20
M
onday afternoon in his chambers Gibbs said, “I get my picture in the Sunday paper and what amounts to the story of my life… You see it?”
Kathy, in the low sofa, nodded at his head and shoulders behind the desk, the judge out of his robes.
“So this morning my courtroom’s packed, all these people come to see the judge some screwball wants to assassinate. I have standing room only and what happens?”
“I was there,” Kathy said.
It didn’t stop him.
“A defendant starts using vile, obscene, and abusive language. Tells me to kiss his ass. Calls me a racist motherfucker in front of all those people. Now I’ve been called a racist before and I don’t know why, ‘cause I got nothing against the colored. One time I was written up in the
Judicial Conduct Reporter
for what they considered a racist remark. I was trying a man who had shot and killed his wife when he found out she was having an affair with a colored guy. I happened to say as I was charging the jury, they had to decide if a willful act of murder was committed, but also take into consideration the infidelity involved and be willing to call a spade a spade.”
“You actually said that?”
“Just kidding, I wasn’t serious. Now, on account of what happened this morning, they want to put me in a dinky little courtroom. TAC does, so they’ll have tighter control. Here’s this defendant mouthing off, using obscenities—he’s already serving five life terms for rape, kidnapping, and robbery. He knows I’m gonna give him three more plus fifty years for good measure. What’s he got to lose. He starts yelling—bad as he is he’s got friends in the courtroom, so they get into it. ‘Right on.’ You heard ‘em. ‘Fight the power.’ All that kind of talk they use. What am I gonna do, clear the courtroom?”
“You could have called a recess.”
“Like hell. I warned the defendant, ‘One more outburst of any kind, I’ll order the bailiff to gag your mouth shut and chain you to your seat.’ Well, he found out I meant it, as did everyone in the courtroom. I give my word, I stand by it. But it’ll be in the paper tomorrow somewhat different, wait and see. ‘Maximum Bob strikes again. Lowers the boom.’ Having fun with me. Maximum Bob, that’s what
Newsweek
named me the time I was on their cover.”
Kathy watched him shake his head, tired, maybe the strain getting to him, but the next moment wide awake.
“You happen to notice last year, when that federal court judge sent Jim Bakker away?… The TV preacher.”
“Jim and Tammy Faye?”
“That’s the one. A judge in North Carolina, Robert something or other, gave Jim Bakker forty-five years plus a half-million-dollar fine. So they start referring to him as Maximum Bob. The press, they take my nickname and use it. Hell, I’d have given the preacher more’n forty-five years, and not in any minimum-security country club. They drove him there in a Chevy Impala. He’ll do ten working in the cafeteria and be right back in business. A man is sentenced it should be hard time, or what’s the good of it.”
“Hard time,” Kathy said, “makes the boy the man. Is that how it goes?”
The judge grinned at her. “You got it.”
“Dale Crowe’s facing ten years now.”
“It’s his choice,” Gibbs said, “he signed the guidelines waiver. You don’t report when you’re suppose to… Honey, I don’t send offenders away, they do it themselves.”
“I think Dale got some bad advice.”
“Well, why didn’t you set him straight?”
“I couldn’t find him.”
“You know law enforcement will. They’ll pick him up on a fugitive warrant, no problem. His lawyer then’ll piss and moan, ‘If they can find him, how come Ms. Probation Officer can’t? Did she try?’ It’ll be your fault this boy has to do ten years. Can you handle that?”
“I didn’t sentence him,” Kathy said.
The phone on the desk rang, once. Gibbs ignored it.
She saw his solemn Harry Dean Stanton face change, start to grin. Saw his bare arms, pale and bony, raise as he leaned back in the chair and locked his hands behind his head. She was pretty sure he dyed his hair, slick and shiny in the light. He said, “I love young girl probation officers. They most always surprise me. Here you are looking sweet and innocent, but underneath it you’re a tough little thing, aren’t you? No, you didn’t sentence him, but you did bring him into my court. I didn’t go out in the street and drag him in.” The judge’s gaze moved.
Kathy looked over to see one of his bodyguards from TAC in the doorway: a young hot-dog cop named Wesley, blond hair down on his forehead. In the JA’s office earlier, Kathy waiting to come in here, Wesley said to her, “You must be the judge’s friend I’ve heard about.” His coat open and hands on his hips so she’d see his .357 mag. He told her he usually worked undercover, but got stuck with this baby-sitting job. Wesley’s tone was different now.
