Courting Death Read online

He began to offer examples of the Judge’s fame, but she cut him off. “I know, I know,” she said with a laugh. “He’s my godfather.” Maria helped him contain his surprise by thrusting Mr. Giraffe under his nose and demanding a hat adjustment. “Didn’t Ms. Stillwater tell you?”

  “I guess she forgot.” He handed the toy back to Maria and scrutinized her mother. “You probably know more about being a law clerk than I do.”

  She met his gaze and offered him a beguiling frown. “I doubt it.” Before she could say more, Maria scuttled across the porch and announced she was going to get a juice box in the kitchen. Her mother got up to follow her, gathering the empty tea glasses in a graceful motion and pausing briefly at the door. “The Judge did tell me something a couple of years ago, though … He said that clerking for him was the worst job in the state of Georgia.”

  She left him with a look of genuine sympathy, and he got up to unload the car. When he was done moving his clothes, book boxes, stereo, clock radio, and knickknacks up to the room, he leaned against the frame of the front window and stared out over the street. Arthur, he thought, untroubled by Suzanne’s warning about the job, it looks like you may have landed on your feet. He looked around and was struck with the realization that his ex-wife would probably have hated Clarkeston, the neighborhood, the house, and maybe even Suzanne. It had been a day of thresholds crossed: across the Georgia border, through the Judge’s chambers, and into a new home with a beautiful widow and a curious little girl.

  II.

  BUT THAT’S WHY YOU WANT TO BE THERE

  Suzanne was psychic. At least, sort of. She occasionally sensed things would happen, and sometimes she could touch someone’s mind with as much feeling as she might stroke a face or hand. The feeling came and went in no discernible pattern, and she had no control over it. This is how she knew that she would eventually sleep with Arthur, but when she told her best friend Judy about the premonition, the break room at Wee Ones Academy preschool rang with laughter.

  “You don’t have to be Nostradamus to figure out what happens when two attractive twenty-somethings move in together.” Judy put her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “I see seduction in the stairwell and croissants for breakfast.”

  “Shut up! I haven’t slept with anyone since Bill died, and I’ve put on thirty pounds since Maria. Trust me, nothing’s inevitable … I just got this weird feeling when I saw him.”

  “Yeah, just like I get when I see Richard Gere. It’s soooo ethereal.” Judy poured Suzanne a cup of coffee from the communal pot at the day care center where they both worked. “What’s he look like, anyway?”

  “Friendly face, longish hair, cross-country runner’s build. More like Nicholas Cage than Richard Gere.” She sugared her coffee. “He looked pretty nice in his suit this morning, but I don’t envy him the walk into town in gray wool.”

  “The Judge makes them dress up?”

  “Oh, there’s lots of rules, I think. He’ll have an interesting day.” The door to the break room suddenly opened, and a three-year-old boy holding on to a wet spot on the front of his pants looked in sheepishly.

  “As interesting as this?”

  “Are you kidding?” She gently led the boy by the shoulder toward the bathroom. “No man can handle this!”

  Suzanne had worked at Wee Ones Academy for almost three years. Glad to have a job where Maria could be kept close by, it was not quite the teaching position she had aimed for when she was studying English Literature at the University of Georgia. Even so, her choice of major had led to her present position. Had she not taken Modern American Fiction, she probably would never have met William Boyd, a business major trying to finish off his Humanities requirement as painlessly as possible. They never would have married, never would have moved to Birmingham for his first job, and never would have conceived Maria. And Maria was the only reason she spent the day reading Bongo Was a Happy Dog to toddlers instead of Keats’ poetry to Advanced Placement high school students.

  Later that afternoon, she sat on the front porch, watching a light rain fall while Maria sat inside with Big Bird on the television. As she finished her second tea, she saw Arthur walking up the street, suit jacket held awkwardly over his head to keep off the rain. He looked up and sketched a wave.

  “Well,” she asked as he bounded up the steps, “how was the first day in chambers? Exciting?”

