Page 13 of Her Last Promise

She studied him carefully as she spoke, watching for any hint of deception."Your name came up during our investigation into Judge Marcus Smith's murder."

"Ah."Porter's smile turned bitter, and something dark flickered behind his eyes."Because of how spectacularly his decision ruined my career?My life?"His voice rose slightly, and Dean shifted in his chair, leaning forward almost imperceptibly.Rachel noticed how Porter's hands had begun to shake more visibly.

"That was one factor we needed to look into, yes," Novak said carefully, his tone deliberately soothing."Could you tell us about your history with Judge Smith?"

Porter's shoulders slumped, and Rachel watched as the anger seemed to drain out of him, leaving only exhaustion in its wake."It was a malpractice case.A routine procedure gone wrong – the patient had an undiagnosed condition that caused complications.I'd had a drink the night before.Just one, to help me sleep, but..."He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin neck."Someone smelled it on my breath in the OR.Reported me.The patient's family sued.Judge Smith..."His hands clenched tighter, and Rachel could see his nails digging into his palms."He didn't just rule against me.He made an example of me.Recommended the medical board revoke my license permanently."

"And that's what brought you here?"Rachel asked gently, noting how Dean nodded slightly in approval at her softer tone.

Porter nodded, running trembling fingers through his already-disheveled hair."I started drinking more.A lot more.Couldn't sleep without it.Couldn't face myself in the mirror without it.My wife left, took the kids..."His voice cracked, and Rachel saw him blink rapidly."This place was a last resort.Fifteen days sober now."He gave a shaky laugh that held no humor."Longest fifteen days of my life."

"Fifteen days?"Rachel leaned forward, trying not to show how this detail had just shattered their theory."You've been here continuously for the past fifteen days?"

"Yeah.Haven't set foot outside.Can't even look at the grounds without someone watching me.Right, Dean?"There was a hint of bitterness in his voice, but also something that might have been gratitude.

The therapist nodded, his expression compassionate but professional."Mr.Porter has been under continuous supervision since his arrival on the fourth."

Rachel felt the last of her hope deflate.Porter had been safely locked away when Smith was killed.Another dead end.Another day, the killer remained free.She glanced at Novak and saw her own frustration mirrored in his eyes.

"Thank you for your time," she said, standing."We appreciate your candor."

Porter's bitter smile returned, and Rachel caught a glimpse of the successful doctor he must have been before it all fell apart."Honesty's part of the program.Along with accepting that some things can't be fixed, no matter how much you might want to hurt the people who broke them."Something in his tone made Rachel study him more closely, but all she saw was bone-deep weariness.

Dean escorted them back through the peaceful hallways, past more landscapes with their serene horizons.Rachel barely noticed them now, her mind already racing ahead to the next steps in their investigation.They'd have to go back through everything, looking for something they must have missed.Time they couldn't afford to waste.

Outside, the rain had stopped, but the sky remained heavy and gray, pressing down like a lid on the world.Rachel paused on the facility's front steps, looking out over the perfectly maintained grounds that suddenly felt more like prison walls than sanctuary.The Japanese maples seemed less beautiful now, their red leaves reminding her too much of other things.

"Well," Novak said beside her, his voice cutting through her dark thoughts, "that's one suspect we can cross off the list."

Rachel nodded, already dreading the mountain of case files waiting for them back at the office.Somewhere in Judge Smith's past was the key to his murder.They just had to hope they could find it before the killer struck again.Before another family got that knock on their door.Before another life was added to the toll of whatever twisted vendetta they were dealing with.

As they walked back to their vehicle, Rachel couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something obvious.Something right in front of them.But all she could see was Porter's haunted eyes and trembling hands, the way he'd spoken about things that couldn't be fixed.She wondered how many other lives Judge Smith's decisions had shattered, and how many of those shattered people might be capable of murder.

CHAPTER NINE

James Harrison's office occupied the corner suite on first floor of the Mitchell & Brooks building, its newly renovated spaces still smelling of fresh paint and recent construction.The large windows of the space, also new, allowed the setting sun to cast long fingers of amber light across his mahogany desk.Sadly, he barely noticed the sight.His mind was split into about five hundred different directions…which had been par for the course ever since the new construction had finished.It had cost precious man hours and had displaced him for a few days; he still felt like he was playing catch up.

A series of framed diplomas lined one wall—Yale undergraduate, Harvard Law—while the opposing wall displayed carefully chosen artwork: abstract pieces in muted colors that suggested sophistication without ostentation.His desk, massive and gleaming, had been positioned to face the door rather than the windows, a conscious choice that allowed him to maintain eye contact with anyone who entered.Also, he thought it was more professional to sit facing the door, ready to meet anyone who entered eye to eye—a psychological advantage he'd learned early in his career as a prosecutor.

The leather-bound law books lining the built-in shelves were not mere decoration; their well-worn spines and occasionally jutting bookmarks testified to regular use.A collection of small mementos on the credenza behind his desk told the story of a twenty-five-year career: photographs with three different governors, a plaque from the DA's office commemorating his hundredth successful prosecution, and—somewhat incongruously—a child's craft project, painstakingly spelling out "World's Best Dad" in macaroni and glitter.

Harrison leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly as he loosened his tie.The office felt eerily quiet without the usual bustle of his staff outside.He'd sent everyone home early after they'd received word about Judge Marcus Smith.The news had hit particularly hard; Smith had been a fixture in some of their professional lives for over fifteen years.Harrison could still picture him on the bench, those wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, that particular way he had of tilting his head when he was skeptical of an argument.

Their paths had crossed countless times over the years.Harrison recalled the Rodriguez case from '18—a particularly nasty double homicide where Smith's careful jury instructions had been crucial to securing a conviction.Then there was the Thompson trial last spring, where Smith had masterfully managed a courtroom full of hostile witnesses and aggressive defense attorneys.They weren't friends, exactly, but there was a mutual respect built over hundreds of hours in that courtroom.

Seth Matthews, one of his senior paralegals, had actually clerked for Smith right out of law school.And Tammy, Harrison's assistant for the past eight years, had worked as Smith's stenographer early in her career.The judge had written her letter of recommendation when she'd applied for her current position.

Harrison reached for his phone, thinking to call Tammy about organizing some kind of memorial contribution.The staff would want to do something, and it would be better to coordinate their efforts.His fingers hovered over her contact information when a sound from the hallway made him pause.

A soft thud, like a door closing.

He frowned, glancing at his watch.5:15.The cleaning crew wasn't due for another three hours, and he was certain everyone else had left.He'd watched them file out, offering subdued goodbyes, some with reddened eyes after hearing about Smith.

Harrison pushed back from his desk and walked to his office door.The overhead lights in the outer office were dimmed to their evening setting, casting strange shadows across the empty cubicles."Tammy?"he called out, though he knew she'd left hours ago to pick up her son from soccer practice.

His footsteps seemed unnaturally loud on the polished floor as he made his way past the reception area.Everything looked normal: files neatly stacked, computers sleeping, coffee cups washed and put away.A half-empty water bottle sat on Carol's desk, condensation still beading on its surface.

The break room door was ajar, spilling a wedge of fluorescent light into the hallway.Harrison pushed it open wider, taking in the immaculate counters and the fresh coffee filter Tammy always set up for the next morning.The room smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and coffee grounds.

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