“You should call the cops on that bastard, I swear.” Gina nodded angrily. “But you know, you can’t. It’d be all over the papers.”
“I don’t know if there’s enough for attempted rape, legally.” Cate felt raw and ugly. “So, you hate me now?”
“No, not at all.” Gina slumped in her chair, lost in her gray PENN sweats. The plaid flannel collar of her pajama top stuck up from her sweatshirt. “But I am mad you didn’t tell me about these guys you go with. You wouldn’t have told me about tonight if I hadn’t called you. How long have you been doing this, you idiot?”
Cate thought back. “About a year, maybe a year and a half.”
“From when you were at Beecker? You were a partner in a law firm.” Gina shook her head in disbelief, and a dark curl fell from behind her ear. “I don’t know why somebody so smart would do something so dumb.”
“Honestly? Me, neither.”
“That’s not good enough, Cate.” Gina smoothed her hair back. “You can do better than that. It’s self-destructive. So what’s it about? You have dates.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“So, why then? Think about it.” Gina looked at her directly, in the frank way that was second nature to her, and Cate knew she was right.
“It happens when I feel stressed. It’s like some people reach for a drink, or a drug. I pick somebody up.”
“Yuck.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you a sex addict?”
“No.” Cate recoiled. “It’s not like I do it all that often.”
“How often?”
“Once a month at most, and in my defense, men have been doing it for centuries. Have you seen a Budweiser commercial lately?”
Gina scoffed. “Oh, are you justifying it now? If you’re so proud of it, why keep it a secret?”
“Hey, stop being right.”
“It’s not about gender, it’s about you. That behavior, it’s not you.” Gina shook her head, adamant. “You leave Graham, a normal man, a stockbroker who gave you something from Tiffany’s on the third date. That breaks all the rules. And you leave him—to run to a rapist?”
Cate fingered the bracelet, still on her wrist. “Never again.”
“You’re stopping now? Swearing off working-class hunks? How could you let yourself be used like that?”
“I didn’t see it that way.” Cate considered it. “I guess I just feel more comfortable with that kind of man. Like my husband. I knew him from high school, remember?”
“Barely. The construction guy?”
“Yes. It’s where I came from. I worked to get where I am, I wasn’t born to it. My mother never went to college. I’m not the Ritz, I’m the pink motel.”
“You make fun of Dr. Phil. You should watch.” Gina scowled. “You loved your mom, right?”
“Yes, she was great. She was devoted to me. After my dad left, she got a job at my school, in the office. It was her and me.” Her mother had died right after Cate had graduated from college, and Cate missed her every day. “It was us against the world. She worked at my school, for the principal. People thought we were trying to be better than them because she wanted college for me. She protected me against everything—the mean nun at school, the monster at night, everything.”
“She and your dad broke up when you were how old?”
“Three.”
“And you didn’t see him again? No visitation or anything?”
“No. He was gone. You know all this—”
“So obviously, you have abandonment issues with men.”
“So what? Who doesn’t?”
Gina didn’t laugh. “You’re a smart woman, Cate. Let’s figure this out. Something must have triggered this behavior. If it started a year and a half ago, what was happening then, in your love life?”
Cate could barely remember. “I was seeing that guy at Schnader. That one you hated. Marc With a C.”
“Narcissist Alert. Watch out for French cuffs. I told you but you didn’t listen.”
Cate smiled. “We broke up about that time, but I wasn’t serious about him anyway.”
“But wasn’t that when they started talking about you for appointment to the bench?”
Cate thought back. “Yes.”
“Marc With a C was threatened by that, I remember you saying. He didn’t want people calling him Judge Marc With a C.”
Cate smiled again. “More or less. You remember my life better than I do.”
“Thank you. You were kind of surprised when your name came up for the vacancy. You thought you weren’t political. You didn’t think you’d get it.”
Cate laughed. “Oh, I knew I wasn’t political. I didn’t leave work early enough to vote, even.”
