CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Tampa, Florida

Friday 3:00 p.m.

February 16, 2001

THE SUBPOENA COMMANDED ME to testify before a panel appointed by the Judicial Counsel, who seemed to investigate judges at the drop of a gavel in Tampa these days.

We’d had several of our state court judges resign under pressure from The Florida Bar’s Judicial Qualifications Commission. We all knew the JQC was investigating alleged improprieties by other judges. Ranging from allegations of gambling using county computers, to sexual misconduct with subordinates and case fixing, the investigations were alarming.

But the state JQC investigations hadn’t reached the federal judiciary. Until now.

The process server came into my chambers respectfully enough. He asked me my name and handed me the folded subpoena in an envelope. As he left, I removed the subpoena and began to read it.

I was being called to testify in the matter of a confidential investigation into allegations of misconduct by one of our federal judges. The judge remained unidentified, since the investigation was confidential until charges, if any, were filed.

But whoever had put the subpoena in the envelope had enclosed a copy of an article from the Tribune reporting the story of sexual harassment allegations by two female magistrate judges against “an unnamed federal judge.”

Someone had penciled the letters “CJ” in the margin.

According to the newspaper account, the “unnamed judge” had made “unwanted passes” at the magistrate judges, left suggestive messages on their answering machines and asked them out on dates. In writing, yet.

All the women judges were being subpoenaed to testify. If more instances of harassment were found, the investigation would be spread to other women in the courthouse, including law clerks and support staff.

The old geezer! Who’d have thought he had it in him?

Truly, I didn’t.

I wasn’t fond of the CJ, and I was surely annoyed at his refusal to move me to the new courthouse, but I knew his wife. I didn’t think he’d dare look for a date at work or anywhere else.

Men are often falsely accused of sexual harassment and it’s a hard claim to defend. The CJ struck me as dumb enough to leave messages to women that could be traced, but smarter than to try to date women he worked with.

Besides, I knew both of these magistrate judges. While they were somewhat strident and opinionated, I didn’t believe they would falsely accuse the CJ. Among other things, they did not have the luxury I had of a lifetime appointment. They liked their jobs. If, as the paper said, they were complaining, it was because they had something to complain about.

What was it with men and sex, anyway? Did the recent impeachment of a United States president teach them nothing?

I was figuratively shaking my head over this development while remaining sure that there was more to this story than met the eye. The CJ had a number of detractors and he was unpopular with the junior jurists. I figured there was a hidden motive in this story that I’d have to wait to learn.

Part of me just rebelled against everything. I felt both exhaustion and an overwhelming need for solitude. I was tired of the “George Knows Best” show, Dad’s mid-life crisis, Suzanne’s sweet disposition, constant smile, extended fashion show and incessant twittering, and, most of all, tired of worrying more about Margaret than she was worrying about herself.

I was even tired of Kate’s absence. If I wasn’t running ten miles a day, I would probably have strangled someone that week.

It was a good thing that Margaret didn’t need my help and compassion, I thought on my drive home Friday night along the Bayshore toward Plant Key. Help and compassion were in short supply with me right now and they didn’t seem to be on the immediate horizon, either.

Such was my mind set as I drove across the Plant Key Bridge in the dark at 6:30 Friday night, with a full briefcase, a head full of troubles, and a heavy spirit in need of care.

The tranquil vista of Hillsborough Bay was obscured by February’s early nightfall, the avenue of palms was dark as pitch, and Minaret blocked the lighted downtown Tampa skyline from my view.

Our house, Minaret, is a grand old building. It was built in the 1890s when Tampa’s richest citizen, Henry Plant, wanted a family home. Plant was constructing the Plant Hotel, now the University of Tampa, which he believed would be a Mecca for the rich and famous. When they came to the hotel, he wanted to show off a fabulous home, as well. He wasn’t going to be outdone by his rival, Henry Flagler, who had created such a magnificent hotel in Palm Beach.

