The Judge

Chapter 1

Friday, July 2, 8:00 p.m.

He had talked to many criminals in his courtroom but had never been accosted by one on the street. When Judge Walter McNeil left his chambers around 8:00 p.m., the sun had not yet set completely. He was preoccupied with the triple-murder case assigned to him and could not erase the sad image of the cemetery from his mind. He didn’t need the stress of a complicated case right now.

When he passed the DC police headquarters on Indiana Avenue, there was still a little daylight. He was about to cross the street and catch the metro’s Red Line to go home when a large black Pontiac stopped next to him. A heavy-built passenger stepped out from the backseat with a map in his hand. Excuse me. We’re lost. Could you tell us how to get to Union Station? the man asked.

The judge took the map from him. As he was scanning it to locate Union Station, he felt the muzzle of a gun in his back. Get inside quietly, the man ordered as he pushed the judge into the backseat.

Who are you? the judge asked angrily.

Shut up, and you’ll be fine, the man said as he climbed in, and the car sped off.

What do you—

McNeil didn’t get to finish his question. The passenger to his left shoved a piece of cloth into his mouth and held a small bottle of ether under his nose while the passenger with the map pinned his arms. He was out before he had a chance to get a good look at his kidnappers.

***

Friday, July 2, 2:00 p.m. (Six Hours Earlier)

He laid the pink roses on Fiona’s grave and sat on the bench near her tombstone. He stared at the words, pushing back tears.

Fiona McNeil

Beloved Wife of

Walter McNeil

He had buried her on this day thirteen years ago, when Daphne was six years old. People kept telling him he needed time to heal. They were wrong. Not only had the pain failed to dull over time, but it had also grown worse when Daphne ran away from home at age fifteen. I’m sorry, Fiona, McNeil muttered, still fighting tears. I failed our daughter; I cannot find her.

He looked at his watch. He had to get ready for court. Every year, he crossed out July 2 on his calendar. His staff knew they could not schedule any cases or appointments for him on that day. And if the court computer erroneously assigned new cases to the judge, his secretary would call every attorney involved and reschedule. But this year, an ardent attorney named Amanda Perkins had refused to postpone her client’s sentencing because he was incarcerated and she was leaving town.

McNeil was not prepared to go to court on the saddest day of his life. He took a deep breath and looked around him. He liked the parklike cemetery because it gave him a sense of peace and tranquility. The large tree that hovered over Fiona’s grave made him feel it was protecting her. And the nearby lake, surrounded by bushes and flowers, looked like a piece of heaven. McNeil walked toward the gate feeling as dead inside as those buried in the cemetery. Fiona, why did you have to go?

***

Friday, July 2, 4:00 p.m.

Judge McNeil assumed that the only sentencing on his court’s docket would not take more than ten minutes of his time. He was anxious to go back to his chambers and review several defense motions filed in the triple-murder case. He wished he could transfer the case to another judge. Whenever he was handling a high-profile case, he cringed every time he read the Washington Post’s coverage of his decisions.

At the defense table, attorney Amanda Perkins was seated next to her client. The young defendant was accompanied by a deputy US marshal and wore an orange jumpsuit—the DC jail’s uniform. McNeil hoped Perkins would not repeat her usual bombastic allocution. It was a well-known fact that he didn’t like her, and the feeling was mutual. Over the past five years, he had held her in contempt of court twice, each time imposing a heavy fine on her—and he was convinced his rulings were fair. She could have faced jail time.

After his courtroom clerk called the case for the record, McNeil turned to the prosecutor and asked, Is the government ready to proceed?

A young male prosecutor jumped to his feet and nodded. Yes, Your Honor.

Go ahead.

Your Honor, the prosecutor said, addressing the court, Damian Lewis is seventeen years old, and although we’ve charged him as an adult, we agree with the presentencing report of the probation department and Attorney Perkins’s request that he should be given credit for the nine months he has spent in jail and be placed on probation for two years under the Youth Rehabilitation Act.

The fact that you all have agreed doesn’t mean that I should follow your proposal, the judge replied. He then directed his gaze toward the defense table. Ms. Perkins, I’ve read your report and the three letters from members of the community submitted on behalf of your client, so you don’t need to repeat them. I’m ready for the concluding part of your allocution.

McNeil moved in his black leather swivel chair and shuffled some papers around in a folder on the bench. Then he turned away, staring at the pictures of the retired judges on the wall.

