“More. But do I get to tell the truth?”
“Today’s the last time,” she says.
“My divining rod still isn’t rattling on Corazon. Did you follow up on Zeke, Dineesha’s son?”
“Best we could. Couple Kindle dicks made several home visits on Friday hoping to spend a little quality time with him. Turns out Zeke was in St. Louis. He’s got a new gig, in-store marketing for one of the cell phone companies. Says he did so good they made him one of the trainers. He does these day-and-a-half sessions Fridays and Saturday until noon.”
“Cell phones, huh?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I had the same thought. But he had his boarding passes, hotel bill, expense report, training manuals.”
“Coppers believed him?”
“About that? Pretty much. Can’t get on an airplane without a photo ID, Judge. I mean, he was in St. Louis.”
Of course, Zeke could have had someone else, like his road dog Khaleel, text George from the stolen phone, realizing that a day when he was alibied made the perfect occasion for more hijinks. That’s the way the cops would think about it, and that’s exactly what Marina says.
“Overall, though,” she adds, “they don’t think Zeke is our guy. But a couple things bothered the two that were talking with him. First off, Zeke knew why they were there. This big indignant routine that anybody would think he might do you wrong after all the help you’ve given him.”
That’s the right line. But Zeke’s a capital liar, tied for the title of the best George has ever seen along with dozens of other former clients-and several attorneys.
“Need I ask how he knew the police were coming?”
“I don’t think so.” Marina crumples her chin in a hard-bitten smile. “And he was still sticking to that shit about needing the john when they pressed about why his buddy was cruising your corridor. But”-she shrugs-“he wasn’t the one who sent out that text, and he didn’t mail that letter to Koll either. Postmark is ‘Pueblocito’ Saturday morning.” She’s referring to the Tri-Cities’ largest Hispanic neighborhood, in Kewahnee, where Corazon’s set thrives. “That’s a lot for Zeke to put together from out of town. Corazon, Judge. That’s the better bet.”
George shakes his head just a little, trying not to be irksome.
“This letter doesn’t feel right to me, Marina. I’ve been getting e-mails for weeks. Why put Koll into it suddenly? Especially when it draws a line straight to Corazon?”
“That’s Corazon, Judge. Why does a guy go out himself and beat up a woman and two babies with a tire iron when he can send three hundred other cholos to do it? ’Cause he’s the fearless, fucking Corazon. He sticks out his you-know-what and says ‘Do me something,’ and laughs himself to sleep when you can’t. That’s how he gets off.”
George considers the point. “But up until now, number 1 has been kind of a high-tech pain in the ass. Very smooth, very clever. A bloodstained piece of paper comes out of a 1950s horror movie.”
“Worked on Judge Koll.”
“So would an e-mail.”
“I don’t know, Your Honor. Corazon had a visit with Mom two days before that letter flew.”
“Monitored, though. Right?”
“Sure. But hell, Judge, when they start yapping about Tio Jorge in Durango, what do we know? That could be code for anything. But let me hear it, Judge. What are you thinking?”
“Maybe a copycat? Maybe somebody who’s got an ax to grind with Nathan and took a free shot.”
She shrugs once more, doing her best to seem open to the possibility.
“My old man always says you solve crimes with the KISS rule,” she says. “You know that one?”
He does, but he lets her say it for the sake of amity.
“Keep It Simple, Stupid.”
Back at his desk, George works until close to 6:30. Patrice returned to the office today and expects to be late, moving through the mountains on her desk, but Abel is pawing around out in the reception area, peeking in now and then. This duty keeps him well past his customary hour of departure. George had hoped to edit two more draft opinions, but he throws them in his briefcase. He’ll look them over at home tonight.
“All right, Abel,” he calls, “saddle up.”
Together they make their slow progress across the gangway into the judges’ section of the garage, Abel swinging his leg around his arthritic hip. As they approach the entrance, the two boys George saw last week are lurking once more. Their hairstyles mark them as gang members. The taller one has a do called a patch, close-cropped over his ears but grown long on the back of his scalp, borrowed, it seems, from American Indians. The other has a standard prison buzz. Despite the warm weather, both are clad again in hooded sweatshirts.
Abel stares them down. “Don’t like the looks of those two,” he says. “What are they up to?”
“Waiting for a ride home?”
“Yeah,” Abel says, “in the car they’re gonna jack. They ain’t countin’ their rosary beads, Judge. Let’s get ’em on their way.” He reaches for the radio on his belt to alert the dog patrol.
That’s the course of wisdom. In some moods, George might even call Court Security himself. On average, you could not go wrong thinking the worst about most of the young men you saw around this building. The best bet is that the two are baby Gs, gang wannabes not fully courted in, who are here to hold on to guns or dope so senior set members can pass through the metal detectors on their way to afternoon drug court.
But George has always discouraged himself from taking those kinds of probabilities as the actual truth. The real George Mason was the source of the phrase, appropriated by his pal Jefferson, ‘All men are created equal.’ The sentiments were noble, but George Mason IV was a slave owner notwithstanding, just like nearly every one of George’s Virginia ancestors. It is the most shameful of the many unhappy legacies George fled in his twenties, and he came here determined to be a man of more open inclinations. Throughout his life, he has made a disciplined effort to take human beings one at a time.
“Leave them be, Abel. They’re not hurting anybody.” After his fight with Patrice on Friday night, he also feels duty-bound to resist the creeping fears inspired by #1. Better to be bold. “I saw them here a couple times last week. They didn’t seem to make any trouble.”
As if it were a date, Abel escorts George all the way to the car. The judge triggers the engine and turns on the air, watching the old guy recede. George is not ready to go yet. As usual, he wants a minute to himself, in this case to think about the three lives of Lolly Viccino he was envisioning a few hours ago at his desk. He reclines in the cushy car seat, eyes closed. At the moment, it’s the second Lolly who preoccupies him, the contributor to the Mississippi child abuse fund. She has to be all right, someone with a stake in the community and the future. He imagines a Mississippi lady in a long pink dress, wearing a hat and gloves, but laughs at the notion. That would never be Lolly.
George is trying to reconfigure his vision of her when he is startled by a sharp rap beside him. He snaps up and sees two things: the silver barrel of an automatic lying solidly against the glass, and the five-pointed star of the Almighty Latin Nation tattooed below the wrist of the hand that holds the gun.
14
Outside the window, the gun muzzle, a spot of total blackness, looms a few inches from the judge’s face. George notices eventually that the boy is motioning with the other hand, but he has no clue what the kid wants, and the young man bangs the pistol on the glass again in rebuke. This is how people get shot, George thinks. By failing to follow orders they don’t comprehend. And then, remembering Corazon, he realizes that he is going to get shot anyway.
That thought pumps the harshest adrenaline rush yet through him. Inside his head there is a chaos of colliding ideas, each one as urgent as a scream.