Mistaken Identity

Bennie fell quiet, considering it briefly. The only sound in the room was the dog’s snoring. “I don’t buy it. I like that bright-line test. Either you’re blood or you ain’t.”

“I know you do, but it doesn’t work, does it? It gets you into trouble I needn’t detail.”

“Is that a fancy way of saying ‘I told you so’?” she asked, and Grady laughed, which reminded her of how much fun it was to make him laugh. But you had to talk first to do that, and be around each other. Could they be, again? “So who’s my family, under the new improved definition?”

“You tell me. It’s your family.”

Bennie thought a minute. “I guess Hattie, my mother, and you. Not Connolly? Not my father?”

“Neither, not in my definition.”

Bennie swallowed, hard. “At least he kept clippings about me and came to my mother’s funeral. And we know he didn’t leave her, she left him. We don’t know much about him to judge him so harshly.”

“Maybe you should find out.”

“Maybe I should.” Bennie set her coffee mug on the floor and stood up. “Can I borrow your car?”

Grady laughed in disbelief. “Now?”

“Can you think of a better time than now?” she asked, and Grady knew any response was futile.

95

It was dusk when Judge Harrison Guthrie set sail in his sixteen-footer, the Jurist Prudent. Other sailboats and motorboats were coming in as he set out. To a man, their skippers were burnt from a full day of sun. “Don’t stay out too long, buddy,” someone shouted to him, boozy, from a motorboat. The judge waved back dismissively. He didn’t know the man’s name. He hadn’t made any friends at the marina, or on the bay, for that matter. He liked his solitude when he sailed and the only friend he needed was his wife, Maudie.

The judge tacked the Jurist Prudent into the breeze, a mild gust puffing eastward across the bay. The mainsail luffed as he turned, then snapped as it filled with wind. His wrinkled hand gripped the heavy line with the strength of a much younger man. He’d left the city after the Connolly verdict, stopped home only to change into his clothes and kiss Maudie good-bye. One solid peck on the cheek, like a rubber stamp. He’d been tempted to kiss her on the mouth, but it had been so long since he’d done that she would have found it odd. Then he’d driven down for a quick sail, as was his habit on the weekend. Maudie didn’t suspect anything.

The judge looked at the sky, his hand on the tiller and the boat parting the water with ease. The western half of the sky, where the weather came from, was darkening quickly. Nimbus clouds gathered, a deepening gray tinged with soft black at the fringe. The judge could smell the water hanging in the air and feel its dampness on his cheek. A storm was coming, but he anticipated it with a kind of hope.

Maybe there would be lightning. The judge knew a fair amount about lightning, had even studied its history. In early times it was believed to be evil spirits, and villages had rung church bells to ward it off. Later, lightning was assumed to be fire; finally Ben Franklin proved otherwise. Its anatomy was remarkable, too. A ribbon of pure electric energy, three to four miles long, but only an inch in diameter.

The judge’s watery eyes searched the sky, growing darker. The storm clouds collected, milling together like old friends. The wind picked up, filling the sails and testing their thick cloth. Judge Guthrie wasn’t afraid. He would leave Maudie well provided for, and the children and grandchildren. He had done good work as a lawyer, filed papers to be proud of. Then he had become a judge, the capstone of his legal career. Any of the opinions, concurrences, or dissents that bore his name would stand forever. Making law for all time; making legal history. Judge Guthrie had always written with that in mind, deciding cases under the law, with fairness, decency, and justice. There had been only one exception.

The Connolly case. The judge had been indebted to Henry Burden and it would have been dishonorable to turn him down once the inevitable request had been made. The judge knew that the prosecutor, Dorsey Hilliard, owed a debt to Henry Burden as well, but at least the prosecutor had been acting in faith with his sworn duty as he fulfilled Burden’s bidding. The judge had not. For the first and only time, Harrison Guthrie had opposed the law.

The judge’s hand held fast to the tiller and didn’t waver, even as his thoughts darkened like the clouds. He had made rulings contrary to law, for the purpose of achieving the wrong result. He had violated his oath and he had disgraced the bench. Even if his misdeeds never came to light, Judge Guthrie knew what he had done. He had acted in combination with murderers, causing death and mayhem. He had profaned the name of justice and transgressed as surely as the robbers, murderers, and miscreants who stood before him day after day. Even Judge Guthrie conceded he should pay for what he had done. No one was above the law, and especially not a judge.

And so Harrison Guthrie judged himself, in the end, and sailed swiftly into the darkness.

96

Star connected with a right cross that split the skin under Mojo Harris’s eyebrow like a boiled hot dog. Yeah! Star thought. Sweat poured from his face and chest. He danced backward, light on his feet. It was late in the sixth and he was a round away from winning. The crowd knew it, too. The Blue Horizon rocked with shouting and cheering.

Harris staggered back and blood bubbled instantly to the cut. It gaped open, skin flaps flopping on each side. Star would have punched Harris again but the ref rushed between the fighters and steadied Harris’s bruised face while he squinted at the cut. “Can you see, Mojo?” the ref shouted over the crowd noise. “How many fingers I got?”

“Two!”

“Then box!” the ref said, and Star lunged forward, swinging. He didn’t want the fight stopped, nobody did. Star knew he’d fought the fight of his life. He’d beaten Harris on points so far, each round but the third.

Ring! went the bell ending the sixth, and Harris’s arms dropped. He was whipped, dead on his feet. Star glared at Harris before Harris hustled back to his corner. Star was tellin’ Harris he was licked. Tellin’ him that he, Star Harald, owned this ring now. That the next time Harris came out, Star would pound his eye ‘til it fuckin’ exploded.

“Star, come on back!” Star’s corner shouted. It was Browning callin’ him in. Star stayed in the ring, lettin’ Harris know. Servin’ notice, demandin’ respect. The crowd roared at the grandstanding and Star gulped it down like cold beer. His first professional fight, an eight-rounder, and he was about to win it. A TV camera focused on him and reporters took notes. Star felt the best he had ever felt in his life. Except Anthony wasn’t here to see it.

“Come on, Star!” Browning yelled. “Come on back! You only got a second, man!”

Star looked at the crowd, standin’ up for him. The men clappin’, hands over their heads, the women givin’ him the eye. Their faces, all excited, so close to the ring he could make them out. Everybody from the gym was there. Mr. Gaines, Danny Morales, and his foxy wife. Everybody but Anthony. It killed Star when he shoulda been the happiest. Where the fuck was that squirrel with the hair plugs? Star scanned the crowd and found the dude. He was in the back, his head wrapped in goddamn bandages. Makin’ sure Star kept up his end of the bargain. Harris in seven. Dude better have kept his end.

“Star! Come in, get your ass back here! Get your fuckin’ ass back here!”

Star turned and sauntered back to his corner, the crowd on its feet, going crazy for him. They were seeing history and they knew it. Years from now they could say they were at Star Harald’s first professional fight. He wouldn’t be fighting at the Blue anymore, he’d be at the Convention Center or Bally’s. Bruce Willis would sit ringside and the TV cameras would be pay-per-view. Star’s purse would go from twenty grand to twenty million.