  “Intimidating, mostly.” He paused at the top of the stairs and shook his head. “I was only there about five minutes when your godfather calls me into his office to get this slightly paranoid confidentiality lecture. I knew we couldn’t talk to anyone about cases, but we’re supposed to keep a lid on anything that happens in chambers.”

  “Are you sure you should you be telling me this?” Her eyes opened wide in mock alarm.

  “Probably not!” He took a quick glance under the porch, as if checking for spies. “Anyway, it wasn’t what I expected.”

  No surprise there, she thought. The Judge cut a curious figure. With his bushy mass of snow-white beard and moustache, he would have drawn comparisons to Santa Claus but for his fierce gray eyes and slim build. He carried himself like an old soldier, and when he talked he made disturbingly frequent eye contact and gestured in deliberate motions with large, graceful hands. The newspapers sometimes described him as professorial, which she took to mean thoughtful, but the aura of authority he radiated reminded her of no professor she had ever known.

  “I also had no idea how much traveling we have to do. I thought everything was in Atlanta, but the court sits all over Alabama, Florida, and Georgia.”

  “You want my advice? Volunteer for Savannah or Miami before you get sent to some hellhole like Montgomery, Alabama.”

  “I’ll try, but I don’t know how much choice we’ve got … It probably doesn’t matter.” She slid over on the swing, and he sat down next to her. “Most of the work is sitting in chambers and researching issues for bench briefs. I can’t believe that we’ve got our own library and conference room. And you should see our offices … Actually, you probably have, haven’t you?”

  She nodded and they pushed back on the swing. The light rain had already stopped falling, and the sun was starting to peek out again.

  “It’s amazing,” he continued. “I’ve got this massive oak desk, a huge oak conference table, three walls full of books, and a leaded glass window that opens out over the city. And that’s not even the best office. Phil, my co-clerk, has got even more space than me.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Pretty cool, I think. He’s a Stanford grad, looks like a body builder, but super nice and really smart. We’re gonna have a beer later.”

  She sat patiently while he excitedly described the details of his day. He struck her as wonderfully naïve. He knew what federal judges did, but only in theory. The newspaper had reported that the governor of Georgia was getting ready to sign another death warrant for Karl Gottlieb, one of the most famous serial killers in US history. Two years earlier, the Gottlieb case had left a bloody trail through the Judge’s chambers. Did Arthur really have a clue what might be coming his way? He sounded a like a rookie cop in a television show, all excited to ride in the police cruiser and hunt for bad guys.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I usually don’t talk about myself all the time … What about you? How was your day? Anything fun happen?”

  “Does dealing with two four-year-olds with explosive diarrhea count as fun?” She smiled but her eyes dared him to suggest any problem confronted by the federal judiciary could be more challenging to solve.

  The look of horror on his face said it all.

  “How did you end up at the preschool anyway?”

  She sighed as she considered spinning the long or the short version of her story. The sun beat down on the pavement in front of the house, and she watched the steam wraiths gather and dance. Soon a muggy haze would blanket the neighborhood, but for now the porches along Oak Street were cool and comfortable.

 
“Well,” she started slowly, “I was living in Birmingham and substitute teaching in a couple of the high schools when I got pregnant with Maria. While Bill—that was my husband—and I were trying to figure out whether I’d keep working … well, fighting about it, actually … he sort of settled the whole debate by getting drunk and driving into a viaduct on I-85.”

  “God, that’s shitty.” He studied the porch floor, looking embarrassed to have dragged up so much drama.

  “It’s alright … ancient history.” She was not yet good enough friends with Arthur to explain why the apparent tragedy did not deserve as intense grieving as he might think.

  She got up and started tossing Maria’s stray toys in the porch chest. “The logical thing to do was to come back here and live with my mom for a while, which was great when I had the baby … but then she got sick and I ended up taking care of both of them.”

  She shut the lid and leaned back against the porch rail. “After Momma passed away, her medical bills ate up most of her estate. We would have lost the house if I hadn’t been able to find the job at Wee Ones and take in some boarders. The job doesn’t pay that great, but I get to keep Maria close by, and the savings on child care are really huge.”

