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  Same old crap.

  Like most of his colleagues, Judge Stubbs detests the morning motion call. Sitting up there on the bench, listening to the parade of lawyers accusing each other of picayune violations of the rules, he feels like that old woman who lived in a shoe.

  He looks up with a weary sigh. “Anything else?”

  “Got ourselves an emergency motion, Judge. They seeking a T.R.O.”

  “Really? One of ours?”

  “No, suh. Belong to Judge Weinstock.”

  “One of Marvin’s cases? Why are they here?”

  “He on vacation. This week and next.”

  “New case?”

  “Not brand new, suh. Complaint filed last week.”

  “Last week? Why the rush?”

  Rahsan shakes his head. “Don’t know, Yo’ Honor. Parties want a hearing. ’Specially the defendant. It’s their motion for an expedited hearing on the plaintiff’s motion. Presiding judge sent ’em down here.”

  “Am I the emergency judge this week?”

  “Yes, suh. This week and next.”

  “The defendant’s the one asking for a quick hearing, eh? That’s a first.” Judge Stubbs opens his desk calendar and studies it. “Well, looks like we can probably squeeze them in today. I have a pretrial conference at ten. Not much after that.”

  “I already tole ’em be here by eleven sharp.”

  Judge Stubbs looks up and smiles. “You have their motion papers?”

  “Yes, suh. Right here.” Rahsan Ahmed hands Judge Stubbs the court papers and stands up. “Motion call be startin’ in ten minutes, Judge. I’ll give a rap on the door when it’s time.”

  Rahsan Ahmed lumbers out of Judge Stubbs’ chambers just as Norman Feigelberg, one of the judge’s law clerks, scurries into the reception area. Judge Stubbs’ secretary has gone down the hall for another Diet Coke, and that leaves the two of them alone in the room. As usual, it’s a bad hair day for Norman Feigelberg. With his kinky black hair (this morning mashed up to the right side) and his horn-rimmed glasses (the bridge repaired with white adhesive tape), Feigelberg could pass for the younger, myopic brother of Kramer on Seinfeld.

  Feigelberg stares up at the docket clerk, squinting at him through thick lenses. “You just see the judge?”

  “Yep.”

  Feigelberg nervously twists the bottom of his necktie around his index finger. “How’s he feeling today?”

  “It’s that damn fiber.” Rahsan wrinkles his nose. “Smell like something died in there. Po’ mothafuckah fartin’ to beat the band.”

  Feigelberg giggles, his head bobbing.

  Rahsan steps back and waves his hand in front of his nose.

  “On the subject of odors, Norman, you ain’t exactly no rose yo’self.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Yo’ breath is death.”

  Feigelberg grimaces. “I’ve got that darn gum infection again. I think it’s a wisdom tooth.”

  “Here’s some wisdom for you, baby. Get yo’ ass down to Walgreens and bring back a gallon of Listerine, ’cause I don’t intend to be smelling that stench all day.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Back inside chambers, Judge Stubbs grins as he rereads the complaint in Mid-Continent Casualty Assurance Co. v. Leonard M. Pitt.

  He leans back and shakes his head.

  Leonard Pitt.

  It was twenty-one years ago, but he’ll never forget that day. Started out as a lovely autumn morning—a lot like today. His first trial in the Circuit Court of the City of St. Louis. Oh, sure, he’d tried a few cases out in St. Charles County by then, and one down in Hillsboro, but this was the big-time. Better yet, he was going up against the famous Leonard Pitt.

  More like the infamous. Even then, back all those years, back before mayoral candidate Leroy Robinson accused Pitt of being a member of “the cabal of evil men,” Leonard Pitt had a reputation.

  Leonard Pitt, eh?

  Judge Stubbs grinned and nodded.

  Might finally get a chance to nail the S.O.B.

  On that morning twenty-one years ago, Roy Stubbs drove in from Festus, nervous but confident. Nervous because he was always nervous before a trial, and especially before this one. Even though he was several years older than Leonard Pitt, he was far less experienced. After all, Pitt was already trolling the halls of traffic court when Trooper Stubbs was attending his first night school class at St. Louis U Law School. But Stubbs was confident, too, because he had reason to be. He had the facts on his side. He had the law on his side. Better yet, he had evidence that Pitt’s client had staged the accident. The whole thing was a fake, and he had a witness who could testify that Leonard Pitt had helped the plaintiff stage it.

