The Hanging Judge (5 page)

No, it was not wonderful. Despite being deeply smitten, Norcross had not managed to contact Professor Lindemann. He’d thought of Our Lady of the ATM many times, had even Googled her and been impressed to learn that she was a tenured full professor of medieval and Renaissance literature with two well-reviewed books and many articles. She was a baseball fan, too. A humorous piece she’d published in
Sports Illustrated
comparing the Kansas City Royals to the Knights of the Round Table got more enthusiastic hits than any of her academic writings.

Of course, he’d been tempted to call her. At the ATM, he might have even told her he would, for lunch some time. But he kept putting it off. Then, a long wire-fraud trial swamped his evenings, and recurring dreams of his beloved wife, Faye, and the endless gray linoleum in the hospital where she’d died left him lost and empty. Soon it was too late. The lady, he decided, probably wouldn’t even remember him.

Now, after all these contortions, here he was, standing on Dixwell’s porch, feeling as though it were high school again, and he was on a first date with the captain of the cheerleading squad, going to see
Ghostbusters
. It was ridiculous.

Dixwell’s welcome as he threw open the door was like a blow between the eyes.

“Here he is! Here’s His Royal Highness!” he hooted. “Here’s His Excellency!”

This was the usual guff. It still surprised him, with noodles like Dix and sometimes with fairly intelligent people, too, how uncomfortably his job trailed along with him, causing people to wriggle around and make stupid jokes. It was as bad as being a bishop. Fortunately, after a couple of ducks and bobs, if he stayed good humored, things usually settled down.

Another guest, who had already arrived, looked as though he might be a problem of a different sort. As Dixwell introduced them over the coffee table, the guy gave Norcross a curt nod, like a boxer touching gloves with his opponent in the middle of the ring.

“Professor Gerald Novotny,” Dixwell said. “Gerry’s at UMass, in their legal studies department. Likes to peep up under judges’ robes and suss out their secrets. Better watch out. I think he’s brought his kryptonite!” Dixwell beamed at the two men with his hands on their shoulders, like a referee looking forward to a bout that, with any luck, would include a couple of hard shots below the belt.

Novotny, looked to be around forty—roughly Norcross’s age—but his ponytail and a copper ear stud gave him a more youthful air.

“Nice to meet you,” Novotny said without smiling. “Interested in this supposed death penalty case we keep hearing about.”

“Wait until you hear what Professor Lindemann’s been working on,” Dixwell said. “An article for the MLA journal entitled, I believe, ‘Lesbian Subtexts in Zane Grey.’ ”

“Don’t listen to him, David,” came the voice of Dixwell’s wife, Anne. “That’s just another very dog-eared English department joke.”

Anne entered the room now with a striking blonde girl, whom Norcross at first took to be the Pratts’ daughter. Anne was laughing, but the young woman looked as though she thought a smile might crack her cool. As they sorted through the introductions, it became clear that the girl, an undergraduate named Brittany, was with Professor Novotny.

The doorbell rang, and Norcross’s stomach gave a schoolboy lurch when he heard Claire chatting with Anne in the hall. Their happy, confidential voices confirmed that the two were close friends, and it struck him with a wave of anxious pleasure that they must have spent some time plotting this evening.

After a few seconds, Claire stepped into the archway leading from the entry hall into the living room, hands clasped in front of her. Lord, she was pretty.

“I believe you two have already met,” Anne said.

“Uh, yes,” Norcross faltered. “Professor Lindemann rescued me from my own, uh, frontal lobe implosion.”

Claire tilted her head to one side, taking him in.

“Which was not all that easy,” he added.

The professor was dressed simply, in a three-quarter length black skirt and green silk tunic. Her hair was brushed back, revealing small gold earrings with green stones. Her face bore the same appraising half-smile he’d seen back at the ATM.

“Well,” she said, “you did answer all my questions. Every good knight deserves favor.”

Norcross opened his mouth, but no words came out.

At this point, Anne jabbed Dixwell, who quickly asked what everyone wanted to drink, and the evening unfolded with reasonable civility from there on, through the stuffed mushroom caps and the grilled trout. By the time dessert arrived, Norcross found himself in easy conversation with Claire, at work on his third glass of Chardonnay, and dizzy with benevolence toward the entire universe—with the exception of Gerald Novotny, who kept making arch comments about the American legal system, which he called “the noble protector of the overprotected.” Once, he referred to the judge’s workplace as “the United Snakes District Court,” prompting giggles from his blonde companion.

