A DEATH IN CHAMBERS
Dan Summerfield
Copyright 2000 by Dan Summerfield
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Cover photo by Simon Howden courtesy freedigitalimages.com
Cover art by Dan Summerfield
Though based on a historical incident, this story is a work of fiction. The story and plot, as well as the characters, their thoughts actions and motivations are products of the author's imagination
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PROLOGUE
This would be a memorable day, thought the old man, shivering slightly in the cool morning air. Already a buck and two does, forms without substance against the still black earth and trees, had eased through the pines on the other side of the river.
The old man watched quietly as the deer drank their fill and slipped away. When they were gone, he raised the still steaming cup, savoring the smell of the coffee, so different from the bitter brew that passed for coffee at the F.C.I. He took a sip and the steam hit the back of his throat, bringing on a racking cough that shook his body.
Carefully placing the cup on the ground, he reached for a tissue to wipe his mouth. When through, he wadded the tissue and tossed it on the ground behind him, not bothering to check for the bright specks of blood he knew would be there.
The purple half light became tinged with red, outlining the cabin. Content in his camp chair, he didn't bother turning to look. It was enough to sit quietly and listen to the small sounds of the river.
A lone robin chirped sleepily in the ancient oak tree by the cabin. There had been a dozen on the property that early September morning the old man arrived. The next day they were gone, all but one. The others might have been fleeing the neighborhood to show their disapproval of the newest resident.
Now the birds were raising new broods in the Carolinas or Florida though, the old man knew, a few always stayed behind, living in cedar swamps and eating God knows what until spring. With luck, they would somehow survive the harsh Midwest winter. He decided to start putting out a little raw hamburger each morning for the solitary bird.
The red tinge turned to daylight as the wine sap sun cast a sudden promissory glow. As it climbed, the sun's rosy light would turn soft gold, hover for a moment in the crisp air, then quickly descend to touch the white-tinged grass and cold-brittle leaves with a glowing day long kiss.
The golden kiss would dissolve the tenuous grip of the frost, turning it into a slight mist that would rise a few inches and vanish in a swirl, itself becoming a part of the light.
The blades and leaves would embrace the light and themselves begin to glow; the grass with the deep jade of autumn; maples, sumac and oaks turning to masses of yellow, orange and hard brown brilliance. Warm, light breezes would stir the leaves, making them pulsate with color.
The sky, which in September had been a sharp, eye-stinging blue with hard edged silver-bright clouds, was now an azure pastel, the gold-tinged clouds fluffy and pleasing to the eye.
These were Indian summer days when sun, sky, air and water have a mystic quality seen at no other time. These are the days to remember when one remembers autumn.
The days to forget, or at least one tries to forget have no sunrise. Instead, a gray half-light slinks in from the east, imperceptibly replacing the cold blackness of night. The dim light, made dank by an accompanying freezing drizzle, will last into evening. The westerly wind holds no warmth, only the cold promise that winter is near.
Frosted grass that today sparkles and winks in the warming autumnal sun will tomorrow, or at least very soon, be covered by the depressing reality of knee-deep snow coldly glaring back at a gray, sullen sky. Trees, though still cloaked in majesty, become dim and drab in the half-light and will shortly hold out bare shivering arms, pleading for mercy from winds that have none to give.
The dark dampness of those October days is both warning and reminder to those who bask and dream in the golden light of today. Harsh reality, it is telling them, is very near.
Watching the misty river, the old man wrapped both hands around the warm cup and tried to forget what was behind and ahead.
CHAPTER 1
The Hall of Justice, a modern version of a medieval fortress, squats on the east bank of the river. Known simply as "The Hall" to its occupants, it is a multi-level, multipurpose facility serving as downtown headquarters for the county justice system, including city law enforcement.
The four floors contain the police department, District and Circuit courts, chambers for each of the Judges, offices for the County Prosecutor, and of course offices and work space for the hundreds of support personnel necessary to make all of this function properly.
For those suing or being sued in civil matters, for criminal defendants, and for the attorneys who represent both, the Hall is a legal mini-mall: one-stop shopping applied to the criminal and civil justice system.
The Police Department main offices occupy the northern half of the main floor and most of the basement, where the personnel locker room, report room, squad room, and motor pool are. Police Dispatch also operates out of the deep security of the basement. Only authorized personnel could gain access through the locked stairway door.
Eight years earlier a bloody shootout had taken place in one of the public corridors. When the shooting was over two vice officers and the fugitive they were trying to arrest on an outstanding warrant were all still alive, but badly wounded.
All recovered. One of the cops was pensioned off, the other returned to duty. The fugitive was now serving a life sentence. As a result of that shootout the entire building had been wired with an elaborate security system.
One system feature included each interior office being wired directly to Police Dispatch. At the press of a button any threat, real or perceived, could be brought to the immediate attention of dispatchers, who would then call in whatever force necessary to contain it.
Though the security system was expensive, elaborate and sophisticated, those who designed and installed it could not have anticipated the test it was about to undergo.
CHAPTER 2
7:00 A.M.
Life is a shit sandwich, reflected veteran police officer Frank Salter, and every day you take another bite. Most days the sandwich tasted terrible, others not quite as bad, but it never really tasted like anything but what it was.
Frank rubbed the stubble on his cheeks, decided a shave and shower could wait and reached for the locker door handle. He'd rather shave at home where he could let the hot water run until the mirror steamed over before he placed the blade to his creased cheeks.
Frank didn't look in mirrors much anymore. He usually looked away whenever he passed one. Not that he had ever been a vain man, but the reflected image that now stared back at him was not the Frank Salter he wanted to remember.
Too many bites of the sandwich, he thought. Two bad marriages and four decades of hard drinking had wiped away that younger man. Now the steam, like the liquor he drank, blurred the inevitabilities of age and a life style that had finally caught up with him.
