Prior Bad Acts

She had known how to use her looks, too, in a way that was subtle, and classy. Many a man in the witness box had fallen for the trap and come away from the experience mentally eviscerated without even quite realizing how it had happened.

“You think I’m not appalled by the murder of Marlene Haas and those two children?” she said. “You think I don’t see those crime scene photos in my sleep? Those children mutilated and hanging by their necks like broken dolls? You think I don’t want their killer to pay? To pay more than this state’s justice system can dole out?”

There were tears in her voice now. She was wrung out, her ability to keep emotions at bay worn away in the aftermath of being attacked.

Kovac pushed at her limits. “Then why don’t you have the guts to do something about it?”

“I should make rulings in favor of the prosecution so they can be immediately overturned on appeal?”

“The buck has to stop somewhere.”

“It does. It stops with me. I want convictions to stand up on their own, not lean against personal prejudices, not be open to debate or attack.”

“So you let defense attorneys just have their way? You let these dirtbag rapists and killers have more rights than the people whose lives they’ve ruined?” Kovac said, his own temper rising.

“I do my job,” she snapped. “I’m going to be sick.”

“Me too.”

“No. I’m going to be sick. Now.”

Kovac glanced over at her. She was leaning forward and breathing too quickly. “Oh! Jesus!”

He swerved the car to the curb and hit the brakes too hard. Carey Moore pushed the door open, turned, and fell out onto the pavement, retching.

Christ, Kovac thought as he shoved the car into park and bolted out the driver’s door, this was all he needed, to be responsible for further injuring a judge. That could go on his record right above insubordination.

She was on her hands and knees, half in the gutter, half on the sidewalk, heaving. Kovac knelt down beside her, not sure if he should touch her.

“Are you all right?” he asked stupidly.

In a stronger moment she would have decapitated him for being an asshole. Now she simply drew herself into a ball, shaking, and, he thought, maybe crying. He began to wish he’d stayed behind with the press and let Liska drive her home. He barely knew how to handle women when they weren’t crying.

Fumbling, he dug a handkerchief out of his hip pocket and held it out to her. He put his other hand on her shoulder.

“It’s clean,” he said. “Let me help you up.”

The judge took a blind swing at him. “Leave me alone!”

She took a couple of shaky breaths and pushed herself up, sitting back against her heels. “Just take me home and leave me the hell alone!”

A little way down the street, a couple of hookers stood outside a tattoo parlor, smoking Christ knew what and staring. The tall one in red took a couple of steps toward them.

“Honey? You need a cop?”

Kovac scowled. “I’m a cop.”

“I wasn’t axing you.” She took a couple of steps closer. NBA tall, with an Adam’s apple the size of a fist. Transvestite. “I’m axing the lady.”

Carey Moore held up a hand. “I’m fine. Thank you. He’s fine. He’s driving me home.”

“Looks like he’s been driving you with a golf club, sugar.”

“She was mugged,” Kovac said.

The transvestite sniffed in disbelief. Kovac dug out his badge and held it out. “You want to get in the car too? I can give you a ride to Booking.”

“For what? Standing up?”

“For pissing me off.”

“Kovac, shut up,” the judge snapped. “I want to go home.”

The transvestite went back to the tattoo parlor as Kovac helped Carey Moore to her feet. As wobbly as a newborn fawn, she tried to steady herself with a hand on the roof of the car, but started to fall again as her knees gave way.

Kovac caught her against him. “Easy. You should have stayed in the hospital. I’m taking you back.”

“You’re taking me home,” she said stubbornly. “I can vomit without a medical professional supervising.”

“You’re dizzy.”

“I have a concussion. Of course I’m dizzy.”

Kovac helped her ease back down into the passenger’s seat and squatted down in front of her so he could see her face in the glow of the streetlight and the neon in the window of the pawnshop behind him. She looked like she might have been an extra in Dawn of the Dead, but there was still a glint of determination in her eyes.

“You’re a hell of a tough cookie, Judge. I’ll say that for you. But that’s not always the smartest thing to be.”

“Just take me home,” she said. “You can come back and visit your girlfriend later.”

Kovac recognized the glow two blocks before they came onto the source. The brilliant white lights the television news people used to create the impression that the sun had crashed to earth.

“Oh, fuck this,” he growled as the vans came into view. It wasn’t going to matter a damn whether the perp had gotten Carey Moore’s address out of her wallet or her briefcase. He could get it now, sitting at home in his underwear, watching the goddamn news. “They double-teamed us.”

He glanced over at the judge. She looked as stunned as she had probably looked when she got hit from behind in that parking ramp.

“Looks like one of your neighbors ratted you out,” Kovac said, just to be cranky. The truth of it was, it isn’t all that hard to find people.The State v. Karl Dahl was a huge case that had garnered national attention. Newspeople could have been trailing Carey Moore since the day the trial was assigned to her. Anyone could have.

A couple of police cruisers were parked cockeyed in the street, the uniforms trying to keep the newsies corralled in a manageable space, a job about as easy as herding cats.

“Oh, my God. This is my home,” the judge said, mostly to herself.

“All’s fair in the news business,” Kovac said. “These people would plant themselves in the devil’s asshole if they thought they could get a jump on the competition.”

“I don’t want them here.”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that. Is there a back way in? An alley?”

“No.”

“Duck down before they see you,” Kovac said. He turned the wheel and glided the car in along the curb, running his window down.

“Hey!” he shouted at a reporter and a cameraman who had snagged a prime spot in the judge’s driveway with a wedge of the house as a backdrop. “Get the fuck out of the driveway! You’re on private property!”

He turned to Carey Moore and lowered his voice. “Let’s hope they were rolling live. Their producers flip out if someone uses the F word.”

Kovac put on his game face, got out of the car, and approached the news crew, holding up his badge. “Pack up your toys and get out in the street with the rest of your kind.”

He recognized the reporter, a perky blonde with too much blush. Mindy. Mandy. Cindy. She stuck a microphone at him. “Detective, Candy Cross, Channel Three News. What can you tell us about Judge Moore’s condition?”

“Nothing. Pack it up and get out of the way.”

“We’re here to speak with Judge Moore-”

“I don’t care if you’re here for the Second Coming, princess,” Kovac said. “You’re on private property, and I can have you removed and charged for that. How would you like your pals out there to roll that film at ten?”

The mob was now moving toward them, handheld lights bobbing up and down, red lights glowing on cameras.