“And they began the background check and evaluated your credentials, before you could be confirmed. Maybe you were sabotaging yourself, in a way. Worried they wouldn’t find you qualified.”
“You know better than that. The scrutiny for us isn’t like for appellate judges. The confirmation hearing is pro forma. We’re basically appointed. I knew I had the credentials, and I was a woman, which didn’t hurt. It played out in my favor that I wasn’t political. They were so polarized, I was the only one they all agreed on for the job.”
“Maybe you didn’t want the job.”
Cate blinked. “Of course I wanted the job.”
“What if you didn’t? We’ve talked about how it’s kind of lonely, and you can’t see your old partners anymore. You loved the action in court. Aren’t you a little ambivalent about being on the bench?”
“How could I be? It’s the peak of the profession. Every trial lawyer wants to be a trial judge. There’s only seven hundred in the country, on the federal level. It’s the ultimate promotion.”
“That’s not my point.” Gina cocked her head. “You really wanted the promotion. But did you really want the job?”
Oddly, Cate had never really thought about that. Being a judge was the best she could be, and she always wanted to be the best. “I don’t know.” She shook her head, too tired to think, and shaken, still. “I guess I should get some therapy.”
“Uh, hello, ya think? And meds, lotsa meds!” Gina smiled, and then so did Cate, rising.
“Okay, enough. Want more coffee?” Cate crossed to the cabinet, retrieved a paper filter, and slotted it into the coffeemaker. “How’s the baby?”
“The neighbor’s there. He won’t even wake up.”
“Great. Thanks for coming over.” Cate dumped ground coffee into the filter and went to the sink to fill up the glass pot. “Hey, why’d you call me in the first place? Another tantrum?”
“No, it wasn’t about him. I heard on TV about the fight in court. I figured you might be upset.”
“Oh, that. Between the rape and the flat tire, I almost forgot.” Cate flicked on the coffee machine, thinking of Marz.
“Is that what set it off?”
“Set what off?”
“Your little frolic and detour tonight.”
“I’ll ask my new shrink.” Suddenly the phone rang, and they exchanged glances. Cate said, “I’m not getting it. It’s Graham, and I haven’t had my therapy yet.”
Ring! “It could be the sitter. She knows I’m here, and I left my cell at home.”
“Sorry.” Cate picked up quickly. “Hello?”
“Judge? Did I wake you?”
“Invaluable.” Cate smiled with relief at Val’s voice. “What are you doing up so late on a school night?”
“Chief Judge Sherman needed to reach you, but he didn’t have your number. So he called me.”
“What’s up?”
“There’s bad news.”
CHAPTER 9
The next morning, Cate drove up Market Street in heavy traffic, insulated by the car’s perfect seal from the media in front of the courthouse. Reporters held microphones at their sides, and cameramen drank coffee by enamel-white vans with cheery station logos. They were waiting for her, but she wouldn’t have
answered their questions anyway. She couldn’t, because she didn’t have the answers. Art Simone had been shot to death last night. And the police were looking for Richard Marz, who was nowhere to be found.
Cate felt a wave of regret. She should have foreseen that it could happen. That if Marz couldn’t get justice in her courtroom, he’d get it on the street. She took a right onto Sixth Street. She still couldn’t believe that Simone had been murdered. She didn’t respect him, but she didn’t want him dead. She’d prayed her comments hadn’t put him there.
Cate aimed the car for the security booth that would admit her to the judges’ parking lot, where she’d take the keyed elevator up to her chambers in the secured half of the courthouse. As a federal judge, she could conceivably go through the entire day without meeting a single member of the public she served. She used to think this was unhealthy, but today she was loving the idea.
Upstairs, Cate opened the door to her chambers, and Val looked up from her desk, her brown eyes filled with empathy. Her full mouth tilted unhappily down at the corners and her smooth skin belied her age of sixty-five. She slipped off Dictaphone headphones covering her steely braids. “Judge, I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.” Cate set her briefcase and bag on the navy couch in the reception room, a medium-sized square furnished with an inherited couch and matching leather side chairs. She slipped out of her sheepskin coat and hung it up on the rack.
