She’s dead, so it goes away. “I have no comment. Excuse me, I’d like to get through here without serious bodily injury. To you.”
From a black reporter: “Will Judge Hamilton plead guilty?”
Does the Pope shit in the woods? “Of course not.”
And a follow-up, shouted from the back of the crowd: “Is the judge guilty, Ms. Morrone?”
Your guess is as good as mine, bucko. “Absolutely not. My client is innocent of any and all charges against him.”
I wedged my way through the throng, ducked a thousand more questions, and stepped inside the station house. I’d never been in a police station, but I didn’t expect it to look like the home office of an insurance company. The walls glowed eggshell white and the matching tile floor was buffed to perfection. The baseboards were done in teal, as were the doorjambs and other molding. The hall was quiet, no one was anywhere in sight. I figured all the insurance agents were out harassing people like you and me.
“May I help you?” said a gray-haired receptionist, who looked up from the mystery novel she was reading. Her back was to a large window, and reporters pressed against it like chimps at the zoo.
“Yes. Can you make those reporters disappear?”
“Certainly.” She got up and dropped the Levolors in their faces. Mystery readers take no prisoners.
“I’m Rita-”
“I know, I saw you on TV. Have a seat in the waiting room. Lieutenant Dunstan is expecting you.”
The color scheme of off-white and teal prevailed in the waiting room, and group photos of the Radnor police in the 1900s hung on the walls, displayed like family portraits. In each one, tall white men stood in front of a woodsy backdrop, sporting handlebar mustaches and greatcoats.
“You must be Ms. Morrone,” said a deep voice. I stood up and shook the hand of Lieutenant Dunstan, a tall white man with a handlebar mustache. I avoided the double-take.
“Uh, yes.”
“Would you like some coffee? We can have Hankie here get you some.” He waved at the receptionist, who looked up expectantly.
“No, thank you. I’d just like to see my client, Judge Hamilton.”
“So you’re the one. I read about you,” he said, his tone convivial. His face was open and earnest, with large blue eyes and a smile that said,
“How is the judge?”
“He’s fine. Fine. He’s back in his cell.”
“You have him in a cell?”
“Where else would we put him?”
My inexperience, showing like a bra strap. “Is he in handcuffs?”
“No, we usually use the cell or the handcuffs, but not both. Belt and suspenders, don’t you think?”
I thought I heard Hankie sniggering, but it could have been my imagination. “Judge Hamilton is a federal district judge. He doesn’t need to be in a cell.”
“He’s also under arrest for first-degree murder, Ms. Morrone. We can’t give him special treatment here.”
Not with the press watching, anyway. “Is he in a cell with other… detainees?”
“Nope. He’s by himself. Don’t have a lot of violent crime here, you know. Lower Merion Township acts as a buffer between us and the city.”
Thanks a lot, I lived in Lower Merion Township. “How many murders do you have here in, say, a year?”
“Not a one, usually. Only a couple murders in the last five years, if you don’t count that reporter I killed this morning.” He laughed and Hankie did, too.
“Justifiable homicide,” I said, and they both laughed again. “By the way, how did the press find out about the arrest?”
“They have scanners on all the departments. They know as soon as we do, there’s nothing we can do about it. We’re putting out a press release now. It says Judge Hamilton’s been charged with homicide in the stabbing death of Wayne resident Patricia Sullivan.”
“Have you recovered the murder weapon?” I felt silly saying it, like in Clue. Was it Professor Plum with the pipe in the conservatory?
“No, and we looked. That’s all she wrote, I should say, Hankie wrote. She’s good at English. She does all the press releases.” Dunstan seemed inclined to brag about Hankie for a spell, but I was in no mood to shoot the shit.
“Can I see Judge Hamilton?”
“Sure. Follow me.” He led me down another white hallway, then opened a teal door onto a small white room. At the far end of the room was a counter with a small brown refrigerator on it that said EVIDENCE ONLY, and a vacant desk with a new blue Selectric. Next to the desk was a skinny wooden bench with steel handcuffs locked to its legs. The handcuffs seemed jarringly out of place in this corporate setting, until I realized they weren’t. This was a jail, Fiske was imprisoned, and it wasn’t funny anymore.
“What evidence do the police have to support the murder charge against Judge Hamilton, Lieutenant?”
His smile faded. “Didn’t you get a copy of the criminal complaint, the affidavit of probable cause?”
“No.”
“I’ll get you another, the judge has his. But I can tell you we have a witness.”
“Who saw what?”
“She saw his black Jaguar in the driveway at the carriage house at about the time the murder occurred.”
“Judge Hamilton’s is not the only black Jaguar in Wayne, Lieutenant.”
“It’s the only one with a license plate that says GARDEN-2. She saw that, too.”
Oh, no. The vanity plate, of Kate’s choosing; her plate said GARDEN-1. “The witness is sure it said GARDEN-2?”
He nodded. “She also saw him get into the car and drive away, fast.”
“Did she identify Judge Hamilton?” I said, my heart sinking faster than I could professionally justify.
“Yes, from a photo array, and we asked the judge about it when we brought him in for questioning.”
“You questioned the judge without a lawyer?”
“He waived his rights, I was present when he did it. He said he didn’t need a lawyer, he had nothing to hide. We weren’t satisfied with his alibi or his answers to some of our questions, so we charged him. We feel confident we have the right man, Ms. Morrone.” He sounded genuinely regretful, and was almost becoming the first authority figure I ever liked.
“Who was this witness?”
“I can’t get into the details with you. I’ll bring you the affidavit just as soon as Hankie gets it copied up. Preliminary hearings take place within ten days.”
“When is the arraignment?”
“The district justice will be here within the hour.”
