Fatal Judgment. Andrew Welsh-Huggins

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      4

      AFTER LOCKING UP, I returned to my van and drove home. I changed into workout clothes and half-walked, half-jogged around Schiller Park with the dog for nearly forty minutes. Finished, I punched out a round of push-ups and sit-ups, stretched, took a shower and dressed, and called Laura’s chambers. It was just past eight-thirty.

      “It’s Archie Goodwin,” I said when the bailiff came on the line. “Looking for Judge Porter?”

      “The judge isn’t in this morning.”

      “Do you expect her later?”

      “I can take a message. You said Archie?”

      I hung up without responding and thought for a moment. I made another decision.

      “Hey, Siri,” I said, bringing my phone to life. “Call Burke Cunningham.”

      “Calling Burke Cunningham,” the phone replied in a chipper Australian woman’s voice. I was a reluctant convert to Siri, finally spurred by, of all people, my ex-wife Crystal, my son Joe’s mom. For several weeks in a row she sent me articles of people who used the artificial intelligence technology to call 911 after being rendered helpless in a car accident. “What if you’re hurt and Joe’s trapped?” I suspected she was trying to justify the number of AI gadgets she and her husband employed in their house, but in truth it came in handy from time to time. Usually when I misplaced my phone, but for legitimate driving-hands-free purposes as well.

      Cunningham was my periodic boss thanks to cases he handles as one of the city’s top defense lawyers and investigations he needs done now and then. Also the person whose Christmas party led to Laura’s and my introduction lo those many years ago. After he answered, I told him my concerns, leaving out the heavy petting and the fact I’d been in Laura’s condo. I explained she didn’t seem to be at work, which worried me.

      “She said she’s in trouble?”

      “That’s right.”

      “Did she say what kind?”

      “No. But something wasn’t sitting right. I thought if you—”

      “If I what?”

      “Maybe you might have better luck, seeing if everything’s OK.”

      “Why would Porter call you in the first place? Does she know you?”

      “Maybe by reputation. Plus, we met at your Christmas party.” He didn’t know about Laura’s and my extracurricular activities, and I decided this wasn’t the best time to bring them up.

      “I’ll make a couple calls. It’s a little strange, I agree. Maybe something with the campaign got under her skin. These high-court races are boring as hell, but the stakes are big.”

      An hour passed. I tried the judge’s cell phone again, to no avail. I checked my e-mail. I took a couple calls for possible jobs. My other son, Mike, texted about our outing later that morning. I told him I was looking forward to it. Finally, around ten, Cunningham called me back.

      “Far as I can tell the judge called in sick today. Not a big deal, since her docket was light. An arraignment that the prosecutor agreed to continue a day and a status conference on a civil suit. She’s probably just taking it easy at home.”

      “I don’t think that’s the case.”

      “What do you mean?”

      I hesitated. “I’ve been to her condo. She’s not there. And her car’s gone.”

      “You went to her house?”

      I acknowledged it.

      “You went inside?”

      “Something like that.”

      “Please don’t tell me you broke in. Because that opens up a whole can of—”

      “I have a key.”

      “You have a key to Judge Porter’s condo? Why?”

      “It’s a long story.”

      “I look forward to hearing it. Just hopefully not in a deposition. OK, stay put, will you?”

      He called again in fifteen minutes.

      “I need you to run downtown. The sheriff’s office wants to talk to you.”

      “Me? Why?”

      “I’m sorry, Andy. I had to tell someone. I’m a lawyer, which makes me an officer of the court. If a judge is in trouble, and I’m aware of it, it’s my duty to alert authorities. It sounds like it’s probably just a misunderstanding. But just in case, do you mind—?”

      And so it was that a few minutes later I found myself in a conference room on the fourth floor of the Franklin County sheriff’s office on South High on the other side of the street from the county justice department, seated across a table from a stone-faced detective named Chad Pinney.

      “This had better be good,” he said. “This is supposed to be my day off.”

      “Must be nice,” I said.

      “Strike one. Start talking.”

      5

      I BEGAN WITH HEARING from her the previous day, proceeded to my conversation with the judge in her car, the call that interrupted our moment together—as with Burke, I left out the details of what we were doing just then—the fear on her face and my concerns someone in a van was keeping an eye on her, the discovery of the missed call hours later, and then, most precariously, my walk through her condo and the strange detail that her car was gone.

      “First things first,” Pinney said. “How is it you were inside the judge’s house?”

      “I have a key.”

      “I gathered that. But why?”

      My mind raced, trying to decide if Laura would be more upset at the disclosure of an unorthodox romantic relationship or an end-run around the powers that be at the courthouse. With no receivers to pass to on my left or my right, I decided to cradle the ball and run straight up the middle.

      “I do some security consulting on the side. A while back the judge asked me to take a look at her condo, do some measuring and some surveillance. She couldn’t always be there. So—”

      “So she gave you a key?”

      “She said it was easier that way.”

      “Easier than what?”

      “Than her always having to be there, when I was working.”

      “And you still have it? The key?”

      Carefully, I said, “She wanted me to have it. In case my services were ever needed again.”

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