Clean Slate

Chapter 58

The first room was more like a cubicle, a foyer of sorts, completely empty except for gray and black phone cords coiled against the wall. Through a second open door was a larger room the color of streaky chalk, with a long wood conference table, at which Judge Wildern sat, just snapping shut his cell phone. The bulky balding jurist was half in shadow from the bright windows behind him. Most of the table's surface was piled with folders and cardboard wallets. Yellow legal pads splashed with handwriting lay about. Archive boxes were stacked up in one corner and at the other corner was the black mouth of a doorless hallway. A couple of battered wood chairs sat jumbled together by one end of the table. The room had no ventilation that Earl could detect, and seemed like a creepy and clammy place to spend time.

The Judge, jacketless, scowled at Earl, thick brows together, jaw set. "I didn't send for you. What're you doing here."

The Superintendent eased the inner door shut with his heel. "Got something to show you, Judge."

Wildern seemed about to object, but some inner calculation made him swerve. "Well, what is it?"

"Here." Earl went to the table, pushed back a pile of files, set the DVD player down in front of the Judge. "Just take a second," he said, opening the lid.

"Computer or something?" Wildern commented, with the hesitation of the uninitiated.

"Something," Earl agreed, and pressed play. The screen lit up. Earl stepped back. Knowing the program oh so well, he did not need to see the screen. What he wanted to watch was the Judge. His primary purpose was, of course to cut a deal. But as always he had another purpose. This one was comeuppance. He wanted to watch the all-powerful Judge Wayne F. Wildern, potentate of privilege, discover that he was not so powerful after all. Teach the pathetic old fart something about humility. Maybe from here on the Judge would be a bit more thoughtful about the smaller fry of the world. Learn first hand that they had some power too.

For a long moment the Judge watched the screen. Then, abruptly, he flinched back hard against the chair back, froze there, staring. The slightest sound escaped him, low and far away – disbelief, pain, Earl could not tell which. From the player's speakers came distant moist rhythms, with the occasional sigh. Wildern threw a quick unreadable glance at Earl, which told him he'd reached the part where Earl himself became visible as the man getting the blow job. The Judge was absolutely rigid, seeming not even to breathe, as Earl started to speak.

"There's eighteen-plus hours of this, Judge. What you have here is a two-hour highlight reel. It stays between us – stays totally on the hush. But – and this is the kicker, Judge – it stays quiet only if you act, today, to fix a big problem for me."

The Judge continued to stare at the screen. A long moment went by. Then from the speakers came Earl's brusque voice: "Show me." Then, Earl again: "Ah. Very good." Another pause, and then Ruth this time: "Salty. Mm, mm."

All at once the Judge's chair hurled back and he lumbered to his feet, giving the big wood table such a hard shove that its wood feet honked on the old vinyl flooring. He came toward Earl in a staggering gait, fists balled, broad fleshy face a mask, and Earl got his arms up to defend himself – but that was not necessary. Wildern swerved, charged past him, and through the side doorway, quickly disappearing into the darkness. Presently Earl heard loud sounds of gagging and retching. Private bathroom, he thought. Well, the Judge always insisted on good facilities. Vent it out, your Honor, he thought. Then we'll get down to business.

While waiting, he stepped over to the table. The DVD was still playing. It was one of the better scenes, a good tight shot of the naked Ruth on hands and knees, lower legs and feet extended beyond the edge of the bed, her short brown hair still Sunday-best coiffed, breasts extended downward and rocking, as Earl stood tight behind, hands on her hips, face intent, thrusting, thrusting as he threw a good fuck into her. Any second now, he would clamp her in the choke hold. Earl wished the Judge could see this, learn what it took to really turn his woman on –

Abruptly he looked up. In the doorway stood Judge Wildern, motionless, looking at him, absolutely calm. His tie was gone. His white shirt showed damp spots. The knees of his dark suit pants were dusty. In his right hand, pointed loosely, casually at the floor, was a small revolver, blued finish, probably, Earl thought, a .32 or a .25. Wildern's expression was one Earl had seen thousands of times, always while wearing black robes, up on the high courtroom bench: the face of decision.

"What," Earl said. "I'm going to have to arrest you now? Is that how you want this to play out?"

"I'm putting you in the ground, Earl."

The Superintendent resisted the temptation to laugh. Big bad Wayne, longtime consort of Debby Brody, now defending his marital honor. "You don't want to do that."

"You're right. I don't."

Earl was calculating angles, positions, velocities. "So put the thing down, and we'll talk this out."

"Nothing more to say," the Judge replied.

And then Earl knew. Wildern had no intention of killing him. The sad windbag was going through the motions, replaying lines from old TV shows, doing the "manhood" thing, living up to his own sorry self-image. Had Earl not been so nervous – for a firearm not under his control was still, however pathetic the Judge might be, something to be nervous about – he might have laughed.

He did not laugh. Instead he said, "Well, sir, if what you need is to shoot me, then go ahead and shoot me."