Norcross did his best to ignore him. He knew at least as well as Novotny how imperfect the legal system was, but he did not appreciate being taunted. He’d played defense on his high school ice hockey team in Wisconsin, and Novotny reminded him of the type of cocky forward he enjoyed elbowing into the boards.

As Anne was pouring the coffee, Claire asked Norcross whether he had any interests outside the law.

Norcross leaned toward her and said in a low voice, “Very few people know this, but I do a terrific Donald Duck imitation.”

Her eyes ignited with pleasure. “Fabulous! Show me.”

He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I can’t do it in front of all these people.”

“Course you can. Here, I’ll hold up my napkin.”

It was a large napkin, and it created a cozy screen. With just the two of them behind it, it felt as though they were under the covers. Norcross drew the moment out. It was warm behind the cloth; Claire’s unnameable scent enveloped him.

She cocked her head. “So?”

“What would you like for breakfast?” Norcross asked in a bang-on duck voice.

Claire dropped the napkin. “Amazing!”

But at this moment, Dixwell’s voice broke in and grabbed Norcross’s attention.

“Our good judge,” Dixwell said, leaning back in his chair and leaving his spoon sticking up like a mast in his crème brûlée, “is pointedly ignoring your slings and arrows, Gerry. I’m disappointed, I must say.” He peeped over at his wife with a prim, V-shaped smile. “I can’t imagine what’s been distracting His Lordship.”

With some effort, Norcross tried to recall Novotny’s latest spitball at the courts, something about the mistreatment of people who couldn’t afford lawyers. But those warm seconds behind the napkin with Claire had left his mind in a fog. Who really gave a hoot about the American legal system anyway? Unfortunately, he decided to ask a question.

“What are we doing to annoy you now, Gerry?”

“Can I get anybody more coffee?” Anne inquired, looking with open displeasure at her husband.

“Well, for one thing, you judges like to pretend our justice system is about justice.” Novotny reached over and dusted a crumb off Brittany’s cheek. “There, perfect.” He shone a smile on her before returning to the judge. “When its purpose is actually to maintain a protected environment for a privileged elite.”

“Gosh, what a devastating critique,” Norcross said. “I’m speechless.” He pulled on the end of his nose and sniffed, then picked up his glass and began rocking it, examining the wine as it circulated and caught the light. He knew his response had had too much edge. Worse, his irritation at Novotny and his competitive instincts were threatening to obscure his main focus, which was Claire. At the back of his mind, he could hear his older brother Raymond’s voice, careful as ever:
Don’t take the bait, Davey. Make a joke.

“Then there’s the delightful racism, of course,” Novotny said, grinning around the table.

Norcross envisioned the faces of his Kenyan students from the Peace Corps—so hopeful and open, so different from the faces of the crushed, mostly brown men he sentenced four or five times a week.

“May I ask if you have any suggestions for addressing these problems, Gerry, without creating worse ones? It’s a shame, but I’m not an academic. I can’t just sit in the stands making sarcastic remarks and sipping my cocoa. I have to get out on the ice and chase the puck.”

“Ooh, I like this!” Dixwell said eagerly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Norcross said with a sinking fear that he’d offended Claire. “That was a cheap shot.”

“Two hundred,” Novotny said. “More than two hundred men on death row exonerated by DNA evidence. I mean, Jesus! And now I’m hearing that our brave U.S. attorney is hot to bring a capital case out here. I bet you’ll love that. It’s … it’s …”

Brittany broke in. “It’s thickening.” This comment completely threw Norcross, until he remembered that the young woman had an adorable, and perhaps genuine, lisp. Had she overheard his duck routine and been offended?

Norcross looked up at the ceiling, addressing the chandelier. “Oh Lord, do I really want to get into this?” He took another long swallow of wine and returned to Claire. “Maybe I’ll just say what I think for once, and hope to be forgiven. Is that okay?”

“I’m all ears,” she said, then added more quietly, “Well, actually, I’m other things, too.”

Norcross noticed again how pleasing he found the shape of Claire’s slender fingertips, resting on the white tablecloth. What a treat it would be just to touch one of them.