“Judge, can I interrupt?”
Gibbs said, “If you feel you have to.”
“There’s a guy on the phone wants to talk to you.”
“He give his name?”
“No sir, but this one’s different than usual.”
Gibbs came forward to rest his bare arms on the desk, looking at Kathy. “I’ve had a dozen or more calls already. They say, ‘I hope he gets you, you son of a bitch,’ for whatever I did to their boy or their husband… One said, ‘If he don’t do it, I will.’ Full of talk. I thought I’d met all the flakes in my courtroom. Saturday they found a snake in my mailbox.”
The TAC cop, Wesley, said, “Judge?”
Gibbs ignored him. “Every call that comes in is recorded out in my JA’s office. Course they never say who it is, but we had Southern Bell put a trap on the line. It tells what number they’re calling from, so then they look up to see where the phone’s located. Now TAC’s rounding up all these smartass anonymous callers.” Gibbs looked toward the doorway. “What’s this one, another threat?”
“He says it’s about Dale Crowe.”
“There’s a warrant out on him. Tell the guy to call the Sheriff’s Office.”
“He says it’s something you’ll want to know about.”
Kathy looked from one to the other. Now at Gibbs picking up the phone. He winked at her as he pressed the “speaker” button and said, “This is Bob Gibbs. What can I do for you?”
A voice came over the speaker saying, “Is this the judge?” With that country accent you heard in the Glades.
“I just told you it was, didn’t I?”
“I like to make sure’s all.”
“Say what you want or I’m gonna hang up.”
There was a pause before the voice came on again. “If you want Dale Crowe Junior, I can tell you how to find him.”
“All right, how?”
“I know who he’s with and the kind of car they’re driving.”
“Tell me,” Gibbs said, “and we’ll both know.”
There was another pause on the line.
“Remember that gator was in your yard?”
Now it was the judge who paused.
Kathy watched him frown, looking up at the wall above her, maybe wondering what the voice was getting at, or deciding what to say next. Then surprised her. All he said was “What about it?” But in a different tone, his voice lower, serious.
The voice said, “You don’t know what I mean? Or who this is?”
The judge’s eyes raised to the wall again to stare with a look of concern that wasn’t like him. He said, “I’m afraid I don’t.”
Lying—Kathy was sure of it. Because if he didn’t know who it was he’d snarl at the voice to quit wasting his time.
The voice said, “Come on, Judge.” Then paused a moment and said, “Wait a minute, okay?”
Kathy watched Gibbs’s hand creep across the desk toward the phone. She said, “Is this being recorded?” and the hand stopped. Gibbs looked at her, stared a moment and nodded. Now his fingers, close to the phone, began to drum on the desk, without making a sound. She had the feeling he wanted to press the “speaker” button again, turn it off, but now it was too late.
The voice came on saying, “Judge? I won’t mention that business about the gator if we can make a deal here. Otherwise, what I’m gonna do…”
“Is that right?” Gibbs said. “Well, since I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t think you do either, I’m gonna hang up this phone.”
Wesley was motioning now, shaking his head, but Gibbs wasn’t looking at him. He said, “Judge, don’t.” A second too late.
Gibbs hung up.
“Who’s he think he’s talking to? I don’t make deals. That’s between the state attorney and the guy’s lawyer, they want to work out a plea deal. He called the wrong party.”
Wesley said, “Judge, you have any idea who it was?”
“Some flake. Could’ve been anybody.”
“He seemed to think you knew him.”
“‘Cause he was in my court one time I’m suppose to remember him?”
“Well, if he’s still where he called from,” Wesley said, “he’s ours.”
Gibbs began to nod with a thoughtful expression, looking at Kathy again. She saw the worry in his eyes before he looked away, looked around, anxious. Wesley turned to go and Gibbs said, “Wait a minute… I’m wondering if it might be this guy from Belle Glade I sentenced the other day. If I can recall his name…”
He was putting on an act and it made Kathy think of Harry Dean Stanton again. The judge had lied and now was trying to cover his ass before he got caught. She watched him hit the desk with the edge of his fist and look up at Wesley, still in the doorway.
