Directed Verdict (Failed Justice Book 1) (12 page)

CHAPTER 22

Word of the pending retirement swept the courthouse. It was not as if the chief judge posted a notice. Good news travels fast; scandalous news at the speed of light. Depending on what side of the fence you were on, this was the very best or the very worst news.

Most of the judges were delighted. At times Wally could be a loose cannon. On the other hand, attorneys like Bob Sugarman made a living off his unpredictable rulings. A simple request by defense counsel for a bit of evidence not to be allowed could make or break a case.

Whether you liked him or not, he was a character, he was unique, and he would be missed.

When Sugarman heard the news, he was conflicted. He had always liked Judge K, as he referred to him in private. They had worked together in the District Attorney’s office years and years ago. Yes, he was pissed his practice was now suffering severely, but there was nothing either of them could do about it now. There had been many profitable years before that. Bob always believed it was better to have a friend than an enemy. Be my friend, not my foe. The defense lawyer would never know when and if they would meet again. Besides, it was him, Bob, that made the motion. He truly had no one to blame but himself.

“Judge, it’s Bob Sugarman. I just heard the good news. Congratulations. Would it be unethical for me to buy you a drink in public?”

“You can buy me a God damn steak dinner for all I care. For the next few months I’m stuck in this hell hole called civil trials. No conflict there, and if there were, I would tell the Chief Justice to stick it you know where.”

It was agreed the following night they would meet at Pen and Pencil Steak House, for the largest, most tender, most expensive steak on the menu, along with a good bottle or two of a quality red. It was the very least he could do for the soon to be retired jurist.

Wally had temporarily forgotten he was to call Bernice the next night.

***

Bernice was now thinking,
“If tonight is anything like last night, I won’t be able to walk for a week.”

Anthony had been prompt. He had shown up fifty-nine minutes after he hung up. He too showered and put on some clean clothes. He reminded himself he needed to go to Target or Wal-Mart to buy some more clothes. Especially underwear. He also needed to find a laundromat close by. Finding a place to buy a six pack was easy. There was a bodega on every corner.

Anthony,
I must remember to think of myself as Antonio,
knocked on the door, tested the door handle, and walked in. He was scared shitless.

What if she’s married and has a husband at home; what if there’s another guy inside; what if she has someone there to mug me, what if, what if.

He tightened his hand around the six pack. Just in case.

“Come on in, no one here is going to bite you.”

Bernice was now standing in front of him wearing a one piece rayon type outfit. It was long and black, shiny, tight in the right places and had a zipper running from her slightly exposed ample bosom to almost her crotch.

One quick road to the promised land.

The constrained ladies were just begging to be released from their self-imposed bondage.

“Have a seat while I get us a couple of glasses.”

Antonio sat down. He thought he would pass out from sheer nervousness.

***

It was more than four and half hours later that he left. More like crawled out. It was almost like two gladiators, both unwilling to give up or show signs of weakness.

Bernice marveled at his stamina, ability to learn, willingness to experiment, and appreciation for what she had taught him.

As Antonio lay in his own bed many hours later he attempted to list Bernice’s wonderful attributes. She was appreciative, cooperative, experienced, patient, enthusiastic, considerate, tender, and very innovative.

What more could I have asked for? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He now fully appreciated and understood everything he had been told about cougars. He could not imagine ever making love, if in fact what they had done was making love, with a younger, less experienced woman.

For both of them, it was a match made in heaven.

Or by the devil himself.

***

Wally did not understand. For two nights in a row he had called Bernice. She had not picked up or returned his voice messages. Something was wrong. Either she was sick, in an auto accident, or was purposely avoiding him. That was just not possible. He decided upon early retirement, he had practically told the chief judge to go screw himself, he had changed his whole damn life on the conversation he had with her a few short days ago.

Now, nothing.

Wally felt sick. He had to see her, even if it meant flying down for a weekend to have a face-to-face.

Bernice had not thought of Wally in days. To her way of thinking, he was just an old man. She was now preparing for her next “date.”

If her body could handle it.

***

Do I call her and let her know I’m coming down, or should I just surprise her?

Wally knew Bernice didn’t like surprises. If he let her know, maybe they could do something special. Go to a show at one of the big hotels that always booked Las Vegas talent. Maybe something real wild like a trip to the Keys. She was always game for adventure.

I wonder if she would like to try a Japanese steak house where they cook the food on that big plate set into the table. That would be new and exciting.

Wally’s mind was racing. He had not been this excited since he once agreed with a bunch of friends to try sushi. He refused to admit it, but raw fish was not high on his list.

