Deputy Marshal Hugh Abelson stood outside the gate to the community, one of two marshals wanding vehicles before they entered, a large security floodlight over his shoulder. He wanded the undercarriage of Judge’s van with his mirror-on-a-stick, then he returned to the open driver’s side window, a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck. It was dusk.
“Gotta look inside too, Mister Drury.”
“Be my guest, Mister Abelson. But be careful of the bomb-sniffing dog back there.”
Judge opened the back door for him to peek inside the cargo area. His German Shepherd growled from inside in his crate, snapped once, then relaxed.
“You’ve got more shit in here than I have access to,” he said. He crawled inside, did an investigative pirouette, then climbed back out. “This looks great. For an assault vehicle. I can’t let this thing inside the gate. Park it up the street. And if either you or Mister Wingert are carrying a weapon, you’ll need to keep it locked up in the van.”
They parked around a corner. Judge’s Glock went into the glove box again.
Marshal Abelson wanded them both, then the dog, then entered the code to let them into the community. They walked back on freshly paved blacktop, the asphalt crew one block over working the night shift. They reached the justice’s place and climbed the steps to a long porch with white rockers. It was seven thirty-ish by the time another agent completed yet another pat down. The agent raised his binoculars when he was done, to continue surveilling the surrounding rooftops.
Judge’s dog deputy stopped short on the porch, skittish about entering the house. Not the case with Owen, who possessed a Texas-sized swagger fresh from the compliment Judge had given him. A hard tug on J.D.’s leash and they were all inside.
Edward, U.S. marshal number three, greeted them. His tightened jaw said he was still smarting from this afternoon’s excitement.
“You okay, Marshall?”
“Tonight’s my last night for this assignment, Mister Drury. A new marshal reports for duty tomorrow morning. Madam Justice Coolsummer respects my decision.”
“Wow. Okay. How many other marshals here tonight?”
“Six, if you include Mister Abelson at the front gate, who’ll be joining us shortly. Two more downstairs, one at the rear patio door and the other at the side door. Come in. Madam Justice is on the deck, working on her barbecue.”
Inside was a large living room, a den/entertainment center, dining room, and a luxurious eat-in kitchen, all with the furniture haphazardly placed but looking like it had at least made it to the right rooms. Cardboard everywhere, some boxes open, some closed, some already flattened, ready for the trash. Justice Coolsummer had a lot of unpacking ahead of her, not much of which she’d get to tonight.
Judge stopped to absorb this gathering of packed cardboard, assessing the possibilities. His look was telling.
“It’s all been either scanned or opened by the techs,” Edward said, sensing the concern.
French doors led to the deck at the rear of the home, off the kitchen. Outside, Justice Coolsummer, in tapered jeans, a light-colored zippered workout jacket and an Oklahoma Sooners barbecue apron in cream and red, stood in front of her barbecue, smoking her meats. Not how Judge had pictured his probably one and only social event with an associate justice on the Supreme Court.
“It’s not how I see her either,” Edward said on the sly, reading his mind. “She gave her clerks an extensive urgent shopping list and had help unpacking the necessary tools. It seems she takes pride in her barbecue.”
In her one hand she held a long pewter barbecue fork, in the other a pewter spatula, the two tools rotating Texas redhots, baby back ribs and burgers on the grill.
“Don’t be afraid of the apron, Edward,” she said, speaking above the sizzle. “Being schooled in Oklahoma doesn’t make me any less a native Texan. Not every Sooner is a mortal enemy of the Longhorns. Beer and wine in the cooler, gentlemen. Kibble over there, Mister Drury,” she said, pointing to the far corner of the immense deck. “Please make yourselves comfortable out here. Let me know how you like the deck furniture. Damn it, where are the tongs?”
Judge offered Geenie’s regrets. He got to hear how the madam justice had no deck at her Austin condo, and how she was intimidated by the size of this one. These furnishings, even the barbecue, which the movers had set up for her, were all new. “But I’m not a novice. I had a beautiful brick barbecue when my husband Reed was alive, many years ago, before I decided to downsize. Y’all will need to taste my barbecue sauce. From scratch. A Native American recipe. No road kill, but that’s the only thing not in there.”