Before he could build his house, Plant had to build Plant Key itself. When the Port of Tampa channels were being dredged to allow passage of freighters, Plant persuaded the Army Corps of Engineers to build up enough land mass for Plant Key at the same time.

Plant made his island oval-shaped, with the narrow ends facing south toward Bayshore and out into the Gulf. It’s about a mile wide by two miles long. Plant also built Plant Key Bridge, which connected Plant Key to Bayshore Boulevard, just east of Gandy. Marine life ecosystems weren’t a priority then. If you had an island, you had to have a way to get there, didn’t you?

I pulled under the portico and let the valet park Greta, my Mercedes CLK convertible, and grabbed my briefcase out of the trunk. I prepared to trudge up the front stairs to our flat with all the enthusiasm of Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine.

So lost was I in my own thoughts that I ran right into the broad back of Chief Ben Hathaway, standing in the doorway, waiting for a larger party in front of him to be seated.

Ben turned around, saying, “Hold on a minute, there, partner—Oh, Willa, it’s you.”

“Sorry, Ben. Didn’t see your tail lights.” I flashed him a weak grin. “What seems to be the hold up?”

“I don’t know. Looks like round two of the drunken revelers you had here last Saturday to me,” Ben replied.

I looked through into Aunt Minnie’s tastefully decorated foyer.

When Aunt Minnie had lived here, the house was a private home and these were her secretaries, breakfronts and sideboards. Even the small butler’s table, between the upholstered camel-back sofas in the center, were Aunt Minnie’s pieces, and they were filled to capacity with small children climbing over the arms and the graceful backs.

The soft blue fleur de lis wallpaper had been restored to match its former gilded excellence. Even using modern materials, the wallpaper wouldn’t hold up long after we scrubbed off the sticky paw prints prevalent about three feet off the floor.

Would Aunt Minnie be pleased to have her beautiful things returned to usefulness, or horrified that strangers came into her home for lunch and dinner seven days a week? I felt sure she’d be horrified at the disrespect those unruly, excited children were showing for her furnishings tonight.

“Good grief!” I said, turning on my heel. I left Hathaway there waiting for a table, retraced my steps back down the stairs and around to the back entrance. I’d forgotten that Minaret Krewe would be here in force for the pre-event party to celebrate tomorrow’s Knights of Sant’ Yago Illuminated Night Parade in Ybor City. The grounds were quickly filling up with cars and guests.

I put my head down, watched my path, and carefully made my way around the house in the semi-darkness.

I heard them before I saw their shadows. Two men, close together, were speaking softly. I couldn’t see them clearly. They were too engrossed in their conversation to notice my approach. I recognized the CJ’s voice, raised in stage-whisper anger.

“Damn you, anyway. Why the hell did you have to come here? And why now? I already told you I don’t have any more money.” CJ shoved the smaller man roughly.

He whispered something I couldn’t hear before he pushed back.

Inadvertently eavesdropping, I couldn’t hear the smaller man. Whatever he said angered CJ further, because CJ gave him a push hard enough to challenge his balance.

“Forget it!” CJ said. “Just forget it! It won’t happen! Go crawl back into the hole you came from and leave me alone!”

The smaller man righted himself, said something further, walked around out of my sight and behind a parked van. I thought I saw a flash of white hair, but I couldn’t be certain.

CJ stood there a little longer, raking his hand through his hair and muttering curses loud enough for me to hear. Then he turned and saw me standing, watching.

Not knowing what to do, I simply continued to walk toward the back of the house. As I passed CJ standing in the shadows, I said, “Good evening. Anything I can help you with?”

“No, thank you,” he said.

I’m not sure whether he realized I recognized him or not. I kept my head down. CJ didn’t stop as he walked past me, but he was close. I could feel his heavy breathing and the anger that blew off him like radiating heat from an out-of-control bonfire.

