The Reform Artists: A Legal Suspense, Spy Thriller (The Reform Artists Series Book 1) (21 page)

Martin sat at his laptop in his hotel room at 1:55 p.m. Saturday, with his Skype account open. He was waiting for Katie’s call.

Before the blow up with Beverly West that morning, Swindell had told him the good news: Katie had agreed to honor Martin’s request. Swindell said that Justin would be blowing out the candles at around 2:00 p.m. and that Katie would call him a few minutes before. She also had insisted that the call not last beyond ten minutes.

“I don’t want this to become a side show and take the attention off Justin on his big day,” she had warned.

Within a minute, the Skype account began ringing. Martin forced a smile and clicked on the link for a video conversation. The screen instantly filled with Katie’s image. Her smile immediately shifted into an angry scowl.

“Hello,” Martin said.

“Oh,” Katie said, with a marked lack of enthusiasm, as she knitted her brow. “Hi, Marty.”  She continued sternly, under her breath, as she shook her head from side to side. “Beverly West told me about your awful, insane behavior this morning. I hope you’re proud of yourself!” Then, she raised her voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “It’s so nice to see you!”

“Yeah,” he said.

Katie held the computer to her face as she walked through a crowd of family members and friends, some of whom waived awkwardly at Martin, when they saw him on the screen. He waved back.

“Justin,” Katie said with feigned enthusiasm, “guess who’s waiting to talk with you on Skype?”

“Daddy?!” Justin exclaimed.

“That’s right!” she said, as she turned the laptop away from her and placed it on top of a red-and-white checkered table cloth, facing a brightly lit cake. Justin was seated behind it. His face glimmered in the yellow light of a handful of birthday candles dancing before him.

Justin broke into an enormous smile at the sight of his father.

“Hi, Mr. Birthday Boy!” Martin said. “Having fun?”

“Yes, now that you’re here, Daddy!” Justin announced.

Just then, Martin heard a familiar, high-pitched squeal. “Daddy, Daddy! Me, too!”

A tall, muscular man with hairy arms and a black moustache, who was standing to one side behind Justin, bent down and picked Monica up. “Here you go, honey,” he said, lifting her up behind Justin. “Can you see your daddy now?”

Monica beamed. “Oh, Daddy!” she said. “I love you!”

“I love you, too, honey!” Martin said, returning her smile. “Don’t you look, pretty! Who’s the nice man holding you up, dear?”

The room suddenly grew quiet.

“That’s Mommy’s friend, Uncle Eddie.”

So,
Martin thought, steaming.
This is the other guy, the reason I’m in a motel room on Skype, instead of at Cider Mill Farms, celebrating my son’s birthday with his friends and my family. Katie has no shame!

Martin wanted to tell Eddie to ‘get the hell out of there,’ but he wasn’t about to give Katie the satisfaction...or ruin Justin’s day.

“That was a very nice thing for him to do,” he said flatly.

Uncle Eddie smiled awkwardly and nodded.

At that, Katie rushed over and lifted Monica out of Eddie’s hands. She gave him a stern glance and moved Monica to the side until she was just out of camera range.

“OK, everyone,” she said, regrouping. “It’s time to sing Happy Birthday!”

Everyone, including Martin, serenaded Justin. When the song was over, Justin took a deep breath and prepared to blow out his candles.

“Hold on, tiger,” Katie said. “Don’t you want to make a wish?”

Justin stopped in his tracks and looked right at his father. “Yes,” he said. “I want Daddy to come home now and never go away again!”

Martin smiled and held a finger to his lips. “You’re not supposed to say your wish out loud, son. Just whisper it quietly to yourself, OK?”

“Sure Daddy,” Justin said. He closed his eyes for a moment, deep in thought, as his lips moved ever so slightly. Then, he opened them again.

“All right,” Martin said, “go for it!”

Justin took a deep, deep breath and blew, moving his head from candle to candle. Six of the seven candles went out right away, but the one closest to him did not. He found some extra wind and blew hard, turning almost red, as the candle flickered several times and then died.

