don’t know why she didn’t talk to me there—unless someone scared her away. Then she came here and ran away a second time? I don’t get it.”
“I could tell something was on your mind other than me,” Malika said.
She gave a sideward glance and a shake of her head toward the bedroom, through the open door of which could be seen an antique two-poster bed with recently rumpled sheets.
“Oh, no,” he said.
“It wasn’t a total disappointment,” she said, running the nail of her index finger around the curve of his mouth to his chin, down his neck to his chest, then his stomach. “But you did seem distracted.”
“Second chance?” he asked.
“Of course.” Hand in hand, they returned to the bedroom, and as they had been on nights such as this for almost two hundred years, the lights in the house on Chartres Street were extinguished. He focused on his lovemaking, then both soon fell asleep.
Jock woke hours before dawn, giving himself enough time to explore the contents of the package Ruth Kalin had placed in his truck. He had even more questions than before. There was more than Dexter’s report in the package. There was something else that looked like a research project she must have worked on for years.There were graphs and charts. Jock had no idea what they meant. He put the package in his safe, the most secure he’d ever been able to find. The kitchen refrigerator was built on hidden extension slides; a stopper underneath was locked or released with a light kick, and the fridge could be pulled out with no effort. A wall safe was installed behind, with a combination unforgettable and easy to dial from an angle, 6-6-6, the number of the beast.
Jock put the package in the safe, then walked out his back door to the courtyard and its statue of Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. He paused before the old stone piece and mused. Dexter Jessup had gathered enough evidence to implicate a sitting federal judge in a serious crime. He had been a lawyer, not a professional investigator. If he had been able to gather such evidence with his limited resources—and no doubt he had at least intimated to the FBI what he had found in order to be granted a meeting with them—then why had they not followed through, especially after his murder? Maybe, like Judge Wundt had suggested, they wanted something to hold over Judge Epson. That was a scary thought.
“But I really don’t have the slightest idea,” he said aloud.
The silent Saint Jude’s hand was raised in benediction.
The first thing Jock did on reaching his office that Friday morning was call the Federal Records Center in Fort Worth, giving the case number and requesting the complete file on Palmetto’s lawsuit. Being as old as it was, the case was not available in the district court’s computerized Case Management/Electronic Case Files System or on PACER, the Internet Public Access to Court Electronic Records system. Only the original paper file was available. Boucher was toldhe would have a copy on Monday. Direct requests from jurists received priority.
The clerk had been working archives for ten years and he had never seen a similar instruction: the file contained a number he was to call if it was ever requested. This he did, giving the name of the party requesting the case files.
CHAPTER 9
B Y THE END OF the day Friday, Judge Boucher was exhausted. He had put in fifteen-hour days. He had a weekend guest, and needed a break. He bade his stunned staff farewell at four p.m. that afternoon and headed home.
“Hello, house, His Honor is home.”
Malika rested her head on the back of the sofa. Jock bent down and gave her an upside-down kiss.
“Any strange women hanging around today?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t have noticed them if there were,” she said. Next to her on the sofa were several advance reader copies of books scheduled for publication, called ARCs in the trade, and a laptop, BlackBerry, and an iPad. All were proof she’d had no
“I could tell something was on your mind other than me,” Malika said.
She gave a sideward glance and a shake of her head toward the bedroom, through the open door of which could be seen an antique two-poster bed with recently rumpled sheets.
“Oh, no,” he said.
“It wasn’t a total disappointment,” she said, running the nail of her index finger around the curve of his mouth to his chin, down his neck to his chest, then his stomach. “But you did seem distracted.”
“Second chance?” he asked.
“Of course.” Hand in hand, they returned to the bedroom, and as they had been on nights such as this for almost two hundred years, the lights in the house on Chartres Street were extinguished. He focused on his lovemaking, then both soon fell asleep.
Jock woke hours before dawn, giving himself enough time to explore the contents of the package Ruth Kalin had placed in his truck. He had even more questions than before. There was more than Dexter’s report in the package. There was something else that looked like a research project she must have worked on for years.There were graphs and charts. Jock had no idea what they meant. He put the package in his safe, the most secure he’d ever been able to find. The kitchen refrigerator was built on hidden extension slides; a stopper underneath was locked or released with a light kick, and the fridge could be pulled out with no effort. A wall safe was installed behind, with a combination unforgettable and easy to dial from an angle, 6-6-6, the number of the beast.
Jock put the package in the safe, then walked out his back door to the courtyard and its statue of Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. He paused before the old stone piece and mused. Dexter Jessup had gathered enough evidence to implicate a sitting federal judge in a serious crime. He had been a lawyer, not a professional investigator. If he had been able to gather such evidence with his limited resources—and no doubt he had at least intimated to the FBI what he had found in order to be granted a meeting with them—then why had they not followed through, especially after his murder? Maybe, like Judge Wundt had suggested, they wanted something to hold over Judge Epson. That was a scary thought.
“But I really don’t have the slightest idea,” he said aloud.
The silent Saint Jude’s hand was raised in benediction.
The first thing Jock did on reaching his office that Friday morning was call the Federal Records Center in Fort Worth, giving the case number and requesting the complete file on Palmetto’s lawsuit. Being as old as it was, the case was not available in the district court’s computerized Case Management/Electronic Case Files System or on PACER, the Internet Public Access to Court Electronic Records system. Only the original paper file was available. Boucher was toldhe would have a copy on Monday. Direct requests from jurists received priority.
The clerk had been working archives for ten years and he had never seen a similar instruction: the file contained a number he was to call if it was ever requested. This he did, giving the name of the party requesting the case files.
CHAPTER 9
B Y THE END OF the day Friday, Judge Boucher was exhausted. He had put in fifteen-hour days. He had a weekend guest, and needed a break. He bade his stunned staff farewell at four p.m. that afternoon and headed home.
“Hello, house, His Honor is home.”
Malika rested her head on the back of the sofa. Jock bent down and gave her an upside-down kiss.
“Any strange women hanging around today?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t have noticed them if there were,” she said. Next to her on the sofa were several advance reader copies of books scheduled for publication, called ARCs in the trade, and a laptop, BlackBerry, and an iPad. All were proof she’d had no
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