A long shift finally over, Frank stood in the basement police locker room of the Hall. He appeared to be a big man, but that was deceptive. It took a few seconds for his true height to snap into focus and then one could see that despite the muscular build he was only average in height.
Frank also gave an impression of great strength, and when he shook hands it was obvious that, unlike the height, it was not just impression. The strength was there, and it was very real.
The cool, gray-green eyes were mostly thoughtful, often laughing, seldom angry. Men trusted those eyes. Women loved the promise in them. Only a few of either sex had ever seen them angry, but those who had backed off quickly.
Frank Salter had presence. It would be called command presence except he had never wanted to command anything or anybody. That was one of the reasons he was back working the streets after more than twenty years in the department.
Last night's shift had been quiet, even for a week-night. A cold, sullen mid-October rain had kept potential perpetrators inside, huddled near a heat source.
Eighteen minutes after rolling from the station, he'd been dispatched to a domestic dispute in the four thousand block of Ellis Avenue, only two blocks from the house he'd lived in for four years. His soon to be ex-wife's lights were still on as he drove by, and her blue Blazer was in the driveway. A green Blazer was parked under the street light at the curb.
Frank had calmed the disputing parties, cleared the scene at 9:54 p.m., and again drove by his wife's now darkened home. When he eased to a stop across the street he noted the green Blazer had been moved and was now parked in the driveway, next to his wife's car.
Probably the car salesman she'd been dating, Frank thought. He searched his memory for a name, couldn't find one and reached in his shirt pocket for a notepad, jotting down the date, time and license plate number. He stuffed the notepad back into the shirt pocket, gunned the engine for a noisy farewell. The pavement was too wet to lay down rubber, but the tires spun and left a rooster tail behind as he raced away.
Between that call and the end of the shift Salter had responded to only four others, the last at three a.m. to check out a report of a prowler at a home in the middle of the ghetto. There he found a drunken male harassing a female, made an arrest, and transported the offender to the city jail.
When he resumed his patrol, Frank Salter hadn't known this would be the last arrest of his career. In light of what was to follow, it would also be the most ironic.
Now as he stood at his locker, the night's paperwork completed, Frank remembered the license plate number he had jotted down. He reached for the pocket of the uniform shirt, then changed his mind. Screw it, he thought, I'll have Howard run it through the computer tonight.
Frank hung his gun belt and holstered service revolver on a hook inside the vented locker, stripped off the uniform and began donning his street clothes: Levi=s, sneakers, T-shirt, a gray sweatshirt with "Kentucky" printed across the front, and a baseball type cap with a Harley-Davidson logo.
He grabbed his light jacket from a hook, picked up his off-duty pistol from the locker shelf and stuffed it in his belt. He zipped up the jacket, slammed the locker door, spun the combination lock dial and headed for the stairway.
7:05 A.M.
As Officer Frank Salter went off duty, the front door of the house belonging to his soon to be ex-wife opened. The visitor stepped out, looked around casually while opening an umbrella and then hurried to the green Blazer. As the car backed out of the driveway, the driver flashed the high beams in a silent goodbye.
Susan Beckwith, watching at the living room window, waved, dropped the curtain back into place and walked to the bathroom. She flicked the radio on, peered into the mirror and, as the announcer gave the latest weather and traffic reports, grabbed a tube of lipstick, pursed her lips, and began judiciously applying just the right amount of lipstick.
Judicious, she thought, was exactly the word to describe the actions of a female judge: too much and she might be mistaken by an outsider for one of the South side prostitutes who regularly appeared in her courtroom; too little and she would lose that unique touch of femininity she brought to court as the first female ever elected to the bench in this district.
She paused to perform that curious lip twisting, lip compressing routine women do as a tactile test for thickness and to spread the stuff around. Satisfied, Susan placed the tube on the counter and studied her features in the mirror as the radio traffic reporter announced that roads were slick in spots, but generally safe. Traffic, he continued, was moderately heavy; there had been several car-deer collisions, known locally as deer slams. He reminded listeners the Quincy Street Bridge across the river would be closed that day for repairs.
Susan eyed her image critically. Since the separation she'd lost weight; though not enough, she thought. A new, shorter hairdo made her look younger, and since she stopped drinking the usual morning eye puffiness was gone. Susan nodded with satisfaction, smiled as her image returned a wink. Not bad for forty. She left the bathroom to dress for the day.
7:10 A.M.
Frank, pulling the collar of his jacket up as protection against the continuing cold drizzle, emerged from the Hall and walked to his car in the west parking lot.
The car, an ancient Buick, loomed like some prehistoric beast among the newer economy cars scattered throughout the parking lot. Any pride of possession the Buick had ever given had evaporated along with the rocker panels, which had rusted away several owners ago.
The Buick did run amazingly well, a miracle Frank attributed to either GM engineers or the St. Christopher medal a former owner had forgotten to retrieve from the mirror in his haste to sell the car. Frank wasn't a praying man but the medal stayed where it was, just in case.
If the car wasn't one of Frank's proudest possessions, his jacket was. The back sported the logo of the Blue Devils Motorcycle Club, most of whose members were cops, though a few were wealthy attorneys or businessmen. Frank was a charter member, though no longer a bike owner. His had been sold months ago to pay off bills.
Salter eased the groaning Buick out of its space in the police department parking lot and headed north, toward the expressway. With a full tank, the Buick normally got four round trips to his riverside cabin in the woods almost fifty miles away and this was his day to fill up.
The cold drizzle continued in the predawn darkness.
Looking up at the expressway, Frank could tell by the headlights that traffic was heavy. He suddenly thought to hell with it. He hadn't had a drink in a month and had just pulled a long shift with nothing to eat but an apple and a sandwich. A couple of Jim Beam shooters followed by breakfast sounded good.
Frank whipped the Buick around, heading for Bean's Tavern, a neighborhood bar just a couple of miles away.
