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  In a nod to modern technology, a smart TV hung on one wall, available to Skype and to play video. An octopus-like box sat in the middle of the table to facilitate joint conference calls.

  This had been the Judge's home for some weeks now, though in truth most documents were in the cloud and the Judge's laptop. He could work from anywhere.

  As they settled in and helped themselves to coffee and water, Frank Wolin, the Judge's new law clerk, slipped into the room, five minutes late, and slid into a chair, trying to look like he'd been there forever. Frankie had just recently passed his bar exams, and was helping the Judge under a temporary arrangement until he found a full time lawyering job. Medium height, pudgy in the middle, with a sandy complexion and sharp brown eyes, he’d proved himself reasonably smart, quietly aggressive, and a little stubborn.

  Frankie seemed convinced Hicks’ technology did not infringe on Carl Greene’s patented technology. A view the Judge had discredited as he'd listened to and then sifted through the evidence. Frankie jumped to judgement a bit too quickly.

  Dick Harper, Hicks’ lawyer, went right into argument mode again.

  “There’s hardly been time to open a probate estate with the Probate Court for Mr. Greene, have an executor appointed, and give the executor authority to hire counsel and pursue the estate’s defense in this arbitration. How can defendant possibly go forward?”

  Bruce Williams, Greene's lawyer, came right back, smug now.

  “There is no need for a probate. All of Carl Greene’s technology is in an inter vivos trust and I am now the temporary successor trustee. I am charged with continuing the defense of the Trust in this arbitration and preserving the assets for the trust beneficiaries. Our position continues to be that Hicks’ technology blatantly infringes on Greene’s patent, that Hicks must cease and desist using the technology, and that Hicks has no right to see or review new technology developed by Greene and now owned by the Greene Trust.”

  Harper sat still and tried to hide the grinding of his teeth as Bruce Williams produced for the Judge, with a flourish, a copy of Carl Greene’s Trust document and his Will.

  "Gentlemen," the Judge said, looking up after skimming the document title pages and signature pages, "these documents look to be in order, although there may be challenges in probate court. I rule that the arbitration proceeding may continue with the Carl A. Greene Family Trust standing in the place of the deceased Carl Greene as defendant. If counsel for the plaintiff has objections with this finding he can take them up with the Federal District Court, but meanwhile this proceeding will continue. Now, to business. Late yesterday, Bruce, you produced discovery materials, actually a report, from defendant Greene which you said was responsive to plaintiff Hicks’ demand for material on Greene’s new technology.”

  "That's right, Your Honor,” said Williams. “We believe you’ll rule Greene’s new technology is not relevant to this case and is not discoverable by Hicks.”

  “And you personally reviewed this report, Bruce?”

  “No, Your Honor. I was instructed not to look at the report. Just to place it before you in this proceeding.”

  "That's a little unusual," said the Judge. "Did Plaintiff say why you couldn't look at the report?"

  "No, Judge, but his instructions were quite specific. I assumed it was because I was not the original attorney he consulted in preparing the contents."

  "Who was the original attorney?"

  "I don't know. Mr. Greene didn't tell me."

  "Alright gentlemen, I have the report and I’m going to review it.”

  Frank Wolin, the Judge’s law clerk, suddenly stood up, looking distressed.

  “I’m sorry Judge… Gentlemen,” he said. “I’ve entirely forgotten a dental appointment I need to keep. Please excuse my early departure. Judge, I’ll be in on Saturday to do that legal research we discussed.”

  “That’s fine Frankie. I’ll be in too and we can discuss it.”

  Frankie scurried for the door and disappeared.

  “As I was saying gentlemen,” continued the Judge, “I am going to review this report over the weekend and make a determination. Let’s plan on meeting here next Friday morning to wind up the discovery phase. The proceeding is adjourned until then."

