Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page B

give him. Maybe he’d be asked to negotiate plea arrangements; maybe draft motions. Perhaps he’d be asked to serve some of the functions of administrative law judges, like immigration matters, Social Security, and federal housing complaints. He sat alone in the charmless office, waiting and wondering what he’d be given to do and how much time his fellow jurists would need before calling on him. By midafternoon, he decided to give them all the time they wanted and left the federal complex.
    Angry and frustrated in equal measure, he was listening to a local radio station while he drove home. A commentator named Cal Fellows was taking calls and had struck a nerve. Citizens were complaining, mad as hell. Lives had been ruined. Businesses had been ruined. There were children to feed and clothe. There were mortgages to pay. Victims of the oil spill. Boucher made a promise to himself. Tomorrow would be more productive.
    His cell phone vibrated with an incoming call. It was Fitch. Boucher pulled into a gas station and answered.
    “The floater we fished out,” Fitch said, “could be a homicide. Blunt instrument to the back of the head; unconscious when he hit the water. The guy worked for Dumont Industries, one of those boats that almost ran us over. They reported him missing and presumed drowned about a week ago.”
    “Is there any commercial activity in this state that the Dumonts are not involved in?”
    “Nothing comes to mind,” Fitch said. “You doing okay?”
    “I’m being given the silent treatment by my judicial brethren. I’m switching gears tomorrow. I’m going to try to meet some of the victims of the oil spill. Anything on where the guy who accosted me got his gun?”
    “I got a call from someone at ATF about fifteen minutes after my first inquiry. He said they appreciated my help but they’d handle it. Remind you of anything?”
    “I don’t even want to go there,” Boucher said. He hung up.
    Later that afternoon, Cal Fellows received a surprising phone call at the radio station. The receptionist told him a federal judge was holding. A radio commentator, Cal couldn’t remember ever taking a call from a judge; in fact, he couldn’t remember ever speaking to one. He might have asked a news-related question of a jurist once or twice in his career but either was put off with a brusque “no comment” or was courteously but firmly told that judges did not discuss pending cases. But here was one calling him. On line two.
    “This is Cal Fellows.”
    “Mr. Fellows, this is District Judge Boucher. I was listening to your show earlier today about victims of the gulf oil spill.”
    Cal said nothing. Not a clue where this was going.
    “I was thinking I might talk to a few of these aggrieved persons to see if there is some way to help matters.”
    “Just a question of money,” Cal said. “More and sooner.”
    “Yes. Do you know of anyone who would talk to me?”
    “Some will talk to anyone who will listen. But I wouldn’t want to waste their time or yours.”
    “I would try to be sympathetic to their needs.”
    “Let me ask a couple of them,” Cal said. “If they agree, I’ll put you in contact. If anything comes of it, I want to be the first to know. I have a radio news talk show, remember.”
    “Fine. Here’s my home number. You call me or they can call me. I want to hear what they have to say. Thank you.”
    After hanging up, Cal stared at the paper in his hand. This was the home number of a federal judge? He dialed it and was stunned.
    “This is really Judge Boucher? I thought it might be a prank.”
    “This is really me. But please don’t give out this number over the air.”
    “I certainly won’t, Your Honor. Thank you for taking an interest in the matter.”
    “It’s not just me. I’m acting under orders of the president.”
    “Well, I’ll be damned.”
    •  •  •
    Though warm spells teased, spring had not arrived. Boucher tried to enjoy a tranquil moment in his