Dave sat at his desk, the morning newspaper unread. He’d brought it with him to the office. He stared at the headline: MAN CONFESSES TO STRANGLING EIGHT-YEAR-OLD. He tossed the newspaper in the trash, then stared at his messages. A call from a former client, a call from his ex-girlfriend, a call from someone he didn’t know, a prospective client, he guessed, and a call from Judge David Caballero. A good judge. Fair, anyway. He made a mental note to write him a check for his reelection campaign. The system sucked. Writing checks for good reasons. And writing checks for bad reasons. He noticed his secretary standing at the door. She had a file in her hand. “Judge Caballero is here to see you.”
“Send him in, Margie.”
He stood, half surprised the judge was there in person. He’d come by before, to ask him to take a difficult case, a case nobody wanted to take. He suspected he was knocking at his door now for a similar reason. He was old-fashioned, the judge, preferred to drop in on lawyers rather than call them on the phone. A dying breed.
“Judge, good to see you.”
“Dave. How are you?” His voice was friendly, controlled, formal. A voice he’d cultivated over the years. It made people feel comfortable. But never too far away from work.
Dave was already standing in front of him, shaking his hand, offering him a chair. “It’s good to see you, Judge. Taking a long lunch?”
“Well, a late one anyway.”
“How’s Blanca?”
“Oh, she’s fine. Thanks for asking. She keeps thinking of women you should marry. She keeps a list.”
“That’s very sweet of her, to think of me.”
“Don’t you believe it. You should see the list.”
They both laughed—nothing forced, an easy laugh—then settled into an uncomfortable quiet.
Finally, Dave tapped his fingers on his desk and asked, “What can I help you with, Judge?”
“It’s about the Gonzalez case.”
“The Gonzalez case?”
“The Angela Gonzalez case.”
“Oh, the little girl.”
“Yes.”
“Awful.”
“Yes.”
“I want to appoint you to represent—”
“I won’t do it, Judge.”
“That was fast. You didn’t even let me finish.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, Judge. I don’t need to tell you how much I respect you. You’re a fine judge, and I’ve always tried to take my share of court-appointed cases. But this time, Judge—”
“Nobody wants this case, Dave.”
“I can’t do it.”
“Why not? As an officer of the court, Dave, you’re obliged. You have a duty.”
“With all due respect to everybody’s civil rights, I can’t represent that man. I can’t. Don’t do this to me, Judge.”
“You’re a good lawyer.”
“I can’t do this. Give it to someone else. I’ve never turned a case down, have I, Judge? Good, bad, evil, low-profile, high-profile, murder, rape, whatever—if you handed me a case, I did my job. But not this one.”
The judge nodded. “Mind if I ask why?”
“It’s personal.”
The judge kept nodding. “I see. Got any suggestions?”
Dave sat at his desk and looked around at his comfortable surroundings. An enviable office, neat, tasteful. Not one piece of art in sight. You’d think a man of means would at least own a fucking painting. He caught himself. He knew what he was doing. He beat up on himself when he was upset. The judge’s visit. The things that had happened to Andrés Segovia. A little girl, dead.
He remembered a colleague talking about “sex rings.” That’s the phrase he used. “They use the children of Juárez, use them for their games.” Games, a neutral euphemism. “Most of the men are from our side. We export more than freedom, baby, I’ll tell you that.” He hated thinking about that conversation, hated knowing what was out there. He knew most of those kids never turned out any good. Andrés Segovia was still something of a miracle.
Hell no, Judge, I won’t take that case.