  Roy Stubbs fantasized on his drive downtown that morning: he would not only beat the great Leonard Pitt, he might even get the man hauled up on charges before the disciplinary commission. Yes, sir, he told himself on that lovely spring morning, the name Roy L. Stubbs would be in all the newspapers.

  And it was. As the losing attorney in a one-hundred-forty-five-thousand-dollar judgment—at the time, the largest nonjury damage award in the history of the state of Missouri, and thus worth a front-page story in the Post-Dispatch, complete with a photograph of a beaming Leonard Pitt.

  The trial had been an outrage from beginning to end. After the first hour—after Judge Madigan overruled every one of Stubbs’ objections and granted Pitt’s motion to exclude most of Stubbs’ evidence—it finally dawned on Roy Stubbs: the fix was in. Worse yet, Madigan was a shrewd Irish fox who knew exactly how to throw a case while protecting his record on appeal.

  The judge announced the verdict at the end of the second day of trial, immediately after Roy Stubbs finished his increasingly frantic closing argument. He’d sat numb at counsel’s table while Pitt postured for the press outside the courtroom. He’d remained at counsel’s table while Pitt and the judge met in chambers. He’d finally started packing up his court papers when Pitt emerged from the judge’s chambers, puffing on a thick cigar.

  Pitt had paused near Stubbs. “Tough luck, pal.”

  Stubbs had glared at him. “That wasn’t luck. I know what you did.”

  Pitt smiled, the cigar clenched between his teeth. “This ain’t the boonies, kid.” He took the cigar out of his mouth, studied it for a moment, and took another puff. “Welcome to the big leagues.”

  Pitt had strolled out of the courtroom chuckling, trailing a wispy line of cigar smoke.

  Welcome to the big leagues, eh, Leonard?

  Judge Stubbs smiles.

  Welcome to the big leagues, asshole.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cherry holds the handgun with both hands, her arms outstretched, legs apart, slightly crouched. She is aiming at the bed in the motel room.

  “Sorry, Hal.”

  She pulls the trigger.

  Click.

  And again.

  Click.

  The unmade bed is empty. Cherry is alone in the room.

  She checked the Swiss account an hour ago. No money had been wired in.

  The day after tomorrow is the deadline. If something goes wrong, if Leonard doesn’t pay the ransom, Hal has to die. No other way. She needs to “escape” from her kidnapper, whose lips need to be sealed forever.

  Cherry tosses the handgun onto the bed and checks her watch. Hal left to pick up coffee and rolls ten minutes ago. She needs to hurry. She takes the roll of duct tape out of her overnight bag, sits down in the armchair, and performs her daily routine. First, she tapes her bare ankles to the front legs of the chair, waits a few minutes, occasionally straining against the tape, and then leans down and unwraps the tape from each ankle. Then she tapes her left wrist to the left arm of the chair, waits a few minutes, occasionally straining against the tape, and then unwraps it. She then repeats that procedure with
her right wrist. When she’s finished, she shoves the crumpled pile of used duct tape under the bed.

  She stands, stretches, and walks into the bathroom. She fills an empty cup with water and drinks it as she studies her face in the mirror. She still has the black eye. Using a piece of tissue paper, she scoops out some cold cream and rubs off the makeup. The black eye is gone. She turns on the shower, takes off her clothes and closes the bathroom door.

  Above the muffled noise of the shower comes the sound of a high-pitched whir. It seems to be coming from inside the wall near the bed. The whirring sound grows louder, and suddenly a thick drill bit pokes through the wall just to the right of the bed at eye level. Still whirling, the drill bit moves slowly back and forth through the hole several times, almost erotically, and then withdraws, leaving a neat round hole about the size of a dime.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A knock on the door. “Motion time, Yo’ Honor.”

