Running From the Law Read online

  She’s dead, so it goes away. “I have no comment. Excuse me, I’d like to get through here without serious bodily injury. To you.”

  From a black reporter: “Will Judge Hamilton plead guilty?”

  Does the Pope shit in the woods? “Of course not.”

  And a follow-up, shouted from the back of the crowd: “Is the judge guilty, Ms. Morrone?”

  Your guess is as good as mine, bucko. “Absolutely not. My client is innocent of any and all charges against him.”

  I wedged my way through the throng, ducked a thousand more questions, and stepped inside the station house. I’d never been in a police station, but I didn’t expect it to look like the home office of an insurance company. The walls glowed eggshell white and the matching tile floor was buffed to perfection. The baseboards were done in teal, as were the doorjambs and other molding. The hall was quiet, no one was anywhere in sight. I figured all the insurance agents were out harassing people like you and me.

  “May I help you?” said a gray-haired receptionist, who looked up from the mystery novel she was reading. Her back was to a large window, and reporters pressed against it like chimps at the zoo.

  “Yes. Can you make those reporters disappear?”

  “Certainly.” She got up and dropped the Levolors in their faces. Mystery readers take no prisoners.

  “I’m Rita—”

  “I know, I saw you on TV. Have a seat in the waiting room. Lieutenant Dunstan is expecting you.”

  The color scheme of off-white and teal prevailed in the waiting room, and group photos of the Radnor police in the 1900s hung on the walls, displayed like family portraits. In each one, tall white men stood in front of a woodsy backdrop, sporting handlebar mustaches and greatcoats.

  “You must be Ms. Morrone,” said a deep voice. I stood up and shook the hand of Lieutenant Dunstan, a tall white man with a handlebar mustache. I avoided the double-take.

  “Uh, yes.”

  “Would you like some coffee? We can have Hankie here get you some.” He waved at the receptionist, who looked up expectantly.

  “No, thank you. I’d just like to see my client, Judge Hamilton.”

  “So you’re the one. I read about you,” he said, his tone convivial. His face was open and earnest, with large blue eyes and a smile that said, The policeman is your friend.

  “How is the judge?”

  “He’s fine. Fine. He’s back in his cell.”

  “You have him in a cell?”

  “Where else would we put him?”

  My inexperience, showing like a bra strap. “Is he in handcuffs?”

  “No, we usually use the cell or the handcuffs, but not both. Belt and suspenders, don’t you think?”

  I thought I heard Hankie sniggering, but it could have been my imagination. “Judge Hamilton is a federal district judge. He doesn’t need to be in a cell.”

  “He’s also under arrest for first-degree murder, Ms. Morrone. We can’t give him special treatment here.”

  Not with the press watching, anyway. “Is he in a cell with other … detainees?”

  “Nope. He’s by himself. Don’t have a lot of violent crime here, you know. Lower Merion Township acts as a buffer between us and the city.”

  Thanks a lot, I lived in Lower Merion Township. “How many murders do you have here in, say, a year?”

  “Not a one, usually. Only a couple murders in the last five years, if you don’t count that reporter I killed this morning.” He laughed and Hankie did, too.

  “Justifiable homicide,” I said, and they both laughed again. “By the way, how did the press find out about the arrest?”

  “They have scanners on all the departments. They know as soon as we do, there’s nothing we can do about it. We’re putting out a press release now. It says Judge Hamilton’s been charged with homicide in the stabbing death of Wayne resident Patricia Sullivan.”

  “Have you recovered the murder weapon?” I felt silly saying it, like in Clue. Was it Professor Plum with the pipe in the conservatory?

  “No, and we looked. That’s all she wrote, I should say, Hankie wrote. She’s good at English. She does all the press releases.” Dunstan seemed inclined to brag about Hankie for a spell, but I was in no mood to shoot the shit.

  “Can I see Judge Hamilton?”