Everyone erupted into a big cheer as Justin’s smile returned to his face. He crossed his fingers. “Daddy, I hope my wish comes true!”

Martin smiled back and wiped away a tear. “Me, too, son. Me, too!”

At ten thirty-five Sunday night, Judge Farnsworth squeezed his wife, Alice’s, hand lightly and rose from the couch. The baseball game was now in the bottom of the seventh inning, and the Orioles were beating the Angels five-to-two at Camden Yards.

“Going up, dear?” Alice Farnsworth asked. She was sitting in her nightgown with one eye still fixed on the game.

“Yep, I’ve got a full caseload tomorrow.”

“OK, sweetie. I’ll be up soon.”

The judge smiled at this fifty-eight-year-old died-in-the-wool Orioles fan, a woman who only discovered the game after their boys went off to college. “It soothes me at night,” she had told him several years earlier. “It’s so slow paced, most of the time, like watching grass grow. But then, look out! Someone gets something started and, wow, everything changes!”

He was glad they could enjoy this activity together.

The judge walked up the steps to bed and thought the same thoughts he mused upon every evening at this time.
How lucky I am to be sixty-four years old and still to be able to sleep the sleep of the just
. He was glad he had taken their offer thirty years earlier and moved over to the bench – and proud that he had been elevated, twenty years later, to administrative judge, overseeing the entire Maryland District Court system. He thought about all the cases he had tried—all the people he had helped. And he looked forward to the next day’s excitement, when the husbands of the women he had protected the previous week would come before him to explain themselves.

Thank God, Alice and I have created a good home for our sons and us. And, thank God we made it through the tough years and have always managed to treat each other with respect.
He wondered why it had become so difficult for his sons’ generation to live together in peace, and, in particular, why married couples today seemed so incapable of controlling their anger and honoring their commitments. He continued to think about this while he brushed his teeth, gargled, and washed his face with a cold washcloth. When he was done, he knelt by the side of his bed, said his prayers, and then, as usual, fell fast asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

At about 4:45 a.m., an image of terror flashed through Judge Farnsworth’s mind. For a brief instant, he dreamed that he was peering over the south lip of the Grand Canyon and had found an abyss, where he had expected to see a gradually descending donkey trail. The image was triggered by the Nano probe that Tony Jr. had injected into the judge’s neck two days earlier. Since then, the probe had made its way through his heart and then onward to the Amygdala, a small, almond-shaped ganglia located at the base of his brain. Once there, it drove a single Nano fiber deep into the nerves, enabling it to tap, control and recall some of the brain’s most powerful—and vivid—emotionally charged experiences. The probe was now initiating a scheduled level-eight terror-impulse cascade. Each time it fired, Judge Farnsworth briefly saw himself staring over, and then falling into, the abyss. And with each repetition, the experience grew more intense. The third time, the judge’s eyes began moving rapidly back and forth under his eyelids as his mind’s eye exploded with pre-programmed sounds and images that rapidly assembled themselves into a vivid and compelling dream narrative.

He was terrified. The knocking continued: Three times loudly on the front door, then silence. Then, three times more. Judge Farnsworth could feel the door hinges rattle. He could hear the doorframe creak. He could feel tiny, microscopic pieces of wood splintering on the face of the door under the constant pounding...from the hand...with the flashlight...the black metal flashlight...crashing down...shattering the silence of sleep.

He was up now, barefoot on the cold floor panels, feeling his way to the bedroom door. He turned to look back at the bed, to make sure Alice was OK, but Alice wasn’t there.

Only his side of the bed had been disturbed. Hers remained folded down tight. Her pillows were fluffed and untouched. For some reason, the sight of her unused bed made him angry. Why? Where was she? He thought he should know the answer, but, if he did, he couldn’t remember. Try! he said to himself. Try! Try! But no recollection came. He simply felt anger, fear and confusion.

Farnsworth slowly descended the steps, the front door always in sight. As he reached the door, the pounding resumed. He felt the vibrations through his toes. The door buckled with each blow. Then, it returned to normal. With each blow, frost crept in from underneath. He was wearing his robe, even though he didn’t remember putting it on. He wrapped it tightly around him as the pounding resumed.

