He nods slowly in a final confirmation that I’m right. “They were supposed to give her money, or scare her, or both. She was an addict, Mr. Carpenter. She couldn’t take care of him; she couldn’t give him any kind of life.”
“Why did they burn the house down?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe to hide the fact that he was missing, but I’ve always thought there was much more to it. He would never tell me. But no one was supposed to get hurt; he had promised me that.”
“Loney?”
“Yes.”
“So they had you on tape, and they could connect you to the fire. That’s how they blackmailed you.”
“Yes.”
“They told you how to rule in the Milgram trial.”
“Yes.”
“Did they demand anything else?”
“No.”
“You need to tell the truth now. You can’t let Noah Galloway be convicted of this crime.”
“They would take Benji; Alice is his mother, as surely as if she gave birth to him. He needs her, and she needs him.”
“You don’t understand,” I say. “I know the truth. I’ll reveal it with or without you.”
“No one will believe you. I’m a respected judge.” He laughs a short laugh, recognizing the irony.
“You’re wrong about that,” I say, even though I know he’s probably right.
“No,” he says, and in the dim light I can see him reach into his pocket and take out a gun. There is a glint of light off the barrel.
“Don’t do it, Judge. People know where I am, and they know why.” Even in my panic, the irony that a judge might shoot me is too obvious to miss. They’d probably never find another judge to convict him.
“I know something about guilt, Mr. Carpenter. I’ve lived with it for many years. You needn’t suffer with it; I was coming here anyway.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about, but it only takes a few seconds to find out.
“Don’t take my son from his mother,” he says, just before he puts the barrel of the gun to his temple and pulls the trigger. He says another word, but it is mostly drowned out by the sound of the shot. I think it was “please.”
It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen, and nothing comes in second.
Judge Holland’s head literally exploded, sending pieces of it in all directions.
It all happened too quickly for me to react. Of course, the truth is that my reaction time in moments of physical danger is such that he would have had time to load a Revolutionary War cannon and shoot himself with it.
I edge over to his fallen body, but I don’t get too close. There is no way he could possibly be alive, and I wouldn’t know what to do if he was. Instead I call 911 and report what has happened. I don’t really know where I am, so it’s hard to direct them to the scene. I do the best I can, and they seem to be confident that they will find me.
Before the police arrive, I call Cindy Spodek and tell her what has happened. “A judge, Andy?” she asks.
“Not just a judge. The presiding judge of the Delaware Chancery Court.”
She tells me to hold while she notifies agents in the area, then gets back on the line. “Are you okay?” she says. “I’ve seen someone commit suicide before; it was probably ten years ago and I still can’t get the image out of my mind.”
“It’s going to be a while,” I say, as the police cars and an ambulance make their appearance. “Gotta go, the locals are here.”
“Don’t let them take you anywhere until our agents get there.”
The police come out of their cars, guns drawn, as is appropriate for the situation. They have no way of being sure what really happened here; for all they know I could have been the shooter. They have me turn and put my hands against my car, and then frisk me.
They tell me to wait, and I hear one of the officers, who is looking at Holland’s body, say, “I’m pretty sure it’s him.”
This is going to be a monster of a story. Anything unsavory involving a judge is automatically big news. Judges represent an occupation that people hold in very high regard.
That reverence is a little weird, because lawyers are scorned almost as much as politicians. Where do people think judges come from, the Judge Fairy? They’re lawyers, and very often lawyers who’ve leveraged political connections to get where they are. For the most part the ones I know are decent people, but the truth is I would say the same about lawyers.
The story will be even bigger because of my presence. Not because I’m any kind of celebrity, but rather because the media will correctly jump to the conclusion that this is related to the Galloway case, which is already a huge media event.
The detectives start to ask me questions, initially focusing on what happened rather than why it happened. That suits me just fine, because it is the “why” questions that I’m not sure how to answer.
My first obligation is to Noah, so I want to try to manage developments to his benefit, if there is any benefit to be had. Secondly, and probably incorrectly, I have a concern for Judge Holland’s son. He has no parents, and his grandfather is dying. At the moment he is apparently living with a loving woman he considers his mother, and I would hate to see him taken from her and put into the public system.
Also, not too many people have made a dying wish to me. Holland did so, asking that I protect his son and keep him with his mother. It would be nice if I could grant it.
After about ten minutes, two FBI agents show up, and there are quick, huddled conversations. Both sides obviously want and are claiming jurisdiction. There is as much chance of the local cops prevailing as there is if the mayor of Dover duked it out with the President of the United States.
The agents question me for three hours, and I limit what I tell them. Basically, I just say that I was investigating a lead in the Galloway case, and that Holland’s name came up. When I approached him, he led me to the park and killed himself.
All of that is true, but I describe the conversation I had with the judge as minimal. I just don’t see the upside to bringing Benji into all of this now, or maybe ever. He and his mother are about to have enough to deal with.
During the questioning one of the agents gets a call. He steps away to take it, but when he comes back he says, “Special Agent Mulcahy will have some questions for you when you get back to New York.”
“Great. That will give me something to look forward to.”
I finally leave at just after three in the morning. I have satellite radio, so I spend the first half of the three-hour drive listening to news about Judge Holland’s suicide, without commercial interruption.
But there is another interruption, a news bulletin that reports that Alex Bauer was killed in an intense fire that consumed his Mercedes sedan, with him in the driver’s seat. The car was virtually incinerated, burning out of control in a secluded rest stop near Camden.
They didn’t waste any time.
I didn’t know Bauer very well, but the news is still jarring. People are dying all around us, and I’m unable to figure out how to stop it. If I don’t do so soon, Noah Galloway will be the next victim. His sentence won’t be death, but a lifetime in prison for an innocent man might be even worse.
As I approach my house, I see that it is filled with media people and trucks, so I drive around the block and sneak in through my neighbor’s backyard into mine. Laurie is up and waiting for me; we’ve talked on the phone, but she still has many more questions.
Most annoying is that I can’t take Tara and Bailey for our morning walk; the media crush is just too great. So instead, they, Laurie, and I hang out in the backyard until it’s time to go to court.