  “Sure. Follow me.” He led me down another white hallway, then opened a teal door onto a small white room. At the far end of the room was a counter with a small brown refrigerator on it that said EVIDENCE ONLY, and a vacant desk with a new blue Selectric. Next to the desk was a skinny wooden bench with steel handcuffs locked to its legs. The handcuffs seemed jarringly out of place in this corporate setting, until I realized they weren’t. This was a jail, Fiske was imprisoned, and it wasn’t funny anymore.

  “What evidence do the police have to support the murder charge against Judge Hamilton, Lieutenant?”

  His smile faded. “Didn’t you get a copy of the criminal complaint, the affidavit of probable cause?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll get you another, the judge has his. But I can tell you we have a witness.”

  “Who saw what?”

  “She saw his black Jaguar in the driveway at the carriage house at about the time the murder occurred.”

  “Judge Hamilton’s is not the only black Jaguar in Wayne, Lieutenant.”

  “It’s the only one with a license plate that says GARDEN-2. She saw that, too.”

  Oh, no. The vanity plate, of Kate’s choosing; her plate said GARDEN-1. “The witness is sure it said GARDEN-2?”

  He nodded. “She also saw him get into the car and drive away, fast.”

  “Did she identify Judge Hamilton?” I said, my heart sinking faster than I could professionally justify.

  “Yes, from a photo array, and we asked the judge about it when we brought him in for questioning.”

  “You questioned the judge without a lawyer?”

  “He waived his rights, I was present when he did it. He said he didn’t need a lawyer, he had nothing to hide. We weren’t satisfied with his alibi or his answers to some of our questions, so we charged him. We feel confident we have the right man, Ms. Morrone.” He sounded genuinely regretful, and was almost becoming the first authority figure I ever liked.

  “Who was this witness?”

  “I can’t get into the details with you. I’ll bring you the affidavit just as soon as Hankie gets it copied up. Preliminary hearings take place within ten days.”

  “When is the arraignment?”

  “The district justice will be here within the hour.”

  “Here? At the station?”

  “We can hold arraignments here, especially with the press outside. I don’t want to fight them off, do you?”

  “But where’s the courtroom?”

  “There is none. We hold it right here.” Then he opened a door off the room and there were three jail cells side by side. Two of the cells were empty, but sitting on a skinny bed in the middle cell was the Honorable Fiske Harlan Hamilton.

  Fiske looked up when he saw me, and I caught a tense expression, quickly masked. “Rita, how good of you to come.”

  “Of course I’d come,” I said, taken aback at the incongruity of the scene. I’d seen Fiske most often in his library, now he was in a prison cell. I’d seen him in a judge’s black robes, now he wore a prisoner’s white paper jumpsuit. It seemed unreal.

  “Judge Hamilton, you okay in there?” asked Lieutenant Dunstan.

  “Fine, sir,” Fiske said. “Will Rita be able to come in with me?”

  Lieutenant Dunstan hesitated. “We don’t normally allow that. It’s more a security matter. You understand, the procedures and all.”

  “Understood, sir,” Fiske said. “Thank you very much.”

  “I’ll come fetch you when the district justice gets here,” Dunstan said, and closed the door with a harsh clang.

  We were alone. At a moment like this in the Morrone family, a display of Academy Award histrion
ics would have taken place, if not some respectable summer-stock hugging and weeping. But the Hamiltons were not the Morrones, there would be no Verdi in the background today. I stepped closer to the bars, but Fiske stood motionless behind an insignia for VAN DORN IRON WORKS. We regarded each other for a minute.

  “Do you know The Mikado?” Fiske asked.

  “Was Ann-Margret in it?”

  “‘Here’s a pretty mess,’” he sang.

  Singing? I searched his face. Close up, he looked grim, in need of cheering up. “I’m gonna bust you outta here, Mr. Big.”

  “Yeah?” he said, playing along as well as good breeding allowed. “How?”

  I held up my briefcase. “See dis? All you have to do is eat it. I baked a file inside.”

  “What a plan.” He dropped the accent, so I did, too.

  “You get what you pay for.”

  “Does this mean I have a criminal lawyer?”

  “No, you’re stuck with me.”

  He brightened. “Are you staying on? Truly? I want to pay you, you know. I insist on it.”