“It’s such a shame. I prayed for him, and for you. Did you get any sleep?”
“Some.” Cate walked to the desk with her purse and briefcase. “How about you?”
“I’m fine.” Val handed Cate her message slips, over an array of graduation photos of her son and daughter. “The Inquirer keeps calling and said it’s important that you get back to them.”
“I’ll get right on that. Next year.”
“Graham Liss called twice and said it’s very important you call him back. The chief judge called and he wants to see you as soon as you get in.”
“Oh, great.”
Val frowned. “Hold your head up. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Cate had tried to convince herself of that, all last night. She gestured at the law clerks’ office, which had fallen suspiciously silent. “They’re eavesdropping, aren’t they?”
“They’re worried about mama.”
“How’s Emily taking this? It’s her case, too.”
“Fine, I made her tea. I’ll take care of your bags, too. Just go.”
“Invaluable,” Cate said, touched, and took off for Sherman’s chambers.
It was a short trip on the private elevator, and Cate used the time to collect her thoughts, square her shoulders, and check her makeup in the brass plate around the elevator buttons. She looked reasonably presentable with her hair loose to her shoulders, her standard pearls with a white silk T-shirt, and a black Escada suit with matching pumps. She stepped off the elevator, hurried down the hall, and entered the chief’s chambers.
“Hey, Mo,” Cate said, greeting Sherman’s secretary, Mavis Tidell. She knew the secretary’s nickname because she was also Val’s best friend. Mo looked up from her desk with a smile.
“Back at you, Judge. Go on in. They’re inside.”
“They?” Cate opened the office door, then was taken aback. The chief sat at the head of his mahogany conference table, but to his right sat Judge Meriden and two other men in business suits, one of whom looked familiar.
“Judge Fante, come in.” Sherman stood up in his distinguished, if stooped, way, somber behind his gold-framed reading glasses, and the others followed, smiling grimly, all around.
“Hello, Chief. Jonathan.” Cate nodded at Meriden and hoped her surprise at his presence didn’t show.
Chief Judge Sherman gestured. “Cate, our guests are homicide detectives with the Philadelphia Police Department.” As he spoke, a tall, fit detective in a boxy khaki suit and a maroon knit tie stepped forward and extended his hand.
“I’m Steve Nesbitt,” he said, his handshake firm. He looked about forty-five years old, with thick graying hair, a brushy brown-and-gray mustache above even teeth, and a proprietary manner that suggested an ease with himself. He said, “Pleased to meet you.”
“Thank you, hello.” Cate tried to get her bearings.
“I’m Paul Roots,” the other detective said. He was attractive and younger, in a dark suit with an expensive cut and a dark silk tie.
“Great to meet you,” Cate said, taking a seat at the opposite end of the table, which cued everybody to resettle themselves. She’d been in Sherman’s office only once before and it was everything a federal judge’s chambers should be. A thin Oriental area rug lay atop the thick navy carpet, and his large desk was very Ethan Allen mahogany, with matching chairs and end tables on either side of a tapestry couch in muted jewel tones. Antique maps of colonial Philadelphia and award certificates covered the paneled walls, and federal reporters, law reviews, and black binders of committee reports lined the bookshelves. Faint cigar smoke wreathed the air, for that quintessential old-boy touch.
Chief Judge Sherman cleared his throat. “Cate, I called you in because of the crime that occurred last night. I know you must feel this weight very heavily, and I’m sorry it had to happen to you. It’s a first for us, at our court. Right, Jonathan?”
“Yes, Chief.” Meriden nodded, though he’d been on the bench only five years himself, and Cate segued to officially resenting that he was here.
Sherman continued, “The detectives wanted to speak with you about the matter.” His eyes darkened behind his glasses, and the lines that bracketed his drawn mouth deepened. “Perhaps I’ll let Detective Nesbitt explain.”
