“I’m always busy. I’ve been busy for seventeen years.” He drew Pike in with a crooked finger, removed his robe, and hung it carefully on the wooden hanger, returning it to the knob on the inside of his closet door. He started for his desk, stopping to run a hand over the mantel of the fireplace.
“I wanted to—”
“Did you know, Archibald, that my great-grandfather and grandfather used this fireplace to heat the office in the winters?” Boykin asked.
“Yes, Judge. You mentioned that once—”
“My father fought against having it sealed when the building was retrofitted with central heating. He said there was something comforting about working by the warmth of a crackling fire, but really he just didn’t see the need to change something that had worked fine for half a century.”
Pike carried a stack of documents. “I’ve been on the computer.”
“Studying the law, I hope.”
The comment stopped Pike in his tracks. Boykin left the fireplace for the arched window behind his desk that provided natural lighting and accorded him a magnificent view, like a crow’s nest atop the mast of a grand schooner.
Pike adjusted his classes. “Actually the Internet, Judge. I thought I—”
“When I was a boy I remember the view of the valley being nothing but orchards of fruit trees and farmland. Now it’s rooftops stretching as far south as the eye can see. And people complain that the price of produce has skyrocketed.” He shook his head at the irony. “I can still look down on the same two dozen buildings as my grandfather and his father once did, but it wasn’t called ‘Old Town’ back then. It was just Winchester. Then some people thought we needed to build a new city center, and so we built one.” He paused. “And the economy crashed and vacancies soared. But do you know what the one constant has been, Archibald, what has not changed?”
“The law, Judge.”
Boykin glanced over at him. “The law. Everything except the law. And do you know why?”
“Because the people of Winchester County have voted that way for four generations, Judge.”
“That’s right, Archibald. They have done just that. And do you know why the good people of Winchester County have seen fit to do that?”
Pike had run out of answers. “I suppose it’s because—”
“Respect, Archibald. They have voted a Boykin to serve on that bench in that courtroom for more than a century out of respect. And we have returned their show of loyalty by administering justice with a strong and unwavering hand.” Boykin pointed. “When I slip on that robe I am not just a judge, Archibald. No, I am much more than that. I am the keeper of a great legacy of justice, a legacy that my family has gone to great lengths to preserve. It’s the reason my great-grandfather commissioned a painting of the old oak tree before it was cut down, and why that painting has hung in that courtroom for all to see. It was not just a tree, Archibald. It was a symbol of justice. Just like me. I am a symbol of justice. The Boykin name is symbolic of justice.” Boykin’s eyes narrowed. “And you let David Sloane thumb his nose at it in front of my entire court staff.”
“I’m sorry, Judge.”
“So am I, Archibald, but don’t you for a minute think you were the intended target; don’t you dare flatter yourself that way.”
“No, Judge.”
“Mr. Sloane was taking aim directly at me. Yes he was.”
Pike paused. “That’s why I was on the Internet, Judge, because I thought I’d heard that name somewhere.”
“What name?” Boykin asked.
“David Sloane.”
“And?”
“He’s that big shot lawyer from Seattle.”
“I thought they said he’s licensed in California.”
“He is. He’s the lawyer that’s always in the news.” Pike started handing Boykin documents. “The one that had that murder case last year, the one in which that female lawyer was accused of killing a drug dealer.”
Boykin shook his head. He hadn’t heard of it. “So he’s a defense attorney?”
“Not always,” Pike said. He handed Boykin another document. “The year before he had that big verdict against a toy company using magnets in its toys that were killing kids. They changed the legislation because of him.”
Still wasn’t ringing any bells with Boykin. He set that article aside.
“And he had that case against the military on behalf of the family of that National Guardsman, the one that made Defense Secretary Northrup resign.”
Boykin looked up from the document. That case had been all over the national news. “That’s him?”
“He’s the lawyer who doesn’t lose,” Pike said.
Boykin grunted, annoyed. “You sound like a damned Harry Potter movie.” Boykin hadn’t read the books but he’d taken his granddaughters to see one of the movies. “So he’s a good lawyer. It’s no excuse for what happened in my courtroom this morning.”