Your Honor, Amanda said as she stood and addressed McNeil, who didn’t shift his gaze from the pictures on the wall. Damian Lewis was abandoned by his mother three days after he was born in DC’s General Hospital. He lived in different foster homes and group homes until he became eligible for the independent living program. He has three juvenile delinquencies, but he stayed out of trouble for a long time until this recent—

McNeil swiveled his chair quickly and looked Amanda in the eyes. Ms. Perkins, those were significant adjudications: theft one, assault with a deadly weapon, and carrying a pistol—

Your Honor, he was only twelve years old when—

Ms. Perkins, do not interrupt me when I’m talking, McNeil said, raising his voice.

I apologize, Your Honor.

Your client possessed a gun at age twelve.

Your Honor, that was due to lack of supervision by his foster parents. After his last court adjudication, he stayed clean for five years. We have objected to the government’s charging him as an adult. He’s only—

Your client had a hundred Ziploc bags of cocaine, a scale, and other tools for measuring drugs.

Your Honor, you remember we argued during the trial that the drugs and all the other incriminating evidence were planted in his closet by another individual.

The jury didn’t buy it.

We’re appealing the jury’s verdict and—

And I suppose all of my procedural rulings.

Yes, Your Honor.

Good luck. I’m ready to sentence your client. Does he have anything to say?

Your Honor, my allocution is not finished.

I’ve heard enough, McNeil said impatiently. He turned to the defendant. Mr. Lewis, stand up. Do you have anything to say before I sentence you?

Damian Lewis stood, looking frightened. He lowered his gaze. No.

McNeil saw the surprised expression on Perkins’s face. He knew her style during sentencing—she always had her clients prepared to tell the judge they were remorseful.

Mr. Lewis, the judge said, addressing the defendant, in case felony number 237, I sentence you to four years of imprisonment. I’m obligated by law to order at least one hundred dollars to be paid to the Victims of Crime Fund. You can pay that within four years.

Your Honor, Amanda pleaded, the government agreed to probation under the Youth Act, which expunges my client’s criminal record. I urge the court—

Ms. Perkins, I’ve ruled, and you’re still talking.

Your Honor, with all due respect, this is a harsh sentence. You know what happens to a seventeen-year-old in jail while—

The law allows me to give him up to thirty years.

Such lengthy jail time is intended for drug czars, not a seventeen-year-old—

Judge McNeil stood and pointed to a young deputy US marshal who stood at the court entrance. Could you please escort Ms. Perkins out of my courtroom?

***

Amanda paced the hallway outside Judge McNeil’s courtroom for a few minutes, not knowing what to do. Her face was flushed. Like a wounded tiger, she was ready to attack anyone who appeared in her path. The judge had kicked her out of his courtroom and had not even allowed her to explain his harsh sentence to her client. She stopped pacing and stood for a few seconds and then ran to the escalator in the atrium, heading for the court’s criminal division on the fourth floor. After filing a notice of appeal with the court clerk challenging the jury’s decision and the court’s rulings, including sentencing, she rushed to the lawyers’ lounge. She sat at one of the computers and drafted a short two-page motion asking the judge to reconsider his sentencing.

When she returned to the court clerk’s office, the clerk was surprised to see her again. Ms. Perkins, it’s almost time to go home. What have you got this time?

It’s a Rule 35 motion; I’m asking him to reconsider his sentencing.

Good luck, the clerk chuckled as she stamped the copies of the motions.

Amanda knew what the clerk meant, but she was in a hurry. She took her copies and headed for Judge McNeil’s chambers.

She stood in front of the door in the corner of the second-floor hallway—the secured entrance to the chambers of many judges. The security guard, who could see her through the surveillance camera, opened the door electronically and allowed her in. She found the chambers quickly and knocked on the door. Amanda was surprised when McNeil opened it himself.

Ms. Perkins, what do you want now?

Your Honor, this is your copy of my Rule 35 motion. I’ll be serving the prosecutor as soon as I leave the courthouse, Amanda said as she handed the motion to the judge.

You know I’ll deny it, McNeil said with a snarl, slamming the door in Amanda’s face.

Amanda stood in disbelief before the closed chamber door for a few moments and then walked away quickly. Before reaching the exit, she heard her name. She turned around and found Detective Manfredi.

Hey, where are you going in such a hurry?

I have to file an urgent motion at the US Attorney’s Office.

What kind of motion?