“Right,” Novotny said. “You were going to tell us what you think.”

Norcross picked up the crystal salt and pepper shakers.

“Okay. Here goes. Meet Mr. Salt and Ms. Pepper.” He held them out, one in each hand, and tapped them together.

“Careful,” Dixwell said nervously. “Those are Waterford.”

“Ms. Pepper says she saw Mr. Salt stab her boyfriend. There was a lot of confusion, but she’s positive it was him. Mr. Salt says he was home at the time, and, uh …” He nodded at the table. “Sugar Bowl and Creamer say they were with him, watching
Perry Mason
reruns.”

“May I be the gravy boat?” Anne asked.

“Perfect. You, Ms. Gravy Boat, say that Mr. Salt boasted to you that he did stab the guy and even showed you the knife before he chucked it into the Connecticut River. But you’re facing drug charges, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, wicked me!” Anne said, lifting her glass with a pleased smile.

“So you have a big motive to stroke the prosecutor. It’s total pandemonium.” He waggled the shakers at each other to simulate a dispute. “
Grrrr!
And the community demands a response.” Norcross placed the shakers in front of Novotny and pointed at them. “So, Gerry, who’s telling the truth? Ms. Pepper or Mr. Salt?”

“Obviously, I have no idea,” Novotny said a little truculently.

“Ta-da! Give that man a paper hat. The point is, we don’t know which condiment is right. Sometimes people commit murder, and sometimes they get falsely accused of committing murder. And we don’t know who’s telling the truth.” He raised his voice toward its courtroom volume and leaned toward Novotny. “If we did, we wouldn’t need law. We’d only need religion or something.”

Norcross caught Brittany staring at him as though he were a species of monkey whose gibbering she was trying to memorize. He was overdoing it.

“Sorry.” He broke off and continued more softly, “Our legal system, from where I sit, is just a process for deciding who blew the stoplight, or who killed Cock Robin, in a manner that is as fair and honest as we can possibly make it. It’s very human, and it’s tricky, so we do make mistakes. The really bad errors are actually pretty rare, considering, but it’s not surprising they happen.”

“Well, it seems I’m not being clear,” Novotny said with maddening deliberateness. “For one thing, if we agree it’s a flawed system, then we shouldn’t be executing folks, right? But it’s not flawed. It’s deliberately designed to support power, and it is sheer arrogance …”

“Oh, arrogance—bah!” Norcross said, waving dismissively.

“Bah yourself,” Novotny shot back. “Someone needs to stop …”

But at this point, to everyone’s astonishment, Anne burst into an energetic rendition of “The Whiffenpoof Song”: “We are poor little sheep, who have lost their way!”

Claire loudly joined her in the chorus, “Baa, baa, baa!”

Novotny managed to absorb Anne’s interruption with reasonable grace. He patted his hostess lightly in the arm, saying, “Okay, Anne, point taken. Enough of this.”

Norcross shook his head and muttered, “Lord, who invited me up onto the soap box?” There were nineteen standard ways to handle this kind of situation, and his brother, Raymond, would have known all of them. He couldn’t think of a single one.

“You know,” Claire said, standing up, “I’ve got a pile of papers to grade tomorrow. I really do have to get going.” It dawned on the judge that she had made this announcement once or twice already, somewhere in the conversation. They’d lingered over dessert way too long.

Claire put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Even we professors, sitting up in the bleachers, have to get up early sometimes.”

While Norcross tried to recover from this zinger, and absorb the vibrating sensation on his shoulder where Claire had touched him, Novotny resumed poking.

“I’m still curious, Your Honor,” he said. “In this fallible process of yours, how would you feel about putting your signature on an execution order?”

“For the nth time, Gerry, I have to pass on that one.” He felt sick. Faye would have scorched him to cinders for a spotlight-hogging tirade like that. It was downright un-Midwestern. He’d certainly squandered all the capital his Donald Duck imitation had earned him with Claire. The businesslike way she smiled, shook hands, and headed off for her coat made him deeply, and foolishly, sad. It was only a dinner. It shouldn’t bother him. They’d talked, and that was that.

In a kind of dream, he waved as the door closed behind her. Some minutes later, he heard her car’s engine harrumph to life and, as he dipped his head to gaze out the window, saw its lights shrinking down the driveway into the darkness.