Primal Fear by William Diehl Page A

sinner and who dispensed justice without regard for circumstance or situation. A glowering, tense, humorless man, he had the air of a Viennese businessman: stem, formal, suspicious. His mustache was precisely trimmed and his black hair was combed straight back and tight to his skull. He was a man who seemed perpetually impatient with the process he was sworn to uphold and thus the gavel became an extension of his arm and he used it to bludgeon the court into submission.
    As the first Republican judge elected in twelve years, Shoat considered the victory over his Democratic opponent as a mandate for his ultraconservative agenda. He could barely conceal a harsh, almost prejudicial attitude toward defendants, whom he secretly believed were guilty until proven innocent—otherwise why would they be in his court in the first place? He had little time for abortionists, knee jerkers who believed capital punishment was barbaric or those who looked for cause and effect among the social ruins of the city.
    But Hangin’ Harry knew law. A former prosecutor, he had the kind of mind which instantly could recall a staggering number of legal precedents by name, date, region and subject. And although he was sometimes capable of astoundingly profound and unpredictable judgments, he was a rigid “max-out” judge, coldly disinterested in the social circumstances of crime and perpetrator. Crime was crime. Punishment was punishment. Compassion had no place in the justice system. The only time he smiled was when he passed sentence. Once, when a youthful offender had arrogantly suggested perhaps he and his probation officer might have a meeting with the judge before sentence was passed, Shoat had smiled almost gleefully, looked down at the young man and explained, “Son, your probation officer hasn’t been born yet.… Thirty years.” Vail had always suspected that Shoat constantly had to suppress a mad desire to leap up and shout, “Off with their heads!” like the Queen of Hearts in Wonderland.
    Before Vail could take a seat, the judge saw him and pointed sharply at the door to his chambers. When Vail pointed to himself and formed the question “Me?” Shoat nodded vigorously.So Vail walked quietly down the outside aisle of the room and went through the door in the comer.
    The small room was spotless and dustless and in perfect order. The desk was empty except for an ashtray, a telephone and a marble pen holder and pen. The books in the bookshelves behind the desk were lined up perfectly, as if a ruler had been used to justify each binding. The wet bar in the corner was dry of even a single drop of water. Everything in the room seemed symmetrical: the desk, with its sharp edges; the straight-backed chairs, which looked harmfully uncomfortable; the Waterford lamps, with severe six-sided shades; the magazines on the coffee table, which were stacked precisely so that the name of each was underlined by the top border of the one on top of it and were placed at precisely the right angle in the comer of the table. Would anyone possibly disturb that stack to read one of the periodicals?
    Precise. That was the word. The perfect description for Superior Court Judge Harry Madison Shoat. This was a very precise man. And a frustrated one—for Shoat was a man who demanded order in a netherworld that years ago had lost all sense of order.
    Vail opted against making a dent in the sofa cushions and instead walked over to the recessed window which concealed the heater outlet. Hot air moved soundlessly up into the room, clouding the cold window with steam. He wiped a small circle in it and looked down at the street. Near the corner, two black, official-looking cars were involved in a fender bender. People walked with their hands out at their sides to keep their balance as they crept along the glassy pavement. One hell of a day for a spur-of-the-moment command performance.
    Shoat entered the room with a kind of snobbish sense of proprietorship. It was his