  He shook his head, looking like a solemn child. “I don’t think I could do it.”

  “Oh, you could if you had to.” She laughed as she ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back behind her ears. “And there’s something kind of liberating about putting your dreams on hold and just living day to day.” He looked dubious. “It’s not the lawyer’s creed, I know. My father was one too—the Judge’s partner before he was appointed to the bench—but that was a long time ago.”

  “Has he passed too?”

  “When I was in middle school.” Suzanne heard Maria stirring inside the house, and she took a last look back at Arthur as she walked toward the door. “What time are you meeting Phil?”

  “About six.”

  She glanced at her watch. “You’d better get moving then.”

  “Wanna join us?”

  He clearly did not comprehend the difficulties posed by bringing a four-year-old to happy hour. She shook her head with a bemused grin.

  “Maybe next time, Arthur. Have fun.” She pulled the screen door shut, watched the young barely-man hurry down the street, and felt her premonition fade. At age twenty-eight, playing Ms. Robinson just seemed a little weird.

  III.

  THE OLD MAN WITH THE TELESCOPE/WHERE THEY DRINK CHAMPAGNE

  The Judge had not opened the curtains in his office in almost five years. He had scowled the first time he overheard Ms. Stillwater joke about the bear in his cave, but the drapes stayed down, obscuring a magnificent view of the river as it meandered through the town. Twenty years earlier, he had leaned against the sill and watched thousands of civil rights activists gather for the famous protest march from Clarkeston to Atlanta. Without his hastily penned order authorizing their “constitutionally protected attempt to petition the government of the State of Georgia,” the event would never have taken place, at least not peacefully. His wife had stood at his side and commented that the mob was biggest darn petition she had ever seen.

  Now, his wife was dead, and civil rights cases had virtually disappeared from his docket. He was a hero of the new South, but the reward seemed to be a never-ending succession of habeas corpus petitions piling up on his desk. Schools and other public services in Georgia had been successfully integrated, but the sense of progress and reform did not extend to those convicted of murder. And since his promotion from the trial court to the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals, he had become part of a small group of judges whose jurisdiction covered all of Georgia, Alabama, and Florida, three states that combined a keen sense of retribution with low levels of judicial and prosecutorial competence. As a result, in the 1980s, the federal courts had become the overseers and caretakers of a deeply flawed system of capital punishment.

  At first, the habeas cases seemed to share something in common with civil rights work. They both embodied complaints that state officials had acted improperly. And in both kinds of cases, ruling against the state was likely to raise public outcry, but the beneficiaries of due process in habeas corpus were not hard-working victims of racial oppression. They were murderers. Some more psychotic than others; some truly victims themselves. But few could convincingly argue their innocence. Nonetheless, they sometimes won. Several terms earlier, the Judge had granted a notorious serial killer a procedural victory that had delayed his execution for two years and counting. Unfortunately, the next appeal of Karl Gottlieb could jump out of the muck at any time. Eventually, of course, Gottlieb and most of the other condemned would run out of valid reasons to delay, and he would permit the state to act. One final desperate petition was always filed, and with the exception of very rare interference by the Supreme Court, the denial of a stay by the Eleventh Circuit was the last judicial act before execution.

  Some were surprised by the Judge’s complicity in the system, shocked at his failure to do to the death penalty what he had done to segregated schools, parks, and lunch counters. Critics failed to remember that he had always justified his role in desegregation litigation by an unwavering adherence to the Constitution and Supreme Court precedent. His opinions had deliberately avoided idealism and proclaimed exacting obedience to the law of land. No matter how unpleasant he found the world of habeas corpus, he could not bring himself to renege on his commitment to the rule of law. Capital punishment had been held constitutional by the Supreme Court; he had no stomach for rebellion. By the time the mideighties rolled around, he realized he no longer enjoyed judging. Even so, the curtains had stayed open until a woman had entered his life and then abruptly left it. After that, he sat in shadow.