  A moment later, Rahsan Ahmed lumbers into the courtroom to take up his position below the bench where Judge Stubbs presides. Rahsan stands at attention, eyes on the tall door to the left of the bench, the door that leads directly from Judge Stubbs’ chambers into the courtroom. The gavel looks like a toy hammer in his huge hands.

  Rahsan’s mere presence in the courtroom commands obedience. The bone structure of his face gives him a natural scowl. Add to that his fierce eyes, and he seems to glower up there in a way that thoroughly intimidates all the lawyers with tassels on their loafers. You can see it in their eyes as they approach the podium during motion call, glancing over at him as if they’re about to get clotheslined by the middle linebacker from Hell.

  Like you and me, those nervous lawyers wish they could read Rahsan’s mind. Not going to happen, though. Not for them, not for us.

  Meanwhile, inside his chambers Judge Roy L. Stubbs stands by the coatrack, slipping on his black robe. He snaps it closed as he moves toward the courtroom door. Pausing a moment, he can’t help but grin.

  Welcome to the big leagues, Leonard.

  His Honor turns the doorknob. That’s Rahsan’s signal. Through the door His Honor can hear the gavel pound three times. He hears Rahsan order everyone to rise.

  The Honorable Roy L. Stubbs opens the door and steps into the courtroom.

  Oh-yeah, Oh-yeah, Oh-yeah.

  Forty-five minutes into the hearing Judge Stubbs decides he likes this Milton Bernstein. Nothing flashy, a bit of a nerd for sure, but he’s getting the job done, one piece of evidence at a time.

  “Objection, Judge. He’s leading the witness.”

  Judge Stubbs looks over at Stan Budgah at defendant’s table.

  What the hell was the question?

  Doesn’t matter.

  “Rephrase the question, Mr. Bernstein.”

  “Certainly, Your Honor.”

  Bernstein turns toward the witness. “Did Mr. Pitt say anything else, sir?”

  Stan Budgah gives a grunt of satisfaction and sits back down.

  Judge Stubbs glances down at his notes and frowns.

  Stan Budgah? Really?

  He knows Budgah from back in his days in private practice. This is probably Budgah’s first appearance in federal court in years. Stan is strictly a ham-n-egger who mainly handles collection matters in state court. Probably the fattest collections lawyer in St. Louis. At least three hundred pounds. Judge Stubbs can hear Budgah’s raspy, open-mouthed breathing all the way across the courtroom. Certainly dresses the part: shiny green sports jacket with a pair of cellophane-wrapped cigars—White Owls—sticking out of the breast pocket, a fat purple tie splotched with soup stains, a white short-sleeved Dacron shirt stretched over a big gut, gray wrinkled slacks with the crotch starting halfway down his massive thighs, scuffed black shoes, and a good two inches of hairy calf showing above the tops of his blue socks

  Seated next to Stan Budgah at counsel’s table is Leonard Pitt—tanned, trim, and immaculate in his gray pinstriped three-piece suit, blue oxford-cloth shirt, and red-on-navy club tie. He seems almost bored by the proceedings. Pitt could be Central Casting’s answer to a call for a high-powered corporate litigator. Indeed, if someone were to walk into the courtroom cold, they would assume that Pitt was the lawyer and Budgah was the defendant, probably in a dirty bookstore prosecution.

  As Judge Stubbs stares at him, Pitt looks up. Their eyes meet. Pitt gazes calmly, his face devoid of expression, not a hint of concern. It’s unnerving. Even though Judge Stubbs is up on the bench, cloaked in judicial black, and vested with the might and authority of Article III of the United States Constitution, he is the one who breaks the stare. Flustered, he glances down at his notes.

  “Your Honor.” It’s Bernstein. “We offer into evidence Plaintiff’s Exhibit Six, the closing statement given to Mr. Ortega by Leonard Pitt on the date it bears.”

  Judge Stubbs turns toward Stan Budgah, who is in the process of heaving his bulk out of the chair. “Any objection, Counsel?”

  Budgah squints and nods his head. “I’ll object, Judge. I’ll certainly object.”

  “On what grounds, Mr. Budgah?”