He had gotten sick when he arrived home. He told no one. He was too embarrassed.

***

Antonio. He was beginning to like the name. He found a K Mart and a laundromat. Apparently the high end big box stores did not build in his section of town. K Mart was not so particular who shopped at their locations as long as the pilferage was kept to an acceptable minimum. He also found a drug store to buy vitamins and some soothing salve.

Bernice had been a love-starved dynamo. They had been on the couch not five minutes when the zipper was down near her navel. She then introduced her ‘ladies’ to Antonio. The couch was much too confining for what she had in mind.

Next thing he knew, they were in bed.

Antonio had only heard about the variations of sex Bernice suggested. She was more than willing to be a patient teacher. She must have had her Masters or PhD in sex education. There was nothing, and he did mean nothing, she was unwilling to teach.

He was the happiest kid in the candy store. Enough was never enough.

I’ve got to go home and rest. I need it. My poor body needs it.

Antonio was due to be back at Bernice’s by eight o’clock. Or as soon as his ragged body could drag itself there.

He hoped Bernice was half as tired as he was. He would be happy if they just talked. He had known her only four days, had been to her house for marathon sex twice, and still didn’t know her last name.

Not that it would make any difference.

CHAPTER 23

Knowledge is good only if it can be used; used by the one who acquired it.

Alexey was not about to sit idly by and do nothing. He too had heard the rumors—Judge Kolkolski would be retiring in a few months. The question was what to do about it. And more important, when.

I want him to suffer; suffer like my little girl did.

An idea began to form in Alexey’s brain. He was not clear how he could do it, but nothing was beyond his capabilities when he put his mind to it.

You will suffer, you little insignificant rodent, you will suffer.

“Boris, Viktor, come in here. Now. I have a job for you. You will both be going to Miami, tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mr. C.”

I want that arrogant little weasel to regret the day he was born.

***

“Why do you have to go home? You’re exhausted and it’s late. This isn’t the greatest neighborhood during the day, certainly not at two in the morning. Besides, you look good in my bed. Our bed.”

Antonio did not have the strength to argue. It would be for one night only—just as long as she stayed on her side of the bed. He needed rest; he needed sleep.

“All right, but just for tonight.”

“Thanks.”

Antonio was asleep before he heard her response.

***

Steven Saltmeyer was still livid.

No one talks to me, the Chief Judge of the Fifth Judicial District, like that.

Sit your bony ass down and listen to me—for a change.

Those were his exact words.

Salty, as a few of his close golfing partners called him, reached around to feel his ass. It was not bony. Maybe not full like some of his black colleagues, but definitely not bony.

What did Wally mean, “
for a change”?

Judge Steven Saltmeyer had always been fair with his assignments. He always made himself available for private meetings if there was a problem. At the monthly judge’s conference, he ran the meeting with objectivity and proper decorum. He did what he was expected to do. He tried to show no favorites. At times it was just not possible.

Wally can’t be trusted with controversial cases. He seems to have his own agenda. A good judge interprets the law; he does not make it.

In his mind, Salty felt Wally was not a good judge. Maybe when he first took the bench, but not in the past ten, twelve years. In less than seventy some days, with any luck, he would never see Walter Kolkolski again.

The thought then occurred to him, who would replace him? Wally still had just under two years left on his term. Under New Jersey law, there could be no special election. It was up to the governor to name a replacement. The governor always picked the name suggested by the county chairman currently in power. That would mean Irv Weinstein, the county chair for the Republican Party of Essex County.

Irv knew nothing about the law or lawyers. All he knew was they could be bought and sold like any other readily available commodity. He was a real estate developer. He understood raw dirt and turning it into big profits. He understood power and what it gets you. He also understood money creates power and power creates more money. That was why his company was one of the largest contributors to the Republican Party in Essex County, New Jersey.

Irv didn’t give a crap who was appointed as long as he did what he was told. He never wanted to hear no at a zoning or variance meeting or a special building permit situation.

You rub my back; I’ll rub yours.

That was how Irv lived and he lived very well, thank you.

Give me the name of a well-educated, competent lackey, one who understands who controls everything, and I’ll make sure he’s the next judge. It’s that simple.

Steve Saltmeyer knew all this and it scared him to death. Unfortunately it was how justice was dispensed these days. It’s not what you know, but who you know. Salty was trying to think of who would be on the short list. One name came to mind. One he was most uncomfortable with.

Robert Samuel Sugarman.

Bob had been an ADA, was a member of the Republican Party for twenty-some years, always knew how to play the game, and was one of the larger contributors. He and Irv Weinstein both belonged to the same country club. They also both belonged to Temple Sinai. In fact, their kids were bar mitzvahed around the same time. No question, Bob Sugarman would be on the short list.