  “Forget it. I’m yours despite the fact that you called Mack on me.”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “No perhaps about it, Fiske.”

  He paused. “Did he tell you to represent me? Is that why you changed your mind?”

  “I’m here on one condition. We have to have an agreement, you and I. You have to tell me the truth from now on. With everything, every detail, no matter how small. The very next lie, I’m outta here and you get a lawyer who knows what she’s doing.” It sounded less threatening than I’d hoped.

  “I agree.”

  “Pinky swear?” I held up my pinky. “Hold up your finger. I make all my felons do it.”

  “I swear to God, Rita.”

  “That’ll have to do. Now what do I do at the arraignment? Act like I know what I’m doing?”

  “Yes.”

  “My specialty. Did you get this affidavit they’re talking about? What’s it say?”

  He repeated what Dunstan had told me, about the witness ID, the black Jaguar, and the license plate. Then he mentioned the fingerprints.

  “What fingerprints?” I asked him, surprised.

  He retrieved some papers from his bed and thrust them at me through the bars. “My fingerprints were found at Patricia’s carriage house. In the living room.”

  Shit. I skimmed the affidavit, which stated in general terms what I already knew.

  “You know why, Rita, I told you Patricia and I had met there once or twice. But I wasn’t prepared to tell the police why my prints were there. That’s when they decided to charge me.”

  Stupid. “Fiske, how could you let them question you without a lawyer?”

  He stiffened. “I am a lawyer, and I didn’t commit a murder. I had nothing to be afraid of, I didn’t need anybody to hide behind. And it wasn’t my car either. It couldn’t have been.”

  “GARDEN-2? A vanity plate on a vanity car?”

  “It’s my plate, but it wasn’t my car. I took my car to work that day. I parked it under the courthouse, in the secured lot. Nobody could have gotten it out but me.”

  “But Patricia was murdered at the end of the day and you took it out around five o’clock. The police were underwhelmed by your alibi.”

  He faltered. “I went for a drive. I told you that.”

  So fucking lame. “Work with me on this, would you?”

  “But it’s the truth, I swear it! I went for a drive. I needed to think.” His voice rose, and I considered the wisdom of discussing his alibi here. Or discussing it at all.

  “We’ll discuss it later,” I said.

  He ran a veined hand through silvered hair. “Does the press know about the witness?”

  “I doubt it, but they know you’ve been arrested. They’re outside right now. I tried to run them over but there were too many.”

  “So it’s public.”

  “Very.”

  “I can’t believe this, Rita,” he said, then looked down at his hands. On each fingerpad was a black smudge. “This is a nightmare.”

  “Buck up. Your mug shot’s got to be better than your driver’s license. Now, we have to get you out of here. Then I want to cram criminal law. You can quiz me.”

  “No. We have to get to the carriage house. I want to see it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We should view the crime scene as soon as possible.”

  I knew that. “Wait a minute, Fiske. First I plan to get you out of jail, then I plan to get you acquitted. How I get from point A to point B I haven’t figured out.”

  He squeezed the iron bars like a born convict. “But the best way to prove me innocent is to catch the real killer.”

  “Take it a step at a time. I’ll bail you out, then I’ll go to the crime scene. You’ll go home and take care of Kate.”

  “But I should go with you.”

  “Would you take a client with you, in my position? Of course not. At least not initially.”

  “But—”

  “I call the shots, Fiske,” I said sharply. He looked startled, and I admit I startled even myself. I make it a point to question authority, but I’d never yelled at a federal judge. “Look, I may not know exactly what I’m doing, but I will soon. The only way we can work this case is if you take direction from me. You can’t play my hand for me, got it?”

  “Play your hand?” he said, in a way that made it sound stupid and vulgar.

  “You heard me.”

  He lifted his strong chin slightly. “But you won’t mind if I give you my thoughts, from time to time.”

  “Your thoughts are welcome, your orders aren’t. My job is to run the case. Your job is to tell the truth, smile for the camera, and get back to work. You’re not stepping down from the bench, are you?”

  “No. The Constitution applies to me as well.”