The Judge lifted the weapon and, stance awkward and all-wrong, pointed it one-handed at Earl. Thirty-two, Earl thought, and he actually saw the flame wink from the barrel an instant before the flat-snap gunshot boomed the room. The impact was harder than Earl would have expected – like a big brick hitting his abdomen – and he staggered back a couple of steps, but kept his balance – it takes more than one shot to put Earl Bucaro down! Then came the pain, a jagged searing lancing slash down one way through his lower gut and then across another way, like barbed teeth raking through his insides, gouging and snapping. Then back and across again, even hotter. This could be trouble, Earl thought in disbelief, and looked at the Judge, who just stood there watching, weapon lowered again.

"Aaahh," Earl heard himself cry, and his hands fumbled to his bloody shirt, and just then all the strength went, all of it, 50 years of bull-like strength, just gone, and he dropped like some pathetic fucking puppet onto the dirty floor, over on his side, knees drawn up and running shoes twitching as the radiating pain inside burned bright, brighter, and then fiercer still. It can't get worse, he assured himself, and as if in response the pain redoubled, and he cried out again despite his clenched teeth. He was bleeding, but not badly, he thought, and the pain would end soon. He'd numb up presently, and they'd stop the bleeding and give him a shot. Now the pain shifted eagerly into high-gear agony, rocketing him into convulsions, and he felt hot blood coursing up his throat, and he coughed a mouthful of it out. He was having trouble breathing. Where's the numbness? He'd always heard, you get shot, you go numb – He must have had his eyes shut for a bit, because now, abruptly, Judge Wildern stood right over him, looking down at him with intent, academic interest – and Earl thought: he's nuts, he's completely nuts, he's gone totally out of his fucking mind –

---

By ten o'clock Mac could stand it no longer. He'd done his two morning interviews completely on automatic pilot, all the while keeping a weather eye on his computer screen, waiting for a call-back from the Judge. But the minutes ticked by, and no message came. He had paperwork to do, but no appointments now until after lunch. Time to get this show on the road, he thought, if I'm going to finish with the Judge and get to the prosecutors today. He picked up his desk phone and tapped out the Judge's extension. "Office of the Chief Judge," Katie answered.

"He back yet? Mac here."

"Turns out he's out till Monday, Mac," she told him. "He just called to say he's going home for the day."

"Really. How come?"

"I'm sure I don't know," she replied, with a tone of slight reproval.

"Well, okay, Katie. Thanks." Slowly he hung up. So what do I do now? Skip the Judge and move on to the prosecutors? How fair was that? Sure, the Judge had made this mess, and now he's have to stew in the consequences. But whatever Judge Wildern had done, he had been a longtime friend, and Mac did not want him hearing about this from someone else. As Scott had said, in a different context, Mac needed to stay on the high road, to have any chance of getting others there. And God knew Mac had spent enough time on the low road, this week, this month, elsewhere in his life. He had amends to make.

Quickly he rose, tucked his cell into his pocket. On the other side of the archway, Abigail was interviewing a surly, slumping tattooed young man with shoulder-length white trash hair. Alert to Mac's movements, she got up from her desk and came over through the archway. She wore a dark navy gabardine blazer over fine slim matching trousers, and her brown hair was tied back as usual, though not quite as tight – a gesture to casual Friday, perhaps. Looking intent and harried, she asked, "You're leaving?"

"Yeah, our friend is, um. . .he's gone home for the day, I just heard. I'm going to catch him over there, then go see the prosecutors."

Abigail took a deep breath, and she came very close. "Please don't go," she whispered.

"Why not?"

"I'm scared, okay? I'm just scared for you."

"Nothing to be scared of," Mac answered easily. "Judge is my friend. See you in a bit."

---

Through the recessed speakers, the local public radio station played Schumann's Concerto for Piano in A Minor, Opus 54. Ruth Wildern stood at the big butcher block in the center of her brightly lighted kitchen, cutting boneless chicken breasts into one-inch cubes with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the long sharp knife on the wood surface. On the counter behind her sat a red bowl with a couple dozen jumbo shrimp, already peeled and de-veined. Opposite the sink was a big tray piled with small red bell peppers, zucchini, onions, and mushrooms. The ingredients for the brochette required two hours of marinating time, but Ruth had things well in hand, as always. Her housekeeper was due right after lunch, and there was much to do to get ready for the evening's guests.

She wore pale blue slacks, sleeveless white top, and her snug ankle-length pale blue apron. Tiny granny-style reading glasses – one of the many things about her she resolutely hid from others – hung round her neck by a thin gold chain. She worked on full automatic pilot. Why not? She'd prepared thousands of recipes down through the years; she had only to give the instructions a quick glance and then dive into the work, leaving ninety percent of her brain free for some other, far more interesting, topic. Which, this morning, was Earl Bucaro, and their plans for Sunday.

Earl, Earl. How lucky she felt! She could so easily have ended up with someone else. Throughout her adult life she'd eyed, with various degrees of appetite, all sorts of men. She'd had guarded flirtations with one or two. And there were several times, while out of town and alone and, of course, achingly lonely, when she'd been hit on very directly, under circumstances that seemed totally circumspect and safe. . . .

And yet she'd always drawn back.

Not because of her husband. Wayne lived in his own world, in which Ruth was just a piece of furniture.

Rather, Ruth had rejected each opportunity for a fling because, if she hadn't, Mother would certainly have found out.

A little birdie told me. . . .