Christ, that’s not good. Not good at all.

Salty knew there was nothing he could do about it. It was completely out of his hands. He would merely smile and welcome whoever the party selected. Whether that person would be a good or bad addition to the bench was completely irrelevant.

It was politics. It was the very essence of the golden rule. He who has the gold, makes the rules.

***

Bob Sugarman too had heard the rumors. He had more than paid his dues; ever since he was an assistant district attorney and had contributed five percent of his net income, far more than he could possibly afford, to the Republican Party. It was an investment in his future. When he finally went into private practice, he received more than his share of assigned cases from the court, a quiet way of saying, “Thank you.”

Then came the phone calls late at night. The ones where he would look at his wife, get out of bed, and take the call downstairs in the kitchen. It wasn’t as if he had a choice. Weeks, sometimes months later, his name would come up in a high profile, meaning a big, big, retainer, case.

Quid pro quo. It worked every time.

His wife may have objected to the late night phone calls, but when it came time for a new luxury car to impress her friends or two-week European vacations, she suddenly had a short memory. A very short memory.

When he heard Irv went to temple, his temple, every Saturday morning, Bob mysteriously realized how much he missed his relationship with God. He would go to services Saturday morning—every Saturday morning—for the foreseeable future.

He could not remember the last time he had seen the inside of Temple Sinai.

***

The only person who did not give a crap about who would be the new appointee was Wally himself. He couldn’t have cared less who the new lackey was as long as it wasn’t him.

Judge Walter Kolkolski had other things on his mind. Like where he was going to live and with whom.

He had booked a flight to Miami for late Friday afternoon. He wasn’t worried about his caseload. The assignments from the Chief Justice were becoming less and less. Soon the number of cases on his trial calendar would be less than the fingers on both hands. Maybe even one hand.

As to telling her in advance, screw her. He was getting tired of leaving messages that were never returned.

If she has changed her mind, let her tell me in person. I’m a big boy; I’ve had my share of rejection, probably more than my share. I can handle it, but at least tell me in person.

Wally practically threw his clothes in the overnight bag. He had a feeling he would not be in Miami that long.

Although he had no trials, no hearings, no conferences on Monday morning, he had a feeling he would be back in chambers in plenty of time.

The courthouse doors opened at eight a.m.

***

Viktor and Bruno were already in Miami. They had booked a flight the very next morning. They did not own shorts or t-shirts or sandals. All they ever wore were black suits with black shirts. They were told ties were not necessary. No sense in standing out in a crowd. Hard to do with their size and presence.

They were staying at the recently renovated Fontainebleau Hotel, the beginning of Millionaires’ Row. The Fontainebleau had the distinction of the most expensive renovation in hotel history—one billion dollars.

The boys loved it and why not? They were on a full expense account. They were a short ten minute ride, twenty-five blocks from their assignment.

Their instructions were simple. Watch and report. Do not be seen. Do not act. Do not interfere. They completely understood. They wore sunglasses twenty-four/seven. It seemed like the thing to do.

They rented a big, black four-door sedan with tinted windows. It was their way to see but not be seen.

***

Wally looked at his watch every two minutes. Time seemed to drag. His desk was as clean as it ever had been. Once his request for retirement was submitted and officially accepted, there was little for him to do. No sense in loading up too many cases for him to try, especially if he wouldn’t be around to try them. He was given matters that could be resolved by reading affidavits, signing mundane orders, or one day mediations.

By two thirty Friday afternoon he was bored out of his mind and set to leave. The single overnight bag was sitting next to his desk.

At two forty-five he picked it up and grabbed a cab to Newark International. The flight was due to leave at five forty-nine. He would be there with plenty of time to spare.

As luck would have it, the flight was right on time. Actually it was twelve minutes early. The flight, like any good flight, was uneventful. Except for the grandmother sitting next to him who insisted on showing him pictures of her three grandkids on her cell phone.

“They live with their mother, my ex-daughter-in-law, outside Miami, probably in some Latino slum, and I only get to see them for a long weekend every year. They would be much better off with their father, who recently remarried. My son is such a good boy. Not like the bitch from hell he married the first time.”

After the first twenty or thirty photos, he politely mentioned he hated kids. All kids. He then pigged out on two mini packets of salted nuts. There was nothing else to eat. The flight attendant gave him a second glass of Pepsi. No charge.

He had checked nothing. Thirteen minutes after landing at MIA, he stood in line waiting for a taxi. Once inside the cab he gave the driver the directions.