Traffic on the city roads was still relatively light as he drove, giving him time to ponder his pending divorce and the events leading up to it.
It had seemed a good match. Both were mature adults, and both were convinced they could put a previous bad marriage behind them. Helping Frank clinch the decision to remarry was the eighty-two thousand a year Susan made. A twenty-year street cop made only thirty-six thousand. His golden years, he figured, would now be truly golden.
That Susan was fantastic in bed had also played a part in his decision. Why was it, he now wondered ruefully that the really great lays made lousy wives while the lousy lays made great wives?
The wedding ceremony had been conducted on the back lawn of the Hall. With the river flowing peacefully in the background, it had been promisingly elegant and well attended by both law enforcement personnel and members of the legal profession.
Some of those attending, Frank knew, had wondered just how long a marriage between these two seeming opposites could last but, what the hell, most marriages didn't these days. He was willing to take a chance if she was, and it really wasn't anyone else's business, anyway.
Yes, that had been a perfect summer day, thought Frank, now squinting through the windshield as the worn wipers swiped off the drizzle on the down sweep and brought it back on the up sweep. Too bad it had all gone wrong.
7:15 A.M.
Susan Beckwith watched Good Morning, America as she sipped coffee in the living room, but her thoughts were on the upcoming election and the divorce which would become final soon after.
Thank God she'd refused to give up her maiden name when she married Frank Salter. Susan had given her name up once in a failed first marriage and after working so hard to establish a professional reputation, first as an Assistant County Prosecutor then as a District Court Judge, had no intention of doing so again.
It was Frank's work as a cop and Susan's as an Assistant Prosecutor that had brought them together. They'd met in a bar frequented by law enforcement personnel and made a date for the annual Marine Corps Ball in November.
It wasn't love at first sight, though the sex had happened almost immediately. Both had a lot of experience in the sack and each knew how to satisfy the other.
It had been satisfying sex, thought Susan. Satisfying but not particularly special, at least for her. They had coupled a few times, and then moved on to other partners.
Two years later Frank, seeking a warrant, entered her courtroom shortly after the election. The two struck up a conversation which ended with a mutual agreement to start dating.
Six months later the relationship was well enough established for talk of marriage. There were serious discussions about whether each was ready to marry again. The decision by both parties was that they were.
It had been, thought Susan, as she wandered into the kitchen for another cup of coffee, a terrible decision for both.
7:20 A.M.
Bean's Tavern, a popular morning gathering spot for law enforcement types, postal employees, and other third shift workers, was open for business at 7:00 a.m. seven days a week. If the law allowed, it would never have closed.
Warm, pungent air and loud Merle Haggard surged toward the door in a dash for freedom as Frank stepped inside. The mix washed over him in its haste to escape, then slowed, swirled, and settled around him as he pulled the heavy door closed.
Merle's wailing came from the jukebox near the back of the tavern, the pungency from a blue haze that had hung in the air of the tavern for years.
The decor was upscale redneck. Several mounted deer heads lined the wall. One of them, a handsome twelve pointer, now had a dark mold eating away at the trophy's nose.
The blades of an overhead ceiling fan revolved slowly in a vain attempt to cut their way through the haze, a funky combination of spilled beer, stale tobacco smoke, cheap perfumes and cheaper aftershave lotions. Vinegar soaked towels used to wipe down the bar added another not so subtle ingredient to the blend.
The decor, the loud country music and the haze were at first disorienting, then quickly became a normal part of one's environment. It was exactly what one would expect of a bar in this neighborhood and Bean's Tavern wouldn't have been the same without it.
Morning bartender Happy Tyler, toweling off the bar near the jukebox, sensed motion in the funky mix, looked toward the door and waved the towel at Frank in a friendly hello. He pointed to the near end of the bar where Sheriff's Deputy Rich Reynolds sat nursing a beer. A couple of people Salter had seen before but didn't know sat at a table.
As Salter joined Reynolds at the bar, Happy walked over and smiled a greeting. "Morning, Frank."
"Mornin'," Frank said. "Beamer me up, Happy. Straight up." Tyler grabbed a fifth of Jim Beam and a water glass. The measuring spout gurgled merrily as he poured.
Happy was known for pouring generous drinks. If a customer commented on his generosity he would grin, wink, and say "Sometimes it sticks." The spout appeared to be stuck wide open this morning: the drink he poured for Frank Salter was, according to witnesses, more than generous. None were sure whether the water glass he poured it into contained one, two, or three shots, but even Frank later admitted that he had surely gotten his money's worth.
Minutes later city police officer Dick West walked through the door, spotted the two fellow officers, and ordered a round: beers for himself and Reynolds, another Jim Beam for Salter. Tyler was as generous with Salter's second drink as he had been with the first.
Happy later remembered the cops talking, joking and laughing, but could not remember a word that was said.
7:25 A.M.
As Good Morning, America segued into news from the local ABC affiliate, Susan checked her outfit in the living room mirror before slipping into the kitchen for one last coffee refill. The black, gray and white checked sweater went well with the black skirt. Silver earrings and necklace provided a nice contrast. Shiny black pumps completed the ensemble.
She unplugged the coffee pot timer, a habit she'd retained even after the old wiring had been replaced, and stood glancing around the kitchen while sipping the steaming coffee. There were a lot of memories here, most good, and some bad. Her nephew Charles had loved this kitchen, even before the remodeling.
Charles Snyder, her older sister Judy's son, was only five years younger than Susan. Unable to hold a job and still searching for an identity, he had come to her for advice. She had taken Charles under her wing, installing him in an upstairs bedroom. Shortly after the marriage Frank threw him out, angrily instructing Susan that her nephew was never to visit while he, Frank, was at home.
Susan was not pleased by the banishment of Charles, whom she also considered her best friend but, hoping time might change Frank's attitude, she had let it slide.