“He’s more than a good lawyer, Earl… Judge. He’s, he’s not going to go away. He
won’t
go away.”
“No kidding. I got that impression this morning, in my courtroom.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“What do you mean, what are
we
going to do?”
“I mean about his kid.”
“What would you have me do, release him?”
“Well, I was thinking that maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.” Before Boykin could respond Pike raised a hand. “Hear me out. The loss of the recording gives you a legitimate reason. I mean, Sloane’s right about it making it more difficult to meet our burden, and he’s got a good argument of inherent prejudice. The court of appeals could grant the motion and send it back to us, and we’ll be right back where we started. This way, you have someone to blame, the clerk’s office.”
“So I just call him up, tell him I’ve reconsidered my decision and, in light of the lost evidence, I’m going to grant his son a new trial. We bring them back here and we have ourselves a trial. And then what?”
Pike smiled, indicating he’d thought this through. “You sentence them to detention centers in Washington and West Virginia and get them out of our hair.”
Boykin stroked his beard, appearing to give the plan due thought. “Let me ask you, Archibald, in light of what you’ve just
told me about Sloane’s reputation, what do you think are the odds he’ll stop with the release of his own son?”
The question erased Pike’s smile.
Boykin’s mood darkened. “I don’t give a good God damn who he is. This is my courtroom.
My
courtroom, and I am not about to cede it to anyone, not even the ‘lawyer who does not lose.’ If the court of appeals grants his motion, weeks from now, then we will have ourselves a trial, Archibald, yes we will. And if we do I am going to expect a far better showing than the one you gave this morning. Until that time, his son will remain a ward of the Winchester County Juvenile Detention Department.”
Pike reached to take back the documents.
“Leave them,” Boykin said.
After Pike shut the door, Boykin spun his chair and returned his gaze to the window, but his thoughts did not slip back into history. He gathered the documents Pike had left and walked to the shelves lining the wall, removing the four volumes of antique California Reporters that had been bound together at the spines, revealing the hidden wall safe his great-grandfather had asked be embedded when the building was constructed. The combination had never changed, the date the building had been dedicated. Opening the wall safe, Boykin reached past the .44 caliber Colt revolver and retrieved a cell phone. He hit the button for the preprogrammed number and waited three rings until the person answered.
“We have a situation,” he said, considering the articles. “And I don’t want that situation to become a problem.”
T
HE
T
RISTAN
M
OTEL
T
RISTAN
, C
ALIFORNIA
Someone had gone through their things, and they hadn’t been subtle about it.
“It was a police officer.” The owner stood in the doorway, his blue jeans hanging well below an ample stomach, arms crossed over his short-sleeve cotton T-shirt. He’d apparently been waiting for Sloane and Molia to return. “He said it was police business.”
“Was he wearing a Truluck uniform, blue and gray?” Molia asked.
The man nodded. “He was a police officer. Showed me his badge.”
“Name of Wade… Carl Wade?”
A shake of the head. “No, sir. It wasn’t Wade. My wife wrote it down.” The owner looked from Sloane to Molia and back again, something clearly on his mind. “Listen,” he said. “We run a quiet place here.”
“We’re not going to cause you any trouble,” Sloane said.
“Just the same. It’s just me and my wife. We’re retired, and well, it’s nothing personal. I like you fellas, but she’d feel a whole lot better if you moved on.”
“Can you recommend someplace?” Molia asked, resigned.
“Down the road maybe in Dillon. You could check there. They have a couple places. I’ll refund your money.”
“No reason to do that,” Sloane said. “How about you let us stay long enough to get things reorganized and packed and we’ll be out of your hair.”
The man nodded. “I’ll check with the missus, but I think that’d be fine.”
After the man had left, Sloane pulled out his cell phone. With the room sweltering, they stepped outside to a wedge of shade along the side of the building, but it offered only minimal relief. Sloane put the call on speaker when Alex answered. He’d kept her and Jenkins apprised of the situation. Jenkins had wanted to get on a plane and fly out to California, but Sloane had convinced him that, short of breaching the walls of Fresh Start, there wasn’t much Jenkins could do. They had to let the legal system play out, as frustrating as that continued to be. That was before Molia broached the subject of taking a different approach.