McNeil just gave my seventeen-year-old client four years in prison.

I have an appointment with him. Do you want me to say something to him?

Just tell him to go to hell.

Chapter 2

McNeil opened his eyes and found himself on a bed in a narrow, hospital-like room inside a moving vehicle. He tried to get up, but his wrists and ankles were tightly fastened to the bed, and an IV was inserted in his right arm. At first he thought he was in an ambulance, but the presence of the two individuals who had held him in the black Pontiac at the foot of his bed reminded him of the kidnapping.

Who are you, and where are you taking me?

Never mind who we are. You’re in a mobile home, hundreds of miles away from DC, responded the shorter kidnapper.

Whom are you working for?

Stop asking questions.

What day is it?

It’s Sunday, the Fourth of July. The court is closed even on Monday.

What do you want from me?

Stop asking stupid questions. We’ll introduce ourselves properly once we reach our destination, said the light-skinned kidnapper, who McNeil noticed was holding a syringe.

He had a severe headache, his mouth was dry, and he couldn’t move. The last thing he remembered was his trip to the cemetery and an encounter with attorney Amanda Perkins on Friday before the Fourth of July holiday. He also remembered that he had been reviewing the defense motions filed on behalf of Keshan Walker—the accused in the triple-murder case. He tried to figure out why he was being kidnapped. He was not rich and didn’t have anyone who would pay ransom money for him. He was a widower whose only daughter had run away from home four years ago. He had a sister who hated him. So why was he being kidnapped? He watched the light-skinned kidnapper put something into his IV. He fell asleep before he could ask another question.

***

McNeil heard two people talking and moving things around, but his eyelids were too heavy to open. He ignored the pain in his neck and listened to their conversation. One voice belonged to the short kidnapper, the other to the heavy mustachioed man who had asked for directions to Union Station. The two men were talking in hushed tones, but McNeil could still hear them clearly.

When do we get the Pontiac?

One of my men will drive it from DC.

You said nothing to nobody?

No. I trust the dude. I’ve paid him enough not to ask any questions.

How much is this gonna cost me?

Nothing, man. This is on me.

Where’s Doc?

Next door, doing something with his computer.

Ask him to come and get the judge up.

Hey, Doc, we need you here.

McNeil heard a third person enter the room.

Time to wake him up. McNeil believed this was the voice of the big kidnapper.

He felt two hands grab his shoulders and shake him gently. Time to wake up, a voice said.

He ignored the order, but when his kidnapper shook his shoulders harder, he reluctantly opened his eyes. For the first time, he saw the faces of the three African American kidnappers around his bed. The tall, heavy man with a mustache and broad shoulders resembled a football player. He was the passenger who’d approached McNeil with a map in his hand and asked for directions. The light-skinned kidnapper was slim and about five feet ten. His goatee gave him a handsome appearance, and he wore his long hair in dreadlocks. The short kidnapper—who always carried a gun in his hand, McNeil had noticed—was less than five feet four. He had a chubby body, a big nose, and small eyes. He wore a bandana, like the ones worn by actors in pirate movies.

The light-skinned kidnapper, whom they called Doc, untied the judge’s arms and helped him sit up in his bed. The change in position made him dizzy. He looked at the tray of food they had brought him, but he didn’t have an appetite. In fact, he felt nauseated when he looked at the thick corned beef sandwich they had prepared for him. He took a spoon and tried a small portion of his soup, but the soup didn’t sit well in his stomach. He felt bloated and vomited instantly.

The large kidnapper turned his head away in disgust. I don’t need this shit. Clean him up, he ordered the other two kidnappers. If he gives you trouble, show him his grave in the backyard, he added as he left the room.

Chapter 3

Gloria Sanders, Judge McNeil’s courtroom clerk, kept looking nervously at the clock on the wall. It was 9:55 a.m. on Tuesday, July 6, and there was no sign of the judge. Unless he was on vacation, every day for the last sixteen years, Judge McNeil had always taken the bench at 9:30 a.m. She called the judge’s secretary.

Hi, Maureen. Sorry to bother you. Have you heard from the judge?

No, we’re worried too.

Can I talk to his law clerk?

He hasn’t received any call either.

Ms. Sanders said a quick good-bye and looked at the faces of the twelve impatient attorneys in the front row of the courtroom. At least twenty other people were present, including the defendants who had been released on their personal recognizance. The deputy US marshal had transferred the incarcerated inmates to the cellblock behind the courtroom. Their family members were anxiously waiting for the judge, hoping he would release their loved ones.