Both had kept busy with their respective careers: Susan with the always demanding duties of District Court; Frank, now a detective, had his own busy schedule. But as the marriage wore on Susan became increasingly resentful of Frank's attitudes toward Charles and the many liberal issues that were dear to her heart.
Susan Beckwith was intelligent, strong willed, and committed to her ideas and ideals, traits that had succeeded in winning her, a liberal feminist in an ultraconservative community, elective office. She was damned if some redneck cop, husband or not, was going to tell her who she could see and what she could think.
Susan grabbed her purse, fished inside for the car keys, and walked to the door. She took a last look around the living room, closed the door softly behind her and headed for the car.
7:45 A.M.
Police Sergeant Howard Metcalfe had, like Frank Salter, worked days for a number of years but recently decided to go back to nights, allowing younger officers to have a chance at the day shift.
Metcalfe's body, however, still hadn't gotten used to the hours. Though he got off work an hour earlier than the patrolmen, he had been unable to sleep. Hoping he could find someone to shoot pool with until he got sleepy, Metcalfe headed for Bean's Tavern, where his early morning visits were usually limited to twice a month on paydays while he waited for his check to be processed.
When he walked through the door and spotted Reynolds and West sitting with his longtime friend, Frank Salter, Metcalfe immediately did what any good cop would do. He bought a beer for himself and a round for his friends.
Reynolds and West stuck with beer, Salter with straight Jim Beam. Metcalfe noticed with concern the water glass and the large amount of liquor it contained. Frank sometimes got nasty when he was drinking Beamer doubles.
However, this morning Salter was in a good mood. "My man," he said, addressing Howard, "I've lost a lot of weight but I'm still too goddamn fat to be a cop. It's sitting in that friggin' cruiser and not walking a beat. It'll lead to a coronary every time."
“Frank, you've never walked a beat in your life. Hell, no cop has walked a beat in this town in thirty years."
"And that's why they're all so goddamn fat," retorted Salter. "But you know how I'm gonna lose more weight?" Frank leaned forward. "Cabbage soup, that's my secret."
Metcalfe rolled his eyes at West and Reynolds. Reynolds stuck a forefinger in his mouth and pretended to gag.
"Hey, I'm not kidding. You can eat all you want and it gives you all the nourishment you need. Lots of protein and no calories.
Metcalfe snorted. "I didn't even know you could cook.
Howard did know, however, that, thanks to the United States Marine Corps Reserve, Frank Salter had been eating a lot of cabbage soup lately.
The peacetime Corps thought all Marines should be as slim as the ones shown on recruiting posters, even tough old gunnies in their mid-fifties like Salter.
Frank, who worked out a couple of times a week in the police gymnasium, was in general excellent health, but did have a tendency to put on weight. Age, sedentary duty behind the wheel of a cruiser, good eating and heavy drinking didn't help.
A month earlier Salter had taken the Marine Reserve re-enlistment physical. He passed but was found to be approximately fifteen pounds overweight. The Corps gave him one month to lose the extra pounds or he would not be allowed to reenlist. If he couldn't reenlist, his pension was out the window.
Frank had gone on a crash program, trying to get down to a maximum weight of one hundred and ninety-seven pounds. He ran between four and five miles a day, worked out on an exercise bike for another half hour, ate nothing but salads, soups, sandwiches and fruit. It was a regimen that might have killed men ten years younger, but the effort paid off. In early October he made the weight limit and was allowed to reenlist.
During that month long diet Frank found much to his surprise that he'd grown to love cabbage soup, and though the Corps imposed diet was over, it had become a mealtime mainstay.
Frank now leaned toward Metcalfe and spoke solemnly.
“Howard, my man, I am going to teach you how to make cabbage soup." He clinked his Jim Beam filled water glass against Metcalfe's beer glass, raised it in a salute and downed half the drink.
"Hey, Howard." It was Rich Reynolds, across the table. "Did you hear about that newest wonder drug for potency?" Metcalfe shook his head.
"It's called Sexomyocin. Comes in a pill form. Just a itty bitty pill. Guy your age might need it." Metcalfe inwardly winced. He didn't dare glance at Frank, who had admitted to him months before that he was having some sexual dysfunction problems. Metcalfe was probably the only man in the department Salter would have told.
"Okay, I'll bite," he said, reluctantly. "What's it supposed to do for you?"
"Keeps your back from petering out." Reynolds giggled as he paused for effect. "And your peter from backing out."
Reynolds and West rocked with laughter. Howard shot a glance at Frank to see his reaction. Frank, too, was laughing and Metcalfe felt a quick relief. Salter could get insulted in a hurry when he was on Beamers.
“Awwww, I already tried that stuff and it didn't work." Frank said. "Every time I try to swallow one of those pills I get a stiff neck."
Bartender Happy Tyler, drying glasses with a clean towel, heard the outburst of laughter at the bar. He looked over and grinned. Deputy Reynolds saw him looking, raised a forefinger in the air and made a circle. "Another round, Happy."
"Not for me, thanks." West placed a hand over his empty glass. "Got a court appearance at ten. Simple assault case before Judge Beckwith."
West grinned as he remembered who Salter was married to. He turned to Frank. "Hey, is she still picking up your check?" Susan's bimonthly stops to pick up Frank's paycheck had become something of a joke in the department.
"Not anymore," Salter replied, dryly.
West evidently didn't know about the coming divorce, thought Metcalfe. I'll have to clue him in later.
Howard knew all about the divorce, and the background leading to it. Salter had told him most of it over the last ten months, and it wasn't pretty. But then, most divorces weren't.
Metcalfe was still bitter about the gut-wrenching his own former wife had put him through ten years earlier. He'd lost the kids, a hefty portion of his bimonthly paycheck to pay for their support, and damned near his life. A fellow cop had wrestled the thirty-eight away from him before he could put the muzzle in his mouth and pull the trigger.
