Page 23 of Hush
A cold shot of tequila sounded great. Maybe six. If he could shoot them out of Mike’s belly button, even better. He squeezed his eyes closed. “Mexican sounds great. I could go for some tacos.” And a side order of sanity. “But, really, you don’t have to do this.”
“I want to, Judge Brewer.”
What could he say to that? He didn’t say anything, just grabbed his briefcase and his suit jacket off the back of his chair and shrugged into it, trying to shake out the wrinkles he’d put in his pants. “Lead the way.”
They ambled down the stairs side by side, Mike loose and relaxed like Tom rarely got to see. The Annex was closed, the doors locked, and only badged personnel were inside at this hour. Their shoes squeaked on the tile, dark wingtips and heavy soles clipping a steady pace. He kept shooting sidelong glances at Mike, listening as Mike summarized Judge Juarez’s high-risk trial, where he’d been since leaving Tom’s courtroom and the Lincoln case.
The evening sun cast long shadows across the judicial plaza and down the marble steps, a heavy glow shrouding the pavilion. The colors seemed heavier, the