I let out the breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding, marched directly up the back stairs and into the flat without another word. But I was trembling so hard it took me three tries to unlock the door.

Inside, our Labradors, Harry and Bess, were laying by the door, waiting for anyone who happened to come in so that they could immediately lick them to death.

Bess is black and Harry is yellow. Like their namesakes, Harry and Bess Truman, they’re fiercely independent dogs, thoroughly devoted to one another. We got them originally for protection and guard dogs because so many strangers come into what is, after all, our home. Of course, anyone who spends five seconds with Harry and Bess realizes what useless guard dogs they are. They do have big barks and that counts for something, at least to strangers. We still pay the alarm company every month, just in case.

Both Harry and Bess were wild to get out. I went over and opened the back door. If they found the CJ and scared him off the property, so much the better.

“What was that all about, I wonder?” I said to no one as I sat heavily onto the couch to gain a little self-control. I’d recognized Armstrong Otter as soon as I’d seen him standing there. It was the second time the CJ’s connection to Otter had been thrown in my path.

I worried that their connection to each other somehow related to Margaret, and I didn’t know what to do. I would have gone downstairs and found Chief Hathaway, but I didn’t want to give him any more reason to upset Margaret. At least, that’s what I think my motivation was.

George would be working until well into the night. I was beginning to feel like a prisoner in my own home and I couldn’t wait for Gasparilla month to be over so that I could get some of my life back.

I decided to eat scrambled eggs in the kitchen rather than face the crowd downstairs again. George wouldn’t even notice I was missing. Tomorrow night would be another long one as we kept the restaurant open until the wee hours of the morning for folks going to the Knight Parade. I felt entitled to a quiet dinner before the onslaught.

Dressed in yellow pull-on knit slacks and a matching sweatshirt with brightly colored fish on the front, I sat at the dining room table and ate my infamous “Eggs a la Willa.” I’m not sure exactly what I put in the eggs. It’s never the same thing, but just whatever we happen to have that isn’t growing mold.

This time, the final result was heavenly, and I don’t even like eggs. Pumpernickel toast and hot tea completed the meal, which was fine enough to support a great French chardonnay. Not that it matters what I eat with a great French chardonnay.

I intended to think about Margaret, Otter, the CJ and Ron Wheaton. I meant to figure out what the connection was between them and why I felt so uneasy about it all. But by the time I had finished my eggs and wine, I could hardly keep my eyes open and called it a night.

I slept fitfully, and my dreams that night were vivid snapshots of one disjointed scene after another. Ron Wheaton was walking around Minaret, kicking up his heels every now and then, square dancing at the Minaret Krewe Gasparilla Ball with Sandra Kelley as the Queen, wearing a sparkling tiara, diamonds dripping around her neck.

Gil Kelley with his King’s crown, leering after my stepmother, who sported the swollen belly of her near-term pregnancy, giving her lanky frame the look of a pencil carrying a basketball.

Dr. Marilee Aymes in my courtroom arguing that Sandra Kelley should be executed for embezzling from her husband’s bank.

And, just to be sure I recognized these as nightmares, the CJ in a cartoon version of prison garb, peering at me from behind the bars of our holding cell in the old federal courthouse.

When I sat bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding wildly, I was grateful for whatever had awakened me, although it took me a few seconds to figure out what it was.

I thought I heard the cannons on the José Gasparilla firing off just as they had on the day of the Pirate Parade, when Ron Wheaton had died and Chief Hathaway suggested that Margaret could have been a mercy killer.

Once I came fully awake, I realized it was still dark out and the cannons wouldn’t sound again until next year’s parade.

So what woke me up? George was snoring gently in the bed beside me, exhausted from the party tonight, for which I had never made it downstairs. Both dogs were sleeping peacefully, too. Why did I wake up?

And then I remembered the final snapshot in my dream. Margaret Wheaton gleefully injecting her wheelchair-bound husband with a lethal dose of morphine.