  The attorneys packed up their briefcases and scooted out the door after Frank. Off to bill other clients for other services. The Judge thought about starting his read of the report, glancing at the locked bureau drawer where he’d secured it. But his eyes were tired. His arm throbbed. His head hurt even worse, a consequence of too many pain pills. He decided to leave it until tomorrow when he and Frankie could puzzle over it together. He needed the results of Frankie’s legal research as well. Hopefully tomorrow his head would be clear.

  He considered going back to the boat and lying down. But it was early, only noon. And he'd promised to appear at the Santa Monica Police Station and allow himself to be grilled about last night. He supposed he should get it over with.

  He called Lieutenant Kaminsky from the number on his card. Kaminsky’s voice got low and flat after the Judge identified himself. The Judge said he could come to the Santa Monica Police Station in about an hour to give his statement and the good Lieutenant could compete his paper work. Paperwork was everything to a cop.

  Kaminsky said, “Swell.”

  The Judge could hear lingering anger in Kaminsky’s voice. The Judge’s instinct told him something else was going on.

  CHAPTER 8

  12:15 PM Friday

  The Judge locked his office and walked over to the Groundwork Coffee Company. A hole in the wall joint, it was still the coffee place of choice for the denizens at the southern end of Santa Monica. The place was popular at all hours, but right now attracted a collection of younger people, mostly in jeans, a few in skirts, all glued to their cell phones, oblivious to the people around them strolling in and out.

  The Judge snagged one of the few tables when someone got up suddenly. Like many lawyers and like Wild Bill Hickok, he preferred his back against a wall. It felt more… defensible. He liked to people-watch the room and the passing traffic outside. Times had changed since 1886 when Hickok had been shot in the head from behind, the one time he didn't sit with his back to the wall. But there was still a cautious caveman mentality somewhere deep in the Judge. Particularly after last night’s attack.

  He sipped his brew, letting the aroma of the coffee waft up his nose, and considered what he knew.

  Yesterday he'd been attacked on the beach by a gang that seemed intent on disposing of him for good. Apparently somewhat earlier Carl Greene had been attacked and killed. Were the two events related? It was an awfully strange coincidence if they weren’t. The murder of Carl and his violent attack had to be related. But how? Where to start?

  He finished his coffee and drifted out and down Main Street, back to his office building’s underground parking garage.

  He retrieved Katy’s key from his pocket, threw his briefcase in the back of the car, and roared up the underground ramp and out on to Main Street.

  A half hour later the Judge was staring into Kaminsky’s cold blue eyes across a metal table in a small interview room at the Santa Monica Police Station. Kaminsky looked tired. There were dark circles around his eyes. It must have been a rough night.

  The Judge finished a complete re-narration of the attack of the night before, a first time, then a second time, and finally a third. Kaminsky looked just as skeptical this morning as he had the previous evening. Perhaps his universal look for all occasions.

  “How well did you know Carl Greene?” asked Kaminsky.

  “I met him in the arbitration. But I didn’t know him. I mean he wasn’t a friend or anything. I didn’t know him socially.”

  “How many times did he show at your arbitration?”

  “Three times. Once at the beginning. That’s where we were first introduced. Once when Randall Hicks, the plaintiff in the case, gave his testimony, and once when Carl himself gave testimony.”


  “So you never had coffee with him? Met him for lunch, or anything?”

  “No.”

  “Ever give him your card?”

  “No.”

  “That’s curious, Judge. See your business card was found in his pocket at the murder scene.”

  “It’s not curious at all. There’s a card stand at reception in my lobby where anyone can help themselves to my card. And a similar card stand on my desk in my office. And his attorney, Bruce Williams, no doubt had my card since I was arbitrating Greene’s case. He could have picked it up anywhere.”

  “When’s the last time you saw Mr. Greene?”

  “Like I said, when he came and gave his testimony in the arbitration.”

  “And when was that?”

  “About ten days ago.”

  “So why do you think he was still carrying your card in his pocket Thursday night when he hadn’t been in your office for ten days?”

  “He had a crush on me? He collects lawyer cards for a hobby? He wanted a memento of his testimony? How the Hell do I know?”