“Dicky Campau. I bet anything that’s who it was. I had Dicky up for shooting a gator, used a rifle he keeps in his truck. Listen, you call out to the Glades tell ‘em to be careful, hear? Approach with caution.”
Kathy watched the judge lean back in his chair and look over, his old self again and proud of it. He said, “I’d like you to ride out to the house with me. One of the deputies can drive you back after.”
• • •
D
icky and Inez were in the kitchen, Dicky getting a drink of water at the sink. He wished it was to chase a good belt of Seagram’s, but knew if he started drinking Inez would get on him and it would take the pleasure from it. She was snapping beans at the kitchen table where she had snapped at him all the time he was on the phone. That was what got him confused. Trying to talk and listen to her at the same time. When he told her the judge had hung up, Inez said, “I don’t wonder. You sounded like you were asking him a favor. I said tell the son of a bitch here’s the deal, whether you like it or not.
He’s
the one wanted the gator. We didn’t even get her hide out of it.”
Inez had been after him ever since the alligator was in the paper, like it was his fault. She’d been the one said the alligator was dead.
“You told me don’t say too much.”
“I told you don’t say your name. Let him figure it out.”
“I’m pretty sure he did.”
“Then how come he hung up on you? If you had said what I told you instead of thinking up your own words…”
Dicky, looking out the kitchen window with the glass of water in his hand, said, “Inez?”
“What?”
“They’s deputies in the yard with shotguns.”
“Well, you’re the talker,” Inez said. “Ask what they want.”
• • •
T
he first time Elvin woke up that morning he went out to the hall and banged on doors till Hector came out of one in his robe and an ugly disposition. Elvin got a couple of painkillers off him and went back to bed. No sooner was he lying there he smelled the go-go whore, her perfume, jumped up and went out to bang on Hector’s door again, wanting to know where Earlene was. Hector said, “I drove her home. You don’t remember?” Elvin said oh, yeah. Got back in bed again and let the painkillers put him under.
The next time he woke up, dying of thirst, dust blowing around in his head, it was past noon. He left the guest room this time in his undershorts and cowboy boots, a cold beer in mind, and ran into Hector standing in the hall, Hector with big eyes and a finger pressed to his mouth.
“The hell’s wrong with you?”
“A policeman is here.”
“So? I ain’t done nothing.”
Elvin made a move for the stairway and Hector took hold of his arm. “He ask to know are you here.”
Elvin pulled his arm free. “Where’s he at?” Hector gestured with his head and Elvin moved to the French doors that opened on the sun deck.
There they were by the swimming pool. Dr. Tommy, bare naked except for his anklet, hands on his hips, talking to the cop in the dark-blue suit. Elvin
knew
it was going to be him. The one pulled his hair, Ms. Touchy’s boyfriend.
Elvin hurried back to the guest room, his head fuzzed but feeling purpose, an urge to get it done and not let anything stop him. He saw his suit of clothes and Earlene’s G-string hanging over the back of a chair. Saw the empty Scotch bottle on the bureau, what had hung him over the way Beam never did, squeezed his skull. Was he still tanked? Some. Enough not to give a shit. What he didn’t see anyplace was his gun, the Ruger Speed-Six. He noticed Hector in the doorway watching and asked him, “Have you seen my piece?”
“What?”
“My goddamn three-fifty-seven.”
“It isn’t your gun.”
Elvin, looking through the bedcovers now, catching whiffs of the rock whore’s perfume, straightened up quick.
“You take it?”
“It isn’t
yours
.”
Now he was ducking out of the room. Elvin tore after him, caught the dink in a headlock right by the stairway and almost threw him down it, he wanted to so bad.
“You gonna tell me where it’s at?”
What was the guy doing, crying?
Man, this was a creepy place. The doctor out there bare naked talking to a cop and this dink whimpering like a girl, begging not to be hurt.
• • •
“W
here’d he go?”
Dr. Tommy looked up to see Elvin at the top of the stairs to the sun deck: Elvin in his cowboy hat and underwear holding a revolver, bare legs, boots planted in a stance to keep him erect. The man still drunk.
“His beeper went off and he left.”
“He was asking about me, was he?”
“He wanted to know do you work here.” Dr. Tommy saw Hector appear on the deck, somewhat behind the assassin in his underwear. “I told him you come by now and then, work in the yard. What were you going to do, shoot him?”