  * * *

  Phil sat waiting for Arthur at the Wild Boar, sipping a beer and enjoying the view from the best table in his new favorite bar. The front of the tavern consisted of a huge plate glass window that tilted up and out when it was warm and locked down tight at night. A dark green awning extended over the sidewalk and kept the sun’s glare off the drinkers. There was no outdoor seating, but several tables were placed snug to the windowsill so that Phil could lean out and watch the world go by. Since the bar was next to the Clarkeston College campus, the passersby, Phil noticed, included a steady stream of attractive students.

  When Arthur approached, Phil raised his empty glass and made a gesture with his hands that he hoped traced the shape of a pitcher. A minute later, Arthur wound his way between the tables and filled both of their mugs. Phil studied him while he poured. Even after just one day working together, Phil was sure they would have a great year together. Arthur seemed to have a sharp sense of humor and definitely passed the crucial pitcher pantomime test. He seemed really smart too, but apart from his slightly nasal Midwestern accent, he didn’t know much about Arthur.

  “You go first,” said Phil as he wiped a speck of foam from his moustache.

  “You go first what?”

  “Let’s have your life story in fifteen words or less.”

  “Right!” Arthur took a drink. “Iowa farm, boring corn, ecology degree, Chicago law, environmental division of the Justice Department.”

  “Nice,” responded Phil. “My turn: San Fran suburbs, single mom, divinity school, Stanford law, ACLU Cal Office.” He counted on his fingers. “Got you by two words!”

  “Divinity school?” Arthur gave him a curious look that Phil had seen more than once. “You wanted to be a priest?”

  “Well, not exactly a priest.” He laughed. “The Pope likes Catholics for that. I went to the Disciples of Christ Seminary outside of Sacramento for a year before going to law school.”

  “Disciples of Christ… hold on … In Iowa they’re whacky right wing or whacky left wing depending on the town.” Arthur smiled and drank half his beer. “Which are you?”

  “Neither.” Phil laughed. “But we had some of both in seminary. That’s one reason I quit.”
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br />   “What? Too much diversity?”

  “Nah. The problem was that no matter how good a sermon we heard or how great a class was, no one on the left or the right ever changed their minds. I mean never.” He sighed and shook his head. “It taught me that preaching and teaching might not matter that much.”

  “Did you have a crisis of faith?”

  That was a new record. It usually took a minimum of six beers for someone to go there.

  “Not really … not at all, actually. It was more crisis of effectiveness. I went to seminary because I wanted to help people, and I realized that I could do that much better with a law degree.”

  Arthur read his mind. “Just think of the Judge.”

  Phil nodded, happy that Arthur was not freaked out by his story. Too many people assumed that a former seminarian must be some sort evangelical nutcase. “That’s exactly what I told my mom when she complained about me moving away. She kept saying that to her Georgia meant Martin Luther King, a minister, not some judge she’d barely heard of.”

  “Well, she’s got a point, doesn’t she?” Arthur said as his attention was momentarily distracted by a young blonde who sauntered past.

  “Maybe. But imagine MLK in Russia or China in the 1950s and 60s.” He paused until he had Arthur’s full attention. “One protest and he’s history, gone forever in some cell or maybe executed. Without federal judges blessing bus boycotts, marches, and demonstrations, we never would have heard of him.”

  “And speaking of the Judge,” Phil continued, “he wanted us to do some business before we get too trashed.”

  “He knows we’re here?”

  “No, he’s not quite omnipresent, but before he left, he told me to go over some things.” He pulled a sheaf of typed pages out and put them on the table. “These are some sample bench memos and draft opinions written by prior clerks. The Judge gave the same stack to me when I got here last month.”

  “Why didn’t he give them to me himself?”

  “Probably too busy reading briefs for the next sitting,” Phil replied. “Anyway, I’ve done some writing for him already, so I’ve got a decent feel for what he wants. The most important thing, and I quote, is brevity and clarity. He doesn’t want us writing law review articles. He says each case is a problem that can be explained and solved in an economical fashion.”