The Hanging Judge Read Online Free PDF Page A

replaced her glasses and leaned against the doorframe. “My girlfriend says he’s not all that popular.”
    “A lot of people never wanted him.” Frank closed the drawer and twiddled the mouse to open a game of solitaire. “Two years ago, when he was appointed, most locals thought David Norcross was some do-good carpetbagger from Boston.” He nodded toward the thing in Eva’s hand. “What the heck’s that?”
    “Mini-barbell,” she said, curling it against her side. “I messed up my wrist.” Eva pointed with her free hand. “Queen on the king. So how’d our guy get picked?”
    “Never hurts to have a cabinet member for a brother.” Two aces appeared, and Frank began moving cards briskly. “Now we’re cooking. Raymond Norcross, the gazillionaire former governor of Wisconsin, and now our secretary of commerce, happens to be the judge’s big brother.”
    He held up four fingers and waggled them. “So. Western Massachusetts had the following choices: take David Norcross, take nobody, wait to see if the administration changes, or wait until Secretary Norcross screws up and gets fired. In the end, they chose the little piggy that went to market.” He paused to examine the screen. “But one or two people are still going ‘wee-wee-wee’ all the way home.”
    “So it was rigged?”
    “No, no. The ABA gave him its highest rating. But stellar qualifications only get you so far in this game.” He made a face at his computer, closed the solitaire screen, and looked up at Eva. “Rumor has it Secretary Norcross got worried after his little brother’s wife passed. After the funeral, I guess he was billing, like, eighteen hours a day and sleeping on the foldout in his office. So brother Ray …”
    The intercom beeped, and Frank picked up. After a pause, he said, “Be right there.” He set the phone down. “We’re wanted.”
    Frank led Eva through the library and reception area. They found the judge bent over his computer like a heron studying the surface of a pond. He gestured at them to sit down but did not glance up. The oak credenza behind his desk carried a row of African sculptures.
    “What’s on for this week?” Frank asked. “Something more cheerful I hope.”
    Frank enjoyed Norcross’s habit of tapping out a fresh quotation for his computer’s scrolling screen saver to establish a weekly theme for the chambers. Last week’s, in Frank’s opinion, had been too leaden—the question to God in Psalm 8: “What is man that Thou art mindful of him?”
    “ ‘Oh spirit of love,’ ” Norcross quoted. “ ‘how quick and fresh art thou!’ ” He scratched his cheek, dropped his eyes from the screen, and checked off something on his yellow pad.
    “Much better!” Frank said.
    Eva, with a quick glance at Frank, began, “Uh, is it out of line to ask …”
    Norcross held up a hand and smiled. “Nope. Rule Seventeen.”
    “Rule Seventeen,” Frank said. “No cross-examination about the weekly quote.”
    “Rule Eighteen,” Norcross added. “No cross-examination about why we have Rule Seventeen.”
    The judge tilted back his chair and blew out a breath. “We’re a strange little family here, Eva, but you’ll get used to us.” He rocked forward. “Anyway, listen. I just got a call from Skip Broadwater. It looks like we may have a doozy coming.”
    The reference to Delmore “Skip” Broadwater, chief judge of the District of Massachusetts, provoked happy memories in Frank. As a reporter he’d done a profile of Broadwater and had been amused to discover that this powerful Boston Brahmin was actually an elf in half glasses—totally bald, and about five foot three. His penchant for salty phrases made him a journalist’s joy. When Frank asked him how he liked his job as chief, he replied that he was “busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.” Frank was crushed when his editor spiked the quote.
    He wrote “Broadwater” on his yellow pad with a smiley face next to it and