I don’t know what has happened to him, Ms. Sanders mumbled. He’s never late.

Why don’t you check your voice mail? the deputy US marshal suggested. "Maybe he left you a message instead of calling his secretary."

Ms. Sanders looked at the telephone on her desk. The message light was blinking, as usual, which she always ignored in the early morning. She knew there would be at least a dozen messages from attorneys and defendants who were late, the court reporter’s office, and other divisions of the superior court. She never had time for those phone calls until her lunch break. Typically, before the judge’s arrival, she had time only to review the docket and to make sure that all defendants’ file jackets had been brought to the courtroom. She then would have to page the tardy attorneys who had trials before the judge since their cases had priority over the others.

She pushed the message button on the phone. Sure enough, the judge had left a message. He sounded sick and agitated. I’m out of town, taking care of a family emergency. Please ask Judge Bowen to handle my calendar for the next few days.

Judge Fredrick Bowen was a childhood friend of Judge McNeil. They were both forty-seven years old and from Madison, Wisconsin. They both had attended Harvard for four years, had received their law degrees from Stanford Law School, and had been appointed associate judges in the Superior Court of the District of Columbia by the president a few months apart. But the similarities stopped there. The two had very different personalities. Whereas McNeil was a strict and harsh-sentencing judge, Bowen hardly ever sent a defendant to jail. Almost every defendant got probation from him, except those who had committed dangerous or violent crimes.

When Ms. Sanders announced that Judge Bowen, next door, would handle Judge McNeil’s calendar, the attorneys cheered. Some even clapped.

***

After everyone left the courtroom, Gloria Sanders checked the rest of the messages on her voice mail. The courtroom door opened, and a good-looking African American woman—in her early forties, Ms. Sanders guessed—walked in.

Can I help you? Ms. Sanders asked the woman.

When is the judge coming back?

Do you have a pending case before him?

No. Judge McNeil was supposed to come to our charity last Friday evening, but he never showed up and didn’t—

What charity?

The one at the First Baptist Church on Benning Road.

When he’s not in trial, Judge McNeil goes to St. Mathews, and I’m not aware of any Baptist church charity on Benning Road … but hold on. Let me ask his secretary, Sanders said. She called McNeil’s chambers. Maureen, this is Gloria again. Was Judge McNeil supposed to go to First Baptist Church last Friday?

No, he sometimes goes to St. Mathews during lunch recess.

I know that. Let me know which day he plans to come back.

Will do, but he may call you first.

Sanders looked up to share the information with the woman, but she had already left the courtroom.

Chapter 4

After several days of vomiting, McNeil felt better. He didn’t know what kind of drugs they had pumped into his body, and he still didn’t know where he was. His captors had shown him a big hole in the backyard and made sure he understood that it would be his grave if he didn’t cooperate. Standing at the edge of his potential grave had reminded him of how many times he had told defendants during sentencing, You dug your own grave. He wondered whether he had now dug his.

While his captors kept threatening him, McNeil tried to figure out where he was. One day, when they allowed him to walk outside, in the front yard, he saw the size of the house for the first time. It was not a mansion, but it was a huge ranch-style estate seated on an acre of forest. The unique white stone masonry, the stylish patio, and the four-car garage suggested the house had been designed by an architect and probably belonged to someone wealthy.

Though it was still July, the air was not hot or humid; it was rather comfortable. He thought maybe they had taken him to Arizona or Nevada—but why?

Because he had followed their orders and called his courtroom clerk, that evening they rewarded him with a good meal—steak and a baked potato. At the dinner table, they tied his feet to a chair but left his hands free so he could eat. He cleaned his plate and thanked his captors for the meal. When are you going to tell me what you want from me? he asked, his voice shaky.

You’ll be with us for a few months, answered the short kidnapper, his gun pointing at the judge, as always. Next month, there’s a hearing on the triple-murder trial before you. We want you to favor the motions filed for Keshan Walker.

McNeil didn’t need to ask what they were talking about; he had been reviewing those motions in his chambers on that fateful Friday he was kidnapped. How can I make a decision away from my chambers?

Don’t worry—you were carrying your laptop in your briefcase when we stopped you, Doc, the light-skinned kidnapper, answered.