They ate, they drank, they talked, they heard “I’m sorry” and “Please forgive me” and multiple thank yous, the four of them on the deck swapping Texas and Oklahoma and Philly and D.C. tall tales and humor, Judge’s canine partner there as well. Owen behaved, refrained from any boner references, even had a civil discussion with her regarding minority rights. And one shocker: he refused alcohol. “I need to cut down,” he said when the madam justice asked what he was drinking. “This is as good a place to start as any.”
Judge gave the associate justice a pass on her earlier behavior. This was a strong woman, someone who had suffered through a stressful patch, and who deserved a second chance. Something, maybe Edward’s request for reassignment, had shocked the bitch out of her.
It was nearing nine o’clock, the light from the kitchen doing a poor job of illuminating the deck. Edward stepped inside the French doors long enough to accept a package from Mr. Abelson, a flat but colorfully gift-wrapped present in the shape of a picture frame. He returned to the deck with it.
“They scanned it, Your Honor, so it’s clean,” he said, and handed it to her.
She opened it. Her eyes welled at seeing its contents: her Oklahoma School of Law diploma, reframed under glass, this afternoon’s massive gash repaired. She stood to give Edward a hug where he sat, which he begrudgingly accepted.
“A rush repair job, Your Honor. You would have regretted not having it later, ma’am.”
She kissed him on his cheek. “Thank you, Edward.” Even in the poor light Edward’s eyes betrayed that he’d been moved by her response, much the same she was by his. This surprise show of affection sealed it; time for Judge and Owen to make their exit. They said their goodbyes.
Judge crouched to check on his dog deputy. J.D. was where he’d been all night, loose but with his leash still attached and sitting under the window, close enough to the grill to enjoy the lingering smells, and able to snap up any stray barbecue.
“Is he good with strangers?” Justice Coolsummer asked, hovering. “I mean, can I…”
“Not especially good, ma’am, but after this much time seeing you and I together, off the clock and relaxed, and after all the grilled meat you dropped for him, I’d say you bought your way into some face time. Just no quick moves.”
She crouched down and let him sniff her, scratched behind his ears some. She stopped.
“Edward.”
“Ma’am?” Edward arrived alongside them.
“That box…”
An unopened cardboard box the size of a milk crate had her attention, left of the French doors, against a railing; the only box out here. She stood over it, read aloud what was written on the top flap.
“It says ‘Back deck.’ That’s not my handwriting.”
“Ma’am,” Judge asked, “maybe one of the packers?”
“I didn’t decide on this place until after they packed me. I didn’t know I’d have a deck.” She leaned down, reached for a box flap.
“Ma’am, no,” Edward said. “Mr. Drury?”
Judge pulled J.D. the few feet from the barbecue to the box. “Check it out, boy.” The command put the dog back on the job. He sniffed at each corner but gave no indications. He returned to his master’s side.
“Ma’am,” Edward looked at her expectantly, “if I may?”
“Yes, Edward, please open it.”
Edward split the top and lifted out a handful of pamphlets, handing some to Justice Coolsummer. He read aloud from one of them. “‘The American Life Allegiance exists to protect innocent human beings from pre-birth to death.’”
Justice Coolsummer shook her head. “Literature with an agenda. I get it all the time, from both sides of the debate.”
Judge turned, looking for his dog, found him sidled up next to a small, potted evergreen near the French doors that led back inside. The dog lifted his leg. “No, boy. J.D., no!”
Edward again read aloud, this time from a handwritten post-it note stuck to the back of the pamphlet. “‘This pro-life protection does not include you, Justice Coolsummer. BANG.’”
The dog didn’t pee on the shrub, instead sniffed then grunted then sat on his hindquarters next to the clay pot in his I-just-discovered-something mode, waiting to be rewarded.
“Bomb…!” Judge said.