  Kaminsky looked daggers at the Judge, then scribbled a note in his little flip notebook. The Judge decided Kaminsky was trying to be intimidating. It was water off a duck to the Judge.

  “Ever meet Mr. Greene’s ex-wife?” Kaminsky consulted his notebook. “A Yana Greene? Lives in Santa Monica?”

  “No.”

  “So no social connection between you and Mr. Greene at all?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “What about a business connection?”

  “Just the arbitration.”

  “No other connection? No reason you might be angry at Greene about something? Might want to get even?”

  “No. Where’s this going, Kaminsky? Am I a suspect in Greene’s murder? A person of interest or something?”

  “I think you’re the bastard that killed Carl.” Kaminsky blurted out. Then clamped his mouth shut.

  So Kaminsky wanted to tag him for Carl’s murder. Damn.

  “Where were you before your little nocturnal swim, Judge?”

  Kaminsky had picked up the words from the newspaper headline. Damn, damn, and more damns. He would hear about his ‘nocturnal swim’ now for the rest of his career.

  “As I explained, I was at my office all day. We had sandwiches sent in. I worked on the case for about an hour and a half after the attorneys left. Looked at a motion for discovery. Looked at the law a bit on the scope of discovery in patent matters.”

  “Your law clerk, Frank Wolen, was with you?

  “Yes. For a while. Then he left. He said he had a hot date with his girlfriend. An anniversary or something.”

  “So you were alone for an hour or so in your office?”

  “Yes. Then I walked down to the beach and out to the tideline. Started what was going to be a brief walk along the beach toward the Santa Monica Pier, and then back.”

  “You ever been arrested for any deviant behavior, Judge?”

  “I resent that question. And no. I’m sure you’ve checked my record.”

  “Sometimes things like that get expunged. Particularly if the perp has friends in high places. Are you gay, Judge?”

  “I don’t think that’s a question you can ask legally, Kaminsky. But I’ll answer it anyway. No. I’m not gay.”

  “Never had a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Never had a little experimental fling with Carl Greene?”

  “No.”

  “How’d you walk from your office to the beach?”

  “Down Ocean Park, across Nielson Way, across Beach Park to the sand, and directly out to the surf.”

  “About what time again?”

  “About 7:30.”

  “Which side of the street?”

  “The north side.”

  “So you were walking down Ocean Park Boulevard about the time Carl Greene was being attacked and killed. Killed in an adjacent alley running parallel to your street. Just on the other side of the buildings from the alley. With easy access down the side yards of most of the buildings to that alley. And you didn’t hear a thing?”

  “That’s what I said. I didn’t realize he was killed so close to my route.”

  “And you just happen to have a relationship with the deceased. The only one we can find in the area at that time who knew Greene.”

  “It wasn’t a relationship. I’d met him professionally is all.”

  “Doesn’t that seem like an enormous coincidence?”

  “Yes it does. It seems to me the attack on me and the murder of Greene are connected somehow.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t seem to know much.”

  “No. But I’m going to find out more.”

  Kaminsky opened a large brown envelope he’d brought into the interview room with him, and shook out its contents on to the table in front of the Judge. It was a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was a wallet. The wallet looked familiar.

  “This your wallet?” asked Kaminsky.

  “Looks to be,” the Judge said.

  Kaminsky took the wallet out of the envelope and slid it across to the Judge. The Judge opened it. His smiling face was on the laminated license staring up at him. The credit cards were all there. Eight one hundred dollar bills were neatly stacked in the cash compartment. The ink on his business cards kept in one compartment had run a little. The cards looked like they’d gotten soaked and then dried out.

  “How’d you find it in the surf?”

  “We didn’t,” said Kaminsky. “We found it next to Carl Greene’s body.”

  Oh shit. They were the only words that came to the Judge’s mind.

  “We found something else,” said Kaminsky.

  The Judge braced himself.