Metcalfe flicked his eyes toward Frank who, head nodding to the music as Willie Nelson told mamas not to let their sons grow up to be cowboys, was smiling quietly to himself. My ex-wife was a saint compared to that bitch Frank married, thought Howard. If I'd a married that arrogant slut I'd have tried to shoot her instead of myself.
7:55 A.M.
Traffic was always heaviest on the expressway at this hour but that was fine with Susan. A judge's hours were long enough without starting before 8:00 a.m., which was her usual arrival time. Out of habit, she eased the new Blazer into the right lane, preparing for the exit that would take her to the Hall.
The twelve-year-old Ford was history. Susan had started dating, among others, a salesman for a local car dealership.
The salesman was good. He'd already sold a Blazer to Elizabeth Burden and, acting on a reflexive need to sell that surfaced even in bed, had persuaded Susan to buy one. She'd resisted, but he had come up with such a terrific deal Susan caved and let the much loved Ford go.
Now Susan was looking forward to the color tour she and the salesman had planned for the next weekend.
Even on low the Blazer's heater was pumping out the BTUs. She cracked a window and the damply cold October air hit her neck and shoulders with a sudden chill that brought back memories of another moment. Then, too, she had been in a car, returning from Tennessee with a desperate need to get home to save her career, if not her marriage. Both, she had been convinced, were over.
Somehow, Frank had learned of her lover. He had threatened violence but Susan discounted that as simply wounded male ego talking. But would Frank spread the story around so that she became the laughing stock of the judicial and law enforcement systems? And would she face a judicial review board?
There were, she knew, no ambiguities in the Code of Judicial Conduct. Canon Two, the catchall canon, was clear: "Public confidence in the judiciary is eroded by irresponsible or improper conduct by judges."
The canon went on to state that judges must avoid even the appearance of impropriety, expect to be the subject of constant public scrutiny, and freely and willingly accept restrictions on conduct that might be viewed as burdensome by the ordinary citizen.
Adultery would not be viewed by her peers on the bench as particularly responsible or proper conduct. And neither would her relationship with someone else, a relationship Frank knew nothing about. Or at least she had been certain he didn't.
More important, what about the voters? She could always fight a judicial review, would even have strong allies in the process. But the District Court judgeship was hers for only for as long as the voters let her hold it, even though an incumbent judge was normally as safe as a tenured professor in a state university.
Experience had taught her that politics was, at every level, warfare. Usually civil and mostly bloodless, it was still, nonetheless, the imposing of one's will over another by whatever means necessary.
And, the hackneyed comparison of attorneys, especially politically active attorneys, with sharks wasn't as trite as it sounded. Susan knew that from experience as well.
If sharks could detect a few molecules of a potential victim's blood in several billion parts of water, attorneys were equally adept at sniffing out weakness in an opponent.
For an elected official, scandal created the most fatal weakness of all and an ambitious political opponent could home in on the slightest hint with amazing speed and accuracy.
For Susan, who had been trying to move up to Circuit Court in the next election, any scandal at that point was unacceptable. The majority of local voters were staunchly, stiffly conservative, with self-proclaimed moral imperatives that were the deciding factors in every election.
The fate of a judge caught screwing around on a husband with a reputation as an honest, hard-working cop could be predetermined: instant dismissal at the polling booth.
Should this story get around, or if details of her other relationship become public, the swift and certain election day retaliation by voters had made her shudder despite the heat of that late summer day.
Susan Beckwith was not, however, just a judge. She was a seasoned politician; one who had defeated heavy odds, in fact had beaten all odds to get where she was today. By the time she arrived home from Tennessee, Susan had decided to do what any experienced politician would have done. Wait and see what the opponent had. Play it by ear, then respond accordingly.
She was playing the waiting game until after the November election, knowing if she won she could slam the ultimate marital trump card on the table. A quick divorce would make Frank fold his hand.
And that, she now thought with satisfaction, was exactly what was happening, though it had taken longer than expected. She'd lost her bid for Circuit Court but not because of scandal. She was still a District Judge and was now running unopposed. Frank hadn't yet folded his hand, but he would soon enough after the election.
The exit loomed ahead and she eased the Blazer into the exit lane. A quarter of a mile ahead was Elm Street with its viaduct on the left that would take her under the expressway, across the Elm Street bridge. The traffic light at Elm was, as usual, red.
CHAPTER 3
10:00 A.M.
At some point--- Happy Tyler thought it was about nine-forty five--- Dick West left Bean's Tavern to make his ten o'clock court appearance. A few minutes later Metcalfe, now pleasantly tired, announced he was going home too. Just before leaving, he and Salter kidded about going north the next day. Metcalfe owned, in addition to his city bungalow, a small cabin just down the river from Salter's cabin.
Metcalfe said his goodbyes and left. Outside, concerned Salter would be driving the fifty miles to the cabin after what appeared to be some heavy drinking, Howard went back inside to offer him use of the extra bedroom in his bungalow. "You can go to work from my place tomorrow," he said. "And when we get off work we'll go to the cabin and hang around your place."
"Sounds good," Salter said.
At Metcalfe's suggestion, the two decided first to go to another hangout and have one more drink. Then we’ll get a good night’s sleep, said Metcalfe. “Yeah, at your age you need a good night's sleep," Salter replied.
Metcalfe jumped into his new pickup, drove two miles to the Metro Lounge and parked by the side door. It was shortly after 10:00 a.m. when he went inside and ordered a beer.
Ten minutes later Salter entered, walked to the bar where Metcalfe was seated and ordered a straight Jim Beam from Metro Lounge manager Sandie Paine, who had known both officers for twenty years.
Paine's later recollection was that the two came in together through the back door. She remembers they were laughing and joking around, and when she asked them where they had been that morning they answered in unison, "Bean's Tavern."
As the two off duty police officers idly chatted with Sandie, the bar owner walked in, spotted Salter and Metcalfe and bought drinks for both. He and Metcalfe had been friends for most of twenty years and he'd known Salter almost that long. The owner chatted for a moment, then invited Metcalfe outside to see his new car.