“Open up, Your Honor!” a cold, harsh voice shouted. “Open up! It’s time. It’s time!” More frost rushed in under the door, chilling the tops of his feet.

“Who’s there?” he asked, fearing Death. “Who’s there?”

“Open up, Your Honor. You have to go!”

Eye to the peephole, the judge saw the image of Deputy Bert Taylor’s distorted beefy cheeks and swollen belly. He turned the latch and drew back the door. In came the cold, rushing through him like a mountain stream, cutting him in half like a great steel sword, burning his hands like dry ice.

Deputy Taylor stepped forward, at attention. He was wearing black sunglasses. His face appeared edged in white frost. Expressionless. “It’s time to go Your Honor. You cannot stay!” he said.

“This is my home!” the judge declared. “I’m in charge, here, and I’m staying put.”

“No, Your Honor,” a second deputy said, coming forward through the door. “You are not in charge—of anything. By order of the court.” He handed the judge a stack of court papers. The judge immediately recognized the Temporary Restraining Order on top.

“Your wife, Alice Farnsworth, has sworn out an ex- parte petition against you,” Deputy Taylor said. “She accuses you of …”

“Violence,” the two deputies said, in unison.

“Assault.”

“Physical and verbal abuse.”

“She says you’ve raised your hand against her.”

“Insulted her.”

“Mistreated her.”

“Ignored her.”

“She cannot live with you anymore,” the second deputy said. “And the court has ruled: You must go.”

“Gather your belongings,” Deputy Taylor said. “You have fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes.”

Judge Farnsworth flipped through the order to see whom, from the court, would have dared sign it. All his fellow judges had signed. Furious, he turned to the last page of the petition, where his wife had listed her charges.

“He’s an angry, scary man,” he heard her scream as he read the words. “I’m afraid of what he might do. He’s changed. He drinks. He breaks things. He terrifies me!”

Suddenly, Mrs. Farnsworth appeared in the doorway, still wearing her bathrobe. She approached him, stretched out her right hand and slapped him hard across the face. “I hate you,” she hissed. “And you’re going to pay. My attorney says you’ll pay plenty. Get out! Get out! Get out!”

Judge Farnsworth touched his throbbing cheek. He was no longer in his front hallway, but miles away, standing barefoot on a cold, dark street, still in his robe. He held a small, hastily stuffed suitcase in his right hand. He felt lost, ashamed—and alone.

As he walked, he saw what looked like his sons’ college dorm on his left. Then, he was sure he saw his sons in the window, looking out at him. When he turned to enter the building, three of his fellow district court Judges, in their judicial robes, suddenly appeared before him, blocking his way. “You cannot see your sons,” they said, in unison. “You cannot speak to them either—not even by phone.”

Judge Farnsworth approached them and grabbed each, in turn, by the shoulders.

“Don’t you know me?” he asked. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m your colleague!”

“Yes,” they said. “We know exactly who you are,” and for a moment—a brief moment—Judge Farnsworth felt relieved. “You are...the Respondent,” they said.

“No, I’m not!” he shouted. “I’m a judge, just like you! It’s me, Judge Farnsworth!”

“Not anymore,” they said, looking back at him without expression. “Your wife, the Honorable Alice Farnsworth, who knows you better than anyone on earth, says you’re the Respondent—and we must concur!”

“This is an outrage!” he shouted. He turned back and continued down the street, walking past courthouse employees, several of whom no longer seemed to recognize him.

“You have scared your wife,” one said.

“She fears for her life,” chimed another.

“She counted on you.”

“She depended on you.”

“To be a man.”

“And, just like a man, you let her down.”

“This is insane!” the judge shouted to the heavens.

“No. This is the way it’s done!” the people said. “You’ll get your day in court...eventually.”

Next, the judge found himself standing in the lobby of a local hotel. A bellhop came to show him to his room. They boarded an elevator, went down several levels, and stepped out onto a grimy, bare hallway. The bellhop led him to a door, which opened onto a broom closet with an unmade cot inside.