Nesbitt faced Cate. “Your Honor, as you know, Arthur Simone was murdered last night. He was killed by a single bullet to the forehead, fired point-blank, outside Le Jardin, a restaurant on Delaware Avenue. The crime took place, we believe, at around 8:15 p.m. Someone walked directly up to Mr. Simone, fired, and ran. He used a .22-caliber weapon.” Nesbitt withdrew a skinny spiral pad from his breast pocket, flipped it open, and checked it. “Simone had been having dinner with his attorneys, George Hartford and another person, Courtney Flavert, a jury consultant who worked on the case. Simone left the restaurant ahead of them, to catch the red-eye back to L.A.”
Cate shuddered, picturing the scene. “Were there any witnesses?”
“No, there’s only the two restaurants on the block, and the other one was closed, it being Monday. That stretch can be deserted at night.”
“If there were no witnesses, how do you know all this?”
Nesbitt hesitated. “It isn’t public knowledge, but we have a video from a security cam in the restaurant’s parking lot. Our prime suspect is Richard Marz, who lost his lawsuit before Your Honor yesterday. It appears to be Marz on the videotape, or someone of the same size and stature. We don’t have a positive ID yet. It was dark that late and foggy because of the rain.”
“Oh God.” Cate heard her own voice catch. So awful. So hard to process.
“We’re trying to find Mr. Marz, but his whereabouts are unknown.”
“Did you talk to his wife?”
“Sure, yes, and his mother. They don’t know where he is. They’re upset, understandably.”
Cate flashed on the melee in court. The wife screaming.
“Anything you can tell us about Marz that might help?” Nesbitt slid a ballpoint from his pocket and clicked it with a flat thumb.
“Not really.” Cate tried to think. “I don’t have any inside information on him. I met with his lawyer the other day, and I know he wanted to settle the case, but Simone wouldn’t.”
Sherman asked, “How far apart were they, Cate?”
“Marz had come down to twenty-five grand from two million. Simone wouldn’t pay a penny, his lawyer said.”
Judge Sherman tsked. “No wonder you couldn’t settle it.”
Nesbitt scribbled on his pad. “You learned this in negotiations?”
“Yes. Marz’s lawyer was there, and Simone’s. No principals.” Cate was kicking herself. Maybe if she had asked Marz and Simone into her office, this wouldn’t have happened.
“Any record, or transcript of something like that?”
“No, not typically,” Cate answered, and Chief Judge Sherman met her eye.
“Well, Judge Fante, let’s get to the point.” Nesbitt unclicked his pen. “The reason we’re here is that we have a great concern that Mr. Marz may come after you next.”
“You think he’d do that?” Cate asked, shocked.
“He has a clear motive to hurt you. You’re the one who made the judgment against him.”
“I was on his side, for God’s sake.” Cate couldn’t wrap her mind around it. “My comments on the bench made that clear.”
Meriden sniffed, and Nesbitt continued: “Bottom line, you ruled against him, Your Honor. Your judgment cost him a lot of money, millions and millions of dollars. At this point, we don’t know where he is and we don’t know his mental state. He could be unhinged. He could kill again.”
Sherman added, “Cate, I’m taking it seriously enough to send a court-mail to all members of the court and the building employees, advising them to be on alert. Mr. Marz will be apprehended if he attempts to enter the courthouse.” Sherman’s eyes softened and he looked at Cate. “I won’t take any chances with our newest member of the Eastern District.”
Cate smiled, and so did the others, except Meriden.
Sherman continued, “Sadly, it’s not unprecedented that we judges are threatened for the decisions we make. We can’t hide, nor should we. We have a job to do, and our courtroom calendar is public. It can be accessed by any member of the public, by logging on the directory downstairs or the court website. I myself have had my life threatened several times.”
“So have I,” Meriden chimed in.
“But Marz isn’t a rash, impulsive criminal,” Cate said, trying to process the information. “He’s a lawyer. In fact, a prosecutor. He may go after Simone, but he wouldn’t come after me. He doesn’t have that kind of rage. He’s an intellectual. A computer geek at heart.”