“What happened with the motion?” Alex asked.
Sloane took a few minutes to explain what had transpired. Then he asked, “Is Charlie there?”
“No. He had to get on a plane to New Jersey yesterday afternoon. His sister called. His mother isn’t doing well.”
“Her heart again?”
“Looks like it. He’s going to call if he thinks we need to be there. We’ve been through this a few times now.”
Sloane knew. “Listen, I hate to ask for a favor under the circumstances.”
“Anything.”
“Wonder if you can do a couple of background checks for me.”
“I can try. Who are you interested in?”
A judge for starters. Name’s Earl Boykin, middle initial ‘J.’”
“What am I looking for?”
That was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question wasn’t it? Sloane didn’t really know. “Not sure at this point,” he said.
Molia chimed in. “Anything that looks interesting. Check out his finances, real estate holdings, history on the bench. His legal career.” He thought for a moment. “See if you can find any connection to a guy named Victor Dillon.” He spelled the last name.
“Who’s Dillon?” Alex asked.
“A guy with a lot of money,” Molia said. “He owns Fresh Start.”
“What do you mean
owns
it?” Alex asked.
“Fresh Start is privately owned through a limited liability company,” Sloane said.
“You can do that?”
“Apparently.”
“Well that’s grounds for interest right there, isn’t it?” she said.
Sloane watched a lizard lift its head from a rock. Before it did, Sloane hadn’t seen it sunning itself. “Look up the other members of the LLC and see if any of them have any connection to Boykin. Oh, and Dillon apparently owns the Gold Rush Brewery near Winchester.”
“Don’t forget Wade,” Molia reminded him.
“And see what you can find out about a guy named Carl Wade. He’s a Truluck police officer.”
“And a royal pain in the ass,” Molia said, leaning toward the phone.
“Do you have access to a computer?” Alex asked.
“I will,” Sloane said. “We’re on the move again. I’ll call and give you the name of the motel and a number when we touch down.”
Sloane changed into a pair of shorts with multiple pockets and a lightweight blue cotton shirt. He exchanged the dress shoes for a pair of Denali sandals. As he and Molia repacked the car he could feel the heat of the asphalt seeping through the soles and burning the back of his neck. His cell phone buzzed. Lisa Lynch.
“Tell me the court of appeals granted the motion
sua sponte.
”
“Don’t I wish,” Lynch said. “We’ll get it filed Monday.”
“How do you feel about it so far?”
“We have solid grounds. The lack of a transcribed record could have put us over the top.”
“So what’s the bad news?” Sloane could hear it in Lynch’s voice.
“My assistant called the clerk at the court of appeals. Even if we file Monday we can’t get it heard for two weeks.”
“What about moving to expedite the hearing?”
“That is expedited.”
Sloane sighed.
“If anything changes, I’ll let you know. But, hey listen, I have a question for you. You didn’t write any notes on the copy of the motion to have the record of yesterday’s proceedings transcribed, did you?”
“Notes? What kind of notes?”
“There’s a handwritten note scribbled on our file copy, just to the right of your signature.”
“What does it say?”
“Best I can make out it says ‘Knock - Me - Stiff. Eight, colon, zero-zero.’”
“Eight o’clock?” Sloane asked.
“Looks like it,” she said.
“What’s ‘knock me stiff’ mean?”
“That’s what I was wondering.”
“No idea,” Sloane said.
“Okay. Just checking. I’ll get you a copy of the appeal first thing.”
Sloane disconnected.
“Who was that?” Molia asked as Sloane stepped back into the room to finish packing.
“Lisa. She says it’s going to take two weeks for the appeal, even expedited.”
“Well, we figured that, didn’t we?”
Sloane started to gather more things, stopped, pulled out his iPhone and opened the browser.
“What are you doing?” Molia asked.
Sloane hit a search engine, typed in the three words, and waited for the Internet. “Just checking on something else Lisa said.”
Molia walked over as Sloane typed in the words: Knock-Me-Stiff.
“What is that?”
Sloane got just over seven thousand hits. “I don’t know. Lynch says it was scribbled on one of our pleadings by my signature. She thought I wrote it.” Sloane typed in Winchester.