true? A man of Judge Bolt’s position, his stature, accepting a bribe? What would be the quid pro quo? Well, a judge presiding over a trial carries considerable clout. The payoff could be a very handsome quid for the quo. In myriad ways he can influence the proceedings — by his attitude, facial expressions, biased rulings, and ultimately a prejudiced charge. But Judge Edwin Marcus Bolt involved in such paltry shenanigans? One never knows. Money is a powerful persuader. They say that every man has his price — just make it big enough. The union coffers were bulging, and Ira Madden certainly didn’t want to be shipped over. Maybe they had threatened the good judge, frightened him into compliance.
“Question,” I said. “Did you personally ever see the judge in the company of anyone from Amalgamated Mechanics?”
“Edwin was not an idiot, Mr. Jordan. Whatever else, not an idiot. He would never have openly consorted with anyone even remotely connected with a defendant on trial in his courtroom.”
“You want me to help you, Mrs. Bolt?”
“Of course.”
“Then please lay it out for me, everything you know. Was the judge secretly in contact with those people?”
Strain lines deepened around her mouth. She put a thumb knuckle between her teeth. She walked away and peered out the window. She came back. Her voice was low. “Edwin is dead. I have to protect his reputation.”
“Be concerned about your own. Nothing will bother him now. To get you off the hook, we may have to elect another suspect.”
She thought about it and then nodded slowly. “Last Sunday, in the afternoon, Edwin was here in the house, working with Andy—”
“Just a moment. Andy who?”
“Andrew Stock, his law clerk.”
“All right. Continue.”
“They had brought some legal reports from the library and they did not want to be disturbed. So they disconnected the phone in the study. Any calls came in, I took them in my bedroom.”
“You and the judge had separate bedrooms?”
“Yes. Edwin was a long-standing insomniac; a nighttime reader, a floor pacer. As it happens, I’m a very light sleeper, awake and up at the slightest sound. Well, you know how it is, a lady needs her beauty sleep. Edwin knew that and was sympathetic, so separate bedrooms was his suggestion.”
“All right,” I said. “On the Sunday in question, you were available to answer the telephone.”
“Yes. Only one call. Male. He wanted to talk to the judge. I tried to fob him off, told him the judge was busy, but he was adamant. He kept insisting, finally gave me a name and demanded I pass it on.”
“What name?”
“Oster — Floyd Oster. Does it ring a bell?”
“It rings. Floyd Oster is one of Ira Madden’s lieutenants at Amalgamated Mechanics. Did you pass it along to your husband?”
“Yes.”
“In Andrew Stock’s hearing?”
“Well, Andy wears a hearing aid which he keeps turned off unless he’s directly involved in a conversation. I do not know whether or not he heard.”
“What did your husband do?”
“He went into the adjoining bedroom and took the call in private.”
Not good, I decided; stupid, in fact. The judge should have flatly refused any contact, avoiding even the faintest taint of impropriety — at best, an indiscretion; at worst, a serious breach. Folly or greed had adulterated his judgment.
The bell rang and she went to the door. She came back with her stepdaughter and husband.
One did not have to be an astute observer to read Carol Denby. She was a demanding, frivolous type, with thin lips, dissatisfied eyes and fussy, constantly moving hands. Dressed in black, her eyes were red-rimmed from a night of mourning. Her father had been a very handsome man. Some aberrant chromosome must have produced this highly unappetizing creature. She did nothing to conceal her attitude toward Laura Bolt, and one could sense that her dislike was monumentally reciprocated.
Her husband, Clive Denby, insurance agent, was a plump, smug, humorless man, scented and pomaded and nattily dressed in a shaped suit of knitted acrylic.
He was curt with Mrs. Bolt, but solicitous of his wife, and he immediately took the floor as spokesman for the team.
“I understand, Mr. Jordan, you came to see my father-in-law last night.”
“That’s right.”
“Would you tell me why?”
“Because he asked me.”
“Do you know what he wanted?”
“I didn’t then. I do now.”
He put his hands on his hips. “Well?”
This kind of imperious behavior always gets my back up and turns me stubborn. “Sorry, Denby. It was a confidential matter. If the judge had wanted you to know, he would have confided in you.”
“The judge is dead. That wipes the slate clean on privileged communications between lawyer-client, doctor-patient, everybody.”
“Dead wrong. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, the rule doesn’t apply here, since the judge never retained me, formally or otherwise.”
He curled a lip. “Ha! You never spoke to the judge. How would you know what he wanted to see you about?”
“Mrs. Bolt told me.”
Carol Denby wheeled toward her stepmother and demanded in a shrill voice, “Why did Daddy want to see a lawyer?”
“Let me handle this, dear,” her husband said. “All right, Laura, we have every right to know. What’s this all about?”
“I can’t tell you without my lawyer’s permission.”
“Lawyer? Who’s your lawyer?”
“Scott Jordan.”
He threw his arms up. “Why do you need a lawyer?”
“Because I’m under suspicion and you damn well know it because you made it perfectly clear to the police last night that Edwin and I were having difficulties.”
“Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“The situation was not that bad. You put the worst possible face on it. As a matter of fact, Clive, the way you act I believe you think I’m guilty.”
“Does the shoe fit, Laura?”
“Drop dead!” She spit it out and stormed furiously out of the room.
Denby was pleased with himself. He looked at me and said, “Are you going to defend her if she’s charged?”
“It hasn’t come to that yet. Maybe enough evidence for an indictment won’t be found.”
“My father-in-law’s gun is missing. Who else but Laura would know where he kept it?”