Metcalfe turned to say something, tipped over the beer he hadn't yet finished and most of the one the owner had just bought. He grabbed one of the glasses, drained the dregs, and walked outside to admire the new car and show off his own new pickup.
The two talked for a moment, then Metcalfe stuck his head back inside the tavern door. “Frank!" he yelled, "You ready?" “Not yet," Salter shouted back.
"Okay, I'm taking off. Don't forget my back door is open. The bed's already made up."
Salter waved casually. "I'll be there shortly. I'm saving enough money so you can buy cabbage for the cabbage soup."
But Frank Salter would never arrive at Howard's bungalow. This would, in fact, be the last time Metcalfe would talk to Frank for more than a year.
10:30 A.M.
Court was in recess and Judge Susan Beckwith relaxed in her chamber, looking over the new courtroom rotation plan she'd been working on.
District Court would be expanding to six judges in the coming year and there were now only five courtrooms. Chief District Judge Heyburn, her former supervisor in the County Prosecutor's office, had requested that Susan come up with a plan which could be implemented when the court expanded. The plan was now finished and she was proud of it.
Susan decided to skip lunch, which she normally did anyway, and present him with a copy at noon. As she placed the plan on her desk, a file folder marked "Personal" caught her eye. She reached for it.
Inside was a letter from her attorney, Heather DeKneen, and a statement showing the proposed division of property, her will and Frank's will, and a copy of the marriage license. She closed the file and tossed it back on the desk.
Heather's last letter should, thought Susan, make Frank realize he wasn't dealing with some bimbo who could be finessed out of the money she worked hard for. There was no way she was going to pay for that cabin of his for the next four years, whatever he thought the agreement had been.
Her thoughts went to the previous spring when both had believed the marriage might still be saved. They'd gone to Florida, both hoping the vacation time spent together might help heal the wounds they had inflicted on one another.
It had started well, mostly because they had flown, picking up a rental car in Tampa for the drive to Sarasota. In years past they had driven to Florida straight down I-75, and the trips had taken a toll on both.
Things would go well until they hit the mountains in Kentucky and Tennessee. This was Frank's country. He'd been born in these mountains and would go moon-eyed at the first sight of them. Left to Frank, most of the vacation would have been spent on the back roads, dawdling along and exploring, watching for the whitetail deer, wild turkeys, and occasional coyote and black bears that crossed the rural roads.
To Susan, however, the mountains existed only as a barrier to the hot sandy beaches of the Gulf, a barrier to be overcome as quickly as possible. She insisted on driving through them herself and did so at top speed,
tailgating ferociously, cursing at the drivers of slower vehicles as she passed, beeping furiously at lumbering semis as they slowed for weighing station exits.
By the time they hit Georgia each would be a nervous wreck: Frank because he suffered her manic driving from his passenger's seat, Susan because of Frank's constant admonition to slow down and stop tailgating.
Even their arrival at the condo would not ease the tension. Each would be dreading the return trip home.
Though this trip had started well, it still hadn't worked. Susan felt if the relationship was going to survive Frank would have to accept her nephew Charles on a social basis. That he would not was tearing her apart.
When she explained this, Frank told her he could not, would not do that. "If the two of you want to go to the theater, or dinner, or whatever, that's no problem," Frank said. "If you want to have him to the house for dinner that's no problem either. Just let me know and I'll make myself absent from the scene."
When the couple returned from Florida, Susan againrequested that Charles be included in their social life. Frank's flat refusal had made up her mind to divorce him.
Now, as she sat in her chamber, Susan felt transformed. The divorce would soon be completed and then her private life and loves would be the business of no one but herself.
Always aggressive, Susan had taken determined steps to change her lifestyle since the separation, including a crash diet which had slimmed her down considerably in just a few months.
Elizabeth had been very complimentary about the new, shorter hairdo. Music, thanks to her mother, had always been part of her life and now she started taking piano lessons. Religion, thanks to both parents, had also been important. She began studying the Bible.
Her biggest step was giving up drinking, except for a little wine with meals now and then. For support she now attended AA meetings regularly.
For additional support and to help her get through the divorce, Susan Beckwith had quietly contacted a psychology center and was now undergoing weekly counseling sessions with a psychologist.
10:40 A.M.
"Hey, Sandie. Did you know my wife quit drinking?"
Sandie Paine looked up from the other end of the bar, where she was wiping up after a departing customer.
"Hadn't heard, Frank." She paused in her wiping and grinned at him. "God, it must be terrible to wake up in the morning and know that's the best you're gonna feel all day."
Frank laughed heartily. There was, he thought, a degree of truth in that old line.
He had scoffed, then become angry when Susan first began attending AA meetings early in the marriage. Alcoholics Anonymous, he had felt, was getting in the way of their relationship.
Frank was a social drinker and when he drank he liked others to drink with him, though sometimes Frank got so sociable he fell asleep. Frank wasn't sleepy yet this morning, even after a long shift and several Beamers.
"How is the divorce going?" Sandie had asked.
"Not so good," he replied, laughing just a little now. "You know, Sandie, it's pretty bad when you know your wife's a whore and a judge at the same time."
Working behind the bar, Sandie had heard that laugh many times from many different people and knew that underneath the laughter lay hurt and under the hurt was hate or love, and sometimes both.
"Is she going to give you your cabin?" she asked.
Salter smiled, shook his head. "I don't know." He thought for a moment. "I have proof she's been screwing around on me."
"Proof? Who was she screwing around with?"
"A state trooper down in Tennessee. I've heard their conversations. She's laying in bed talking on the phone, telling him how much she misses him and wishes she could go down on him right then."