“This is where you’ll stay,” he told him.

“I can afford better,” the judge said.

“Not anymore,” his wife’s disembodied voice shouted, echoing through the hallway. “Not anymore!”

Suddenly, it was Monday morning a week later, and the judge found himself in the district courthouse, still dressed in his pajamas and robe. The Clerk of Court walked by.

“Regina,” he said, “It’s me, Judge Farnsworth.”

She turned and looked at him. “You’re a disgrace,” she said, “showing up here, like this. The judge won’t like it.”

He entered the courtroom and took a seat beside his lawyer, who was dressed to the nines in pinstripes, silk tie and patent leather shoes. Before them, a credit card machine sat on the desk. He tugged repeatedly at the attorney’s right arm, but the attorney didn’t respond. He tugged again. Still nothing. Finally, out of the corner of his mouth, the lawyer muttered, “If you want me, pay me. Judges don’t like to make attorneys work for free, you know.”

Judge Farnsworth slipped his credit card into the machine and ran the ink press across it. “$2,000” the payment line read.

“Your wife has made you a fine offer,” the attorney said, again out of the corner of his mouth. “She’ll let you live.”

“I’ll let you live,” he heard his wife’s voice say, “a little longer. So you can pay me what you owe me.”

“You lied!” he shouted back. “That’s perjury.”

“Prove it,” she said. Then her attorney joined in. “Prove it.”

Then the whole courtroom joined in. “Prove it!” they shouted.

“Take the deal,” Alice’s attorney said. “She’ll let you speak with your sons once more before you die. Take the deal,” he urged. “She’ll let you have your things from the house. Take the deal! She’ll even drop the charges...if you give her everything she wants.”

“Take the deal,” his attorney whispered, “Or she’ll get everything!”

“Take the deal,” Alice’s attorney said, growing angry. “It’s her final offer.”

Just then, the court clerk entered the room. “All rise,” he shouted, “the district court for Montgomery County, Maryland is now in session, the Honorable Michael J. Farnsworth presiding.”

He looked up and saw himself, Judge Farnsworth, enter the courtroom. He was wearing his newly pressed judge’s robe and his well-known somber expression.

“Your Honor,” his wife’s attorney said,” I move for a dismissal. After all, we covered this matter last week.”

“But I wasn’t here then, Your Honor,” Judge Farnsworth, the respondent, said.

“Objection!” his wife’s attorney said.

“Sustained,” the judge replied.

“My wife lied, Your Honor,” Judge Farnsworth, the respondent, said.

“Yes, of course, she did,” the judge nodded, looking substantially unimpressed. “Do you have any evidence to present?”

“Did his wife, Your Honor?” his attorney asked.

“Be quiet, or I’ll cite you for contempt,” the judge growled from the bench.

“But I’m a good, decent man,” Judge Farnsworth, the respondent, said. Then, turning to his attorney, he added “isn’t that right?”

His attorney rose from his seat to address the court. “That’s what he keeps telling me, Your Honor, but he isn’t a judge anymore, he’s the respondent. I wouldn’t trust him.”

“Objection,” Judge Farnsworth, the respondent, said.

“Over ruled!” bellowed Judge Farnsworth, the judge.

“If you cannot prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that the charges your wife has brought against you are false, then I’ll have no alternative but to find for the plaintiff.”

“This is ridiculous,” Judge Farnsworth, the respondent, said.

“I find for the plaintiff,” Judge Farnsworth announced from the bench. “And I hereby grant her a one-year restraining order.”

Then, peering down over the front of his desk, he addressed the Respondent directly. “Judge Farnsworth,” he said, “from this day forward, you may no longer speak with your wife. You may no longer visit your house. You may no longer see or speak with your sons. You may no longer discuss your ‘fine points’ with friends and neighbors. Each month, you will surrender to your wife half of your judicial salary, and, you will continue to pay the household mortgage. In addition, I award your wife all court costs. Case closed!” he said, at last, slowly pounding his gavel on the bench several times.