Chapter Sixteen

Wilma Hansen, the longtime dispatcher and occasional phone operator, buzzed me. “Your father on line two.”

“Isn’t he in the building?”

“He is.”

“And he wants me on the phone?”

“Hey, I just work here. I don’t do family counseling. Are you going to take the call or should I tell him to go shove it?”

“I’ll take it. Thank you for your kindness.”

“No problem.”

I picked up the call. “Your presence is requested,” the Sheriff said.

“Where?”

“Judge Hiller’s office. He, the D.A., and Murray Kornbluth are about to decide your lady friend’s fate.”

“My lady friend?”

“You know, the widow.”

“You mean Kimber Carson?”

“Yes. Her.”

“My lady friend?”

“Figure of speech.”

“You know something, Dad, not only are you profane, you’re also perverse.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

Judge Franklin Hiller’s office was located in the County Courthouse and the hearing was just starting when I stepped into his chambers.

Beleaguered by neatness, Hiller’s office was always immaculate. It wasn’t out of character for him to saunter over to a bookcase in the middle of a meeting to straighten an offending, ill-placed volume or even do a little dusting.

Wearing a blue-checked suit and a red bow tie, he stared daggers at me when I entered. The meeting had already begun and I was late. “Good of you to join us,” he said with the slightest edge of annoyance in his voice.

I nodded sheepishly and gazed briefly at Michael Lytell and Murray Kornbluth, both of whom eyed me warily.

We were seated in front of the judge’s desk in the cavernous, dark-wood and rich leather office that abutted his courtroom. Lytell and Kornbluth were in the two stuffed armchairs. A Bentwood chair had been pulled over for me.

“There’s been a motion to reduce bail for Kimber Carson,” Hiller plowed forward. “Are there any objections to this motion?”

Michael Lytell raised his hand.

The judge noticed him. “Mr. Lytell?”

“As I said at the initial hearing, I regard Mrs. Carson as a flight risk and believe she should be held without bail.”

Judge Hiller turned to Murray Kornbluth, who ventured, “She’s a grieving widow, Your Honor, who had not been informed she wasn’t permitted to leave the state. She returned to her family home in New Jersey to mourn with them. She’s not a flight risk. She’s not a murderer. She’s a young widow who suffered a grievous loss.”

The judge then turned to me. “Have you anything to add to this, Mr. Steel?”

“I concur with Mr. Kornbluth. In the aftermath of the discovery of Henry Carson’s body, I was derelict in my responsibility to inform Mrs. Carson she couldn’t leave the state. Accountability for what she did belongs to me. And I apologize to the Court for my failure to properly execute my duties.”

“Thank you for your frankness,” Judge Hiller said. “Apology accepted.”

He turned his attention to the District Attorney. “Mr. Lytell?”

“My statement stands.”

After several moments of silence, Judge Hiller looked at us and gently banged his gavel. “Bail for Mrs. Carson is hereby reduced to five thousand dollars.”

“Five thousand dollars,” Lytell said, his outrage growing by the second. “From ten million? That’s outrageous, Frank. In essence you’re handing her a Get Out of Jail Free card.”

“While I’m grateful for your expert opinion, Mr. Lytell, the ruling stands. Now, if there’s nothing else...”

“Chicken shit ruling,” Lytell muttered under his breath.

“What’s that, Mike?” the judge retorted. “I couldn’t quite make you what you said.”

“Nothing, Your Honor. It was nothing.”

“I certainly hope so.” He picked up his gavel and this time slammed it down directly in front of Lytell, who jumped in his seat.

“Dismissed,” Hiller said, his angry gaze focused on the D.A. “And don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”

Lytell glowered at him but held his tongue. The three of us filed out of the judge’s chamber.

Once outside, Lytell exploded, “Fucking travesty of justice.”

“Get over it, Mike,” Murray Kornbluth said. “You heard Buddy. He fucked up. So what? Cut her some slack.”

Lytell looked away.

“You’ll draw up the release papers?” Kornbluth asked.

“Sometime today,” Lytell responded.

“What’s wrong with right now?” I said.

Lytell glared daggers at me “Ah,” he said, “the fuck-up speaks.”

“You know something, Mike? My father has a saying that’s totally appropriate for this occasion.”

“Oh, really,” Lytell exclaimed. “And what would that saying be?”

“Blow it out your barracks bag.”