It was twenty-eight blocks from the Green Zebra to Foley Square. The sun was out, but it wasn’t too warm. Wispy clouds were spinning their ever-changing patterns across the sky. I was facing a day cooped up in the courthouse. So I decided to walk.
It took a little over half an hour, though I didn’t have much control over the time. I just let myself be carried along by the tide of people, moving at its speed, regulated only by lights at crosswalks, feeling like I was moving even when we were still. Being on foot in other cities just doesn’t feel as electric, and I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it.
In Foley Square they were still busy with the TV show. They must have been expecting some actors to show up soon, because a boisterous crowd had gathered. The security guards kept herding people back and sending clouds of pigeons flapping into the air. Then the director threw a fit when a bunch of worried-looking guys in cheap suits clutching bulging files of forms and photographs wandered in front of the cameras. A cop stepped in, calmed the director down, then steered the group toward the INS building on Worth Street. I skirted around the craziness and crossed Centre Street. A knot of photographers was waiting at the foot of the fenced-off section of steps leading to the courthouse’s main entrance. Maybe some big case was set to conclude that day. I was tempted to wait and see whether it would be a triumphant ADA who emerged, or a vindicated defendant. But I had urgent work to do, so I carried on around the side of the building without pausing.
The glass was still broken in the staff entrance door. The guard granted me a tiny nod of recognition this time, but he still wasn’t ready for conversation. I made my way quickly to the janitors’ room. Punched in. Changed into my coverall. Collected my cart. Checked my supplies. And took the elevator to the fourth floor.
Room 432 was empty this time. I double-checked for semi-comatose geriatrics, then pushed my cart through the gap in the fence, wheeled it past the lawyers’ tables, and left it blocking the doorway to the judge’s chamber with my broom balanced precariously so that it would fall and warn me if anyone tried to squeeze by.
The chamber turned out to be a triangular shape. I guessed that was so it would tessellate with the adjoining segment of the hexagonal building. It had a single window that looked out over the roof of the portico. I could see the back of one of the statues. Truth. Its crude metal support was visible from that angle, bent and rusted but still doing its job. That seemed appropriate, somehow.
The judge’s private desk was sitting under the window. It was made of old, battered mahogany with a green leather top. I searched its drawers. I love how desks are almost always left open in civilian offices. I did come across one that was locked once, in Luxembourg, on an early case. I assumed that must be where the important stuff was kept. It took me four days to get enough uninterrupted time to pick the lock. And when I did get it open, I found…sugar and powdered creamer for the guy’s coffee. I guess it’s just a question of priorities.
This judge’s priority seemed to be opera. His drawers were full of programs and tickets from the Met, and he had a signed photograph of James Levine on the wall, so I figured he wasn’t much of a #metoo guy. His shelves were stacked with masks—his tastes clearly ran to the grotesque—and a bunch of stage props I guessed he’d bought in charity auctions.
The only other piece of furniture in the room was a leather Chesterfield-style couch. Its surface was cracked and thoroughly beaten up, like it had been taken from the stage set for a London gentlemen’s club. There was a plain white pillow at one end, and it was long enough for a person to sleep on. A short person, anyway.
Next to the couch was the door to a closet. Inside it four spare shirts were hanging on a rail, along with four ties. There was a pair of dress shoes on the floor, and behind those, three pairs of women’s pumps. Each had four-inch heels. One was black. The others were scarlet. They were all a smaller size than the men’s. There had to be a story there. Any other time I’d have been consumed with curiosity, but that morning I couldn’t get past the feeling of disappointment at finding nothing more than some incongruous footwear. I knew it was unrealistic to expect to unearth Pardew’s documents in the first place I looked, and in a way it wouldn’t have been right. It would have been an insult to my father’s work ethic. He valued nothing that came too easily. I remember being in disgrace one time because my school report card came back with an A for achievement in math, but a five—the lowest score—for effort. I savored the memory for a moment—more bitter than sweet, but capturing my father’s character in a nutshell—then doubled my resolve to search every room in the building if I had to. And as many other buildings as necessary, if it turned out the documents had been smuggled out somewhere.
On my way back to the basement I decided to pause on the first floor. I wanted to watch the security operation for a while, and assess its effectiveness. With the current emphasis on terrorism I expected it to be capable of stopping people from smuggling items into the building. But what about the other way around?
Sometimes systemic weaknesses can stem from inadequate equipment, but usually human error is to blame. Most often, habit. People stop thinking about what they’re doing or looking at their results, and instead just rinse and repeat. Take the World War II Enigma machine as an example. My grandfather was one of the first to see an example after a prototype was stolen by the Polish resistance. The machine was soon passed on to another part of British Intelligence, because cryptography was not his strong suit. But he did hear that the key to cracking the code was the way the German operators used to set the machine’s first rotor. Their operating procedure called for it to be changed every day. If this had been done at random, there’d have been no way to decipher intercepted messages. Even with the latest breakthroughs with computers, there wouldn’t have been enough processing power to try all the possible permutations in the time that was available. But one of the analysts came up with a theory. What would happen if every morning the operators just advanced the first rotor one position? That would be the easiest way to conform with their instructions. The code breakers tested the possibility and their success rate skyrocketed, because they’d cut the number of potential combinations by a factor of ten.
Eliminating random behavior was key to defeating Enigma, and it was a similar story here. Clear patterns were emerging in the guards’ actions. There were two of them on duty. One of them was pulling every fifth person for a closer inspection. The other, everyone with a metal briefcase. If you wanted to avoid a detailed search for any reason, all you’d have to do is watch. Whether that had any implications for the whereabouts of the Pardew file wasn’t yet clear. It would require further evaluation. But the camera-confiscating guard was doing a better job that day, at least. I watched a guy emerge from the line, hand over his form, wait, then get his GoPro back and leave. There’d clearly been no unauthorized selfies for him.
When the elevator door opened in the basement I caught a glimpse of Frank Carrodus. He was walking fast, turning the corner into the corridor that led to the rear exit. I left my cart by the wall—one of its wheels had developed a squeak—and followed him. I reached the corner. Peered around. And could see nothing. A folding screen had been pulled across the whole width of the corridor. I crept closer to it, stood still, and listened. At first there was only silence. Then a door opened. I heard footsteps. Something being carried out? Followed by more footsteps. I counted six sets. Then a seventh. I heard breathing. It was light and fast, but not nervous. There was no sense of panic or urgency. It was more like some kind of established operation was under way. I heard the exterior door scrape open. Most of the footsteps trailed away. There was a sound like hands slapping together. Then the door closed again. There was only one set of footsteps now. And they were coming my way.