  “Fine.”

  “And I am innocent. Do you believe that?”

  Sure, except for the witness ID and the license plate. “I’m going to get you acquitted. Isn’t that enough?”

  “No.”

  “It’ll have to be.”

  “But how can you get me acquitted if you don’t believe in me?”

  “I’ll act like I do and play the cards as they fall.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “You don’t play poker, do you, Fiske?”

  “You know chess is my game. I dislike gambling, all games of chance.”

  “Get over it. It’s time for the short course.”

  He looked none too pleased.

  12

  After depositing Fiske at home with a distraught Kate, I went to Patricia’s. The carriage house was at the back of a property of at least six wooded acres, set well behind the main house, a white stucco mansion. A winding, paved driveway led from the street through the trees to the carriage house, a tiny clapboard cottage, painted ivory with blue trim. Just the sort of place that would appeal to artists, lovers, and plaintiffs.

  I eyeballed the distance from the carriage house to the mansion. A hundred yards. Then the distance from the carriage house to the street. Seventy-five yards, through the trees. The driveway curved close to the back of the main house at only one point. A witness standing at the street or in the house would be able to spot a Jaguar, but would have a harder time identifying its driver with absolute certainty, especially in the downpour we’d had yesterday. I wondered who the witness was. I resolved to visit the owner of the main house as soon as I could.

  I looked back at the carriage house. It stood two stories tall and was almost obscured by the grove of oak trees surrounding it. Its first floor was an ivy-covered garage, and a runner of English ivy over the door told me it hadn’t been opened in a while. Maybe Patricia used the garage for storage. I flashed on the painting she testified about at her deposition, the one of me and Paul. Maybe she kept her canvases in the garage.

  “Can I get a look in the garage, too?”
I asked my baby-sitter, Officer Johanssen. Until the police released the crime scene, Lieutenant Dunstan had decreed I’d need an escort to inspect it, even outside. And each visit had to be logged in, recorded.

  “Yes,” Johanssen said.

  We walked past the garage and around to the left, to a slate patio where the front door was tucked under a white trellis covered with purple clematis. The door was in good condition, except that its blue paint was alligatored with age and water. How did the killer get in?

  “The door doesn’t look damaged, does it?” I wondered aloud, intentionally.

  Johanssen said nothing and took a key with a white tag on it from his pocket.

  “Were you one of the officers on the scene, right after the murder?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been here before?”

  “No.”

  A buff Viking with a dark tan, the cop would make a terrific sperm donor if the egg brought the personality. He jiggled the key in the lock, pursing his lower lip. If I hadn’t been there, I suspect he would have cursed. Finally the door swung open, revealing an entrance hall furnished simply, with a painted side table and a carved wooden lamp. A set of colored pencils sat on the table next to a stiff spray of dried pink statice.

  “I guess the living quarters are upstairs,” I said.

  “Here are the stairs,” Johanssen said. He walked to the left and I followed.

  The stairway was narrow and uncarpeted. Johanssen trod heavily in his black shoes and the stairs groaned with each footfall. It was easier for me to watch his heels than to look up to the top of the stairs, wondering what I was going to find. Halfway up I had my answer, because of the smell. A smell I remembered from my childhood. I’d grown up with the scent of blood in the butcher shop, but this blood didn’t smell like an animal’s. It smelled different, primitive as menses. The hot air was thick with it. I felt queasy and leaned on the wooden banister.

  Johanssen reached the top of the stairs and looked back over his shoulder. “Miss?”

  “I’m coming.” I swallowed my rising gorge and willed myself to climb higher.

  What I saw at the top of the stairs horrified me. Patricia’s living room, which also served as a studio, had been ransacked. Pencil sketches on white paper lay scattered across the unvarnished hardwood floor. Yellow tracing paper, curled at both edges, was strewn everywhere. A wooden easel had been knocked to the ground; it had a photograph of a meadow taped to it and held a canvas with a similar landscape. The painting had been slashed and there was blood splattered on the tear. Sunlight poured in through Palladian windows, illuminating the room obscenely.