  He waves his hand dismissively. “Relevance, materiality, best evidence rule, hearsay.”

  “Overruled. Exhibit Six is admitted into evidence, Mr. Bernstein.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. I have no further questions for this witness.”

  “Any cross-examination, counsel?” Judge Stubbs asks.

  Budgah starts to rise again when Pitt touches him on the shoulder. Budgah leans toward Pitt, who speaks softly in his ear. Budgah shrugs, and turns back to Judge Stubbs.

  “Nothing, Judge.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hal and Cherry are on the motel bed, both naked, their lovemaking over. Cherry is on her back. Hal is on his side facing Cherry, a confused look on his face.

  “One million dollars?” he repeats.

  “Yes, Hal.”

  “You’re telling me he has to wire transfer a million dollars into a Swiss bank account by Friday at eleven a.m.? That’s the day after tomorrow.”

  “Correct.”

  “You never told me any of this, Cherry.”

  “I’m sorry, baby. I was so freaked out. I never thought he would attack me like that. I was afraid, Hal. I didn’t want to spook you. The money’s for us, baby. I did it for us.”

  “Why would he agree to pay?”

  “Fear.”

  “Fear of what?”

  “Of me. That’s the deal. He pays and I don’t talk. It’s worth it to him. My husband has done some very bad things, Hal. Enough to get him disbarred.”

  “Jesus, Cherry. It’s practically blackmail. It might even be against the law.”

  Cherry gently touches Hal’s cheek, her eyes watering. “Oh, sweetie, don’t worry. All I’m trying to do is get out of this marriage with just a fraction of what I would have been entitled to except for that damn prenuptial agreement. That’s not blackmail, that’s justice.”

  Hal leans back, staring up at the ceiling. “Wow. I don’t know.”

  “Think of all that money, Hal. You could quit school. We could do whatever we want. No more worries.”

  “Yeah, but it seems kind of risky.”

  “Not if we’re careful, baby. That’s why you can’t make the call from here. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here. Once we confirm the money has been wired, we’re free.”

  “Maybe I should check with my brother, just to be safe. He’s a lawyer. He can tell us whether this is legal.”

  “Don’t worry. And don’t even think of telling your brother. This is our secret. No one else can know. We’ll be fine. I promise.”

  Hal sighs. “Okay. How do I call that Swiss bank?

  Cherry smiles. “I’ll get you the directions.”

  She leans over and kisses him on the lips. “My hero.”

&
nbsp; Chapter Eighteen

  Judge Stubbs studies the document. After a few moments, he leans back in his chair and shakes his head. “Something’s screwy here.”

  The three of them are in chambers—Judge Stubbs, Rahsan Ahmed, and Norman Feigelberg. Judge Stubbs had asked them to join him after he adjourned the hearing for a ninety-minute lunch recess.

  Feigelberg pulls at his earlobe nervously. He looks at the judge, then at Rahsan, and then back at the judge. “I don’t get it.”

  Rahsan grunts. “Norman, the man’s stealing from both sides.”

  He gestures toward one of the exhibits the judge had brought back into chambers—a cancelled check. “He settle with the insurance for nineteen large but tells his client he settled for fourteen. Client don’t know no better, insurance company don’t know no better, and Ol’ Leonard pocket the difference.”

  Judge Stubbs nods and turns toward Norman.

  “His clients are easy marks, Norman. Poor blacks and Hispanics. Those are the folks most likely to be intimidated by the legal system.”

  The judge turns back to Rahsan and shakes his head. “But still, it doesn’t make sense.”

  “What doesn’t?” Feigelberg asks.

  Rahsan turns to Feigelberg. “Stan Budgah.”

  Feigelberg frowns. “Why?”

  “In this kind of case, Norman,” Judge Stubbs says, “Pitt ought to be represented by the best lawyer he can afford, and trust me, he can afford the very best.”

  “Man could hire Clarence Darrow. Should hire Clarence Darrow.” Rahsan tugs pensively on his mustache. “It like he don’t care.”

  “Maybe he and Budgah are close,” Feigelberg suggests.

  Rahsan snorts. “And maybe I’m the chocolate Easter Bunny.”