  Kaminsky opened a large bag leaning against the wall behind him in the room. He dumped out another clear plastic evidence bag. It contained the slacks he’d worn yesterday. The ones he’d jettisoned in the surf.

  “And you know the most interesting thing, Judge? Beside the fact that your credit cards and cash are all still in your wallet?”

  “What?” croaked the Judge.

  “When the officers arrived on the murder scene and found your pants and wallet, which you claim to have lost in the ocean, both items were quite dry.”

  CHAPTER 9

  2:00 PM Friday

  The Judge knew Kaminsky had to let him go. He could see the Lieutenant wanted to hold him. But Kaminsky didn’t have quite enough to sell the case to the DA. The Judge admitted to being close by at the time of the murder. The wallet and pants allegedly placed the Judge at the scene. And the Judge admitted knowing the victim. But Kaminsky had no motive. And he wouldn’t have gotten lab results back yet that he’d hope would produce physical evidence on the body linking the Judge to the crime.

  “Can I have my license back at least, Kaminsky?” asked the Judge

  Kaminsky gave the Judge a sour smile, not bothering to answer a stupid question. He reluctantly walked the Judge out of the interrogation room, through the office, and out the front door of the police station.

  “I’ll want to talk again soon, Judge,” Kaminsky said, not shaking hands, a not-so-veiled threat in his eyes.

  The Judge spent the afternoon waiting in line at the DMV for a temporary replacement license, cashing a check at his bank using his passport, picking up a new wallet and cell phone, and making multiple calls to credit card companies to cancel his existing cards and order replacements. It was one big pain in the ass.

  He and Katy were in periodic contact once he had his new cell. No one had appeared around the boat. She'd swung by their house in Malaga Cove after work to confirm all was undisturbed. They agreed to hang out at the boat for the weekend at least. Perhaps longer even. Until things blew over.

  He made an early dinner date with her at Via Veneto, one of his favorite restaurants in Venice, silently promising himself a fine bottle of Italian wine. It had been a ro
ugh week. Perhaps an Avignonesi 1995 Occhio di Pernice Prugnolo Gentile would suit, $400 on the hoof. Katy couldn’t drink of course. He’d just have to man up and have it all himself. He pulled up to the restaurant right at six, dropping the car with the front door valet just as the place opened, commandeering his favorite spot, a small two-person table set in the restaurant’s windowed façade. Katy came tearing up five minutes later, screeching to a stop in her vintage Mustang at the last minute like the race driver she was, giving the small Latino valet a fright. And the Judge as well.

  He awkwardly stood up, hoisting his large bulk behind the small table, as she bounced in. She leaned over to give him a solid kiss on the lips. She was nothing if not affectionate. A year ago he'd have been appalled to see such a public display by some couple at a restaurant, particularly if it was some old codger and a younger woman.

  But now he found he immensely enjoyed this attention lavished on him. If the waiters and the three or four other early patrons in the place disapproved, tough. Besides, Katy and he were now married. He'd somehow captured this golden young woman, much to his utter amazement.

  They traded stories of their day over freshly made pumpkin ravioli, and a chilled bottle of Colterenzio Sauvignon “Lafoa” (Alto Adige) for the Judge. They didn’t have the other bottle he’d wanted. He made do just fine.

  They moved on to larger dishes, a chop for him and branzino for her. Since they were married now and enjoying intimacy most every night, his appetite had gone through the roof. He washed the meal down with the Lafoa. It was everything he’d anticipated and more. Katy had Pellegrino.

  “So Judge,” Katy said, turning serious. “You really think they were trying to kill you last night?” A certain flatness in her voice belied the nonchalant way she asked the question.

  “I don't know what else to think, honey. They found my pants planted with Greene’s body. My wallet was in my pants. My cash and credit cards all there. Robbery wasn’t a motive. Even more bizarre, they must have tossed my pants into a dryer first. Kaminsky says they were dry.”

  “Somebody wants to frame you for Carl Greene’s murder, Judge. But why? It relates to your arbitration, doesn’t it?”