McNeil looked at the faces of his kidnappers. He was more afraid of the heavy man with big muscles. It seemed that this man hated him more than his cohorts did. Every time he talked to the judge, he avoided eye contact.

You may not know this, but I have a reputation for denying defense motions—

You’re full of shit, you son of a bitch! the big kidnapper said, unexpectedly running at the judge and punching him in the face several times.

The short kidnapper jumped to his side and pulled him away. Hey, man, be cool. We need him, he said.

Doc brought some gauze over, stuck it in the judge’s nostrils, and told him to lean his head back.

Even if I write what you want, no one’s going to believe it. Besides, the prosecutor will ask for a hearing, and I have to be there.

The big kidnapper, whom the other two called Boss, raised his fist and charged toward the judge again. You motherfucker, you still think you’re calling the shots?

Doc stopped Boss and took him out of the room. When he came back, he pointed his finger at the judge. Look, either you write the motions and send the e-mails we ask you to, or we do it ourselves.

Lawyers write motions; judges make decisions. Even if I make a favorable decision, how will you know where to send it?

Don’t worry about that. We know your law clerk’s e-mail, and we know yours, even your password.

How could you? Only my daughter knows my password, and she’s been missing for years.

I told you not to ask any stupid questions. Are you going to write your decision and e-mail it to your law clerk, or do you want me to write it?

Are you a lawyer?

No, but I’m gonna pretend I’m you and tell your law clerk that I’ve decided to approve the defense’s motions to suppress Keshan Walker’s confession. I’ll ask him to do the research and cite legal cases. He’s a lawyer, isn’t he?

He’s a third-year law student.

That’s good enough for us.

Okay, I’ll write the decision you want.

After the judge’s nose stopped bleeding, Doc untied his feet and walked him to a large room that looked like an office. McNeil recognized his own briefcase, cell phone, and laptop sitting on a huge desk at one end of the room. He sat in the comfortable brown leather chair and opened his laptop. Doc tied his feet to the chair and adjusted his laptop for him. He stood behind the judge in a position that enabled him to read everything the judge typed.

The puzzle was solved for McNeil. The kidnappers were trying to change the outcome of the triple-murder case he was handling. He also knew that the prosecutor would appeal his decisions immediately. He was not worried about the furor his rulings would create at the US attorney’s office, but he was worried about his safety and freedom.

He had wondered many times whether anyone had witnessed his abduction, but he knew too well that after 8:00 p.m., Indiana Avenue and the areas around the courthouse turned into a ghost town. Only a few homeless or drunk individuals frequented the street.

He wondered why the kidnappers had not abducted him in front of his house. Then he realized how difficult it would have been to move out of the cul-de-sac, especially when neighbors were sitting on their porches and kids were playing or biking outside.

It was alarming to him that his staff believed him to be out of town handling a family emergency. How could he let them know he was in danger? He only hoped that Detective Manfredi and Attorney Perkins, whose appointments he had missed, would question his absence.

Boss’s words rang in his ears: You still think you’re calling the shots. Had Boss been one of the many defendants he had sentenced? He tried to remember the significant cases he had handled. In one case, the defendant had attacked his lawyer and broken his nose. He still remembered the attorney’s bloody face. He also remembered a defendant who had killed his mother while on PCP. He had cried during his entire trial and then, on the last day of the trial, had committed suicide by jumping from the courthouse’s fourth floor to the lobby. That day when McNeil left the courthouse at five, three individuals were still washing the blood off the lobby’s floor.

Boss’s face did not resemble that of any defendant he had sentenced before. And for what it was worth, he had always thought he was fair in his decisions.

McNeil began typing; he knew how to tell his law clerk the decision was not his. He smiled, knowing that Doc could not understand his complicated legal argument.

Chapter 5

Attorney Perkins showed up in Judge McNeil’s chambers for her four-thirty appointment on Friday, July 9. McNeil’s secretary informed her that the judge was out of town.

I’m sorry. When I gave you the appointment, I didn’t know he’d left town to take care of a family emergency.

I still would like to stay. He may show up or call you to reschedule my appointment.

I’ll be leaving at five. You’re more than welcome to wait in his office, the secretary said.

Still bitter about McNeil’s courtroom behavior, Amanda entered the judge’s office but did not sit down. From McNeil’s office on the second floor, one could see the court’s entrance on Indiana Avenue. She walked to the window, hoping to see the judge’s face among the individuals entering the courthouse. Amanda remembered how many times she had dreamed about this meeting—the meeting