Frank looked away for a moment, then turned back. Without looking at Sandie, he raised the shot glass and downed the whiskey neat. He placed the glass on the bar and shook his head slowly. Sandie reached under the counter, pulled out a bottle and refilled the shot glass.
"On the house, Frank." He lifted his head and gave her a smile. "Thanks, Sandie. Maybe I should have married you."
Sandie laughed. Frank had put a move on her almost twenty years earlier while still married to his first wife. Sandie had a boyfriend at the time and didn't date married men anyway, not even cops. She'd fended him off with grace and humor and they had been friends ever since.
"What kind of proof do you have?" she asked.
"A lot," Salter replied.
"Well, for Christ's sake, tell her you've got it. Make the bitch suffer like she's made you suffer."
Frank shook his head. "I already told her, but then I made the mistake of telling her I destroyed it."
"Why in the world would you do that?" Sandie asked.
"I guess I just wanted to see one more time what kind of woman she was."
"Look, Franks, if she's out to screw you out of the cabin, just go and tell her you didn't destroy it. She's coming up for reelection. If she thinks you'll use it, she'll damn sure let you have your cabin."
"Guess you're right," he admitted. "I should probably tell her."
"I know all about her, Frank. Word gets around. Susan Beckwith is a stone bitch and will take you down just for fun."
Salter thought for a moment before speaking. "You know, Sandie, a lot of people think because I'm a cop I'm heartless. You've known me long enough. I've got a heart and I feel pain. And I hurt, just like other people."
"I know, Frank," she said sympathetically. "I know. You're good people." Her eyes twinkled. "For a cop, that is." She glanced at the clock behind the bar. "Hey, it's almost eleven." She walked to the television set at the end of the bar. "My soap is coming on. Stay and watch it with me."
She flicked on the television, waited for the picture to settle in, then switched channels just in time to catch the opening bars of the soap opera theme. Sandie turned back to the bar. Frank was gone, the only visible sign he had been there was the empty shot glass.
11:00 A.M.
As Susan Beckwith donned her judicial robe before moving back to the courtroom, she glanced around her first floor chamber. Why did I ever want to leave this place, she thought?
Susan now recognized that her bid for Circuit Court had been an error. Not as big a mistake as her marriage perhaps, but an error nonetheless.
District Court, she realized, was exactly where she wanted to be. It was, for all intents and purposes, a lifetime position in which she could work directly with those who appeared in her courtroom, giving assistance to those in need, especially victims of domestic violence and fellow AA members who had slipped.
Friends and co-workers had noticed changes since the separation and commented on how she seemed to glow with enthusiasm and optimism.
Her world was now under control, and for the first time since law school Susan Beckwith felt really alive.
11:10 A.M.
Outside the Metro Lounge, Frank Salter wavered between visiting his attorney's office, just a few doors to the north, to get the latest word on the divorce, or heading for another of his old hangouts. Parrott=s Bar and Grill was only half a block to the south. The neon parrot sign pulsing and glowing over the sidewalk proved irresistible. Salter walked south.
Parrott's daytime bartender, Marvin "Spinner" Mepps, spotted Frank entering through the back door and smiled at the cop he'd known for a dozen years. "Do you want a Beam, Frank?" he asked.
"Only if you'll have one with me, Spinner," was the reply.
Mepps poured the Jim Beam for Salter, a schnapps for himself. Before the two could even toast, a customer at a table called for a drink. Mepps left to serve him.
When Spinner turned again, he spotted Frank near the back door by the cigarette machine, preparing to leave. Mepps walked over to say goodbye. Salter, knowing Mepps was worried about a court appearance for a speeding violation the next day, put his arms around the bartender. "Spinner, you be good and don't get into any trouble. I'll see later."
Mepps hugged back, said goodbye and watched as Frank Salter walked out the back door.
11:20 A.M.
The law firm of Matuzak and Matuzak, sandwiched between a discount furniture outlet and a liquor store, is a far cry from the plush offices of the big firms a few blocks to the east, across the river. The Matuzak firm did just fine, however, in this blue collar neighborhood, practicing wills, trusts, and estate law while handling a few divorce and minor criminal cases.
Fred, the father, and Dan, the son, didn't make the big bucks, but they didn't have the costs and the headaches either. And, both were able to spend much more time with their families than most of their acquaintances in private practice.
Matuzak and Matuzak was between temps and the reception area was empty when Salter walked in. Frank could hear a voice behind Dan's door. It sounded like the attorney was on the telephone. Frank grabbed a magazine and sat on the vinyl covered sofa. The booze and long shift of the previous night finally caught up with him and he dozed off.
When Dan Matuzak came out a few minutes later, Salter appeared to be half asleep and quite drunk. His suspicion was confirmed when Frank opened one eye and grinned up at him. "I'm pretty drunk," he said.
"Come on into my office," said Matuzak. "I've got a letter for you from Susan's attorney."
"Oh, yeah. That other legal eagle bitch." Frank was still grinning but there was an edge to his voice. He lurched to his feet, followed Matuzak into the office and slumped into a chair.
The attorney reached for an envelope and handed it to Frank. Salter studied the envelope a moment, then handed it back to Matuzak. "You read it, Dan. I can't pretend to understand all that legal mumbo-jumbo."
"Frank," the attorney said, "You'll recall in September Susan wrote asking that you submit a proposal of divorce terms. I replied on October tenth and this is Susan's response to those terms."
He slipped the letter from the envelope and began reading: "Dear Dan, Please be advised that your proposal requires no response as a result of the fact that the same is totally outside the bounds of reasonableness."
Startled, Frank sat straight and reached for the letter. "Huh! What the hell! What does that mean?"
Dan Matuzak looked uncomfortable. "It means you'll have to fight to keep the cabin. The letter goes on to say it's in her name, too, and she wants it sold.
You'll either have to buy her out or sell it and move out when the divorce is final."
Frank was confused and angry. "But that's not what we agreed to. We agreed she'd get the house, which I helped pay for, and I'd get the cabin and she'd make the payments for the next four years."
Matuzak spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders. "I'm sorry. You don't have it on paper, Frank."
"On paper, my ass! The bitch and I had an agreement!" Salter slammed the letter on the desk.
"Look, We can get an accounting of every penny each of you spent: On the house, the cabin, the cars, credit cards, everything; then let the court decide who gets what."
“Screw that! I don't need the headache." The anger faded as Frank thought for a moment and said resignedly, "Go ahead and process the goddamn divorce. I just want to get this over with and get on with my life."
"That's probably for the best, Frank. Make it a clean break. She owes you nothing. You owe her nothing."
Frank rose. "Do what it takes, Dan. Just get that bitch out of my life." He shook hands and headed for the door. Matuzak glanced at his watch. It was 11:45 a.m., almost time for lunch.
11:55 A.M.
Susan was waiting in Judge Heyburn's second floor chamber with her plan for court rotation when the Chief District Judge came bustling through the door. There had been a delay in court, he explained, and he was late for a speech he had to deliver at a Bar Association luncheon.
Heyburn himself was now making a run at a Circuit Court judgeship, other candidates were also speaking and it was imperative that he attend the luncheon.
The Chief Judge apologized to Susan, asked if she would leave the copy on his desk and he would speak to her later in the day, after having had a chance to review it.
Susan took no offense. The two were friends. Heyburn had been an Assistant Prosecutor and her supervisor when she'd first been hired as an assistant in the appellate division. He had been delighted when she followed him to District Court where they were able to renew a working relationship.
She dropped the copy on his desk. Heyburn watched as she left the chamber and walked down the judicial corridor toward the west elevator.
11:57 A.M.
On her way back to chambers Susan met Elizabeth Burden and Judge Kenyon, both still in robes, in the corridor. She stopped to chat, told them the new courtroom rotation plan was completed and that Judge Heyburn had a copy.
Judge Kenyon, too, had a luncheon engagement, his with an assistant prosecutor he now saw walking toward him. As he politely excused himself, Elizabeth told Susan she was going to have a quick cup of coffee in the jury room with her court reporter and get back to work. She invited Susan to join them. Susan smiled, promised to meet her there, and continued toward the elevator.
CHAPTER 4
12:00 Noon
Karen Boneen, a deputy clerk in the Criminal Division office of District Court, was at her desk and concentrating hard on her work, when she was startled by a knock at the office door. She reached for the buzzer that unlocked the door then, remembering security precautions, changed her mind. She rose from the desk, walked to the door and placed her eye at the peephole.
The fisheye lens revealed a man wearing a light blue jacket and a baseball cap. The man, whom she did not recognize, smiled pleasantly and waved at the peephole. Karen opened the door and the man stepped inside. She closed the door behind him. "Can I help you?" the clerk asked.
"Has Judge Beckwith left for lunch or is she still in her chamber?" He grinned and Karen caught a faint whiff of liquor.
"I don't know, but I'll be happy to check." She started toward the judge's chamber, then turned back. "What's your name? So I can tell Judge Beckwith you're here."
Stepping out of the elevator into the first floor judicial corridor, Susan paused to say a brief hello to another court employee, then set off at a brisk pace toward her chamber.
At the far end of the corridor, inside the Criminal Division office, Susan could see one of the newer deputy clerks talking to a man wearing a blue jacket and baseball cap. The deputy clerk looked back, spotted Susan and pointed. The man brushed by the clerk, started toward her. Susan clenched her jaw. She really didn't need this. Not today.
He slowed, then paused as Susan nodded and passed him in the corridor. Walking a pace behind as she reached the chamber door and opened it, he followed her inside. The door closed softly behind them.
Karen Boneen didn't see the two enter Judge Beckwith's chamber as she returned to her desk to start typing the overdue adjournments. She looked up and smiled as two co-workers stopped to chat before heading out to lunch. Karen mentioned that she had just let in Judge Beckwith's husband.
"My God, no!" said one of the girls. "They're getting divorced!"
12:07:00 PM
The internal security alarm alerted police dispatcher Helen Huggins to a potential problem. The time was later confirmed by a computerized time-check voice on a tape which automatically recorded the current time on all incoming and outgoing calls. A flashing light showed the alarm came from deep inside the Hall, from the chamber of District Court Judge Susan Beckwith.
Helen dialed the Judge's chamber. The phone rang twice, then clicked as it was answered.
"Hello."
"Susan, is that you?"
"Yes."
Huggins relaxed. The Judge's voice was calm and, as always, self-assured. "This is police dispatch. Is everything all right there?"
"Yes." A pause, then: "Not---nothing is all right. My husband is pointing a gun at my head as we speak."
"You're kidding!"
"I'm not."
"Okay. Is he intoxicated?"
"Yes, he is."
"We'll get someone right up there."
"Thank you."
Helen reacted swiftly. She'd known both Judge Beckwith and her husband, police officer Frank Salter, casually during her nine years as a police dispatcher. Helen was aware the two were going through a divorce but didn't know the details. Rumor around the Hall had it that it was an especially difficult separation.
12:07:30 P.M.
Police Captain David McBain, commander of the second shift of on-duty uniformed street patrol officers, was at his desk typing a request for assignment when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver, sounding distracted when he answered. "Captain McBain speaking
The call was from dispatcher Helen Huggins. "Yeah, Captain,@ she said, "Just got an alarm from Judge Beckwith's chamber. Frank Salter is up there with a gun pointed at her head."
"All right. Thanks."
"Whom do you want from the street?"
"As many as you . . . send several."
"Okay."
As Huggins turned to the radio to call in other officers, McBain got up from his chair, walked through the Communication Lieutenant's office and into the report room where plainclothes officer Al Gideon and uniformed patrolman Colin Harvey were finishing paperwork on recent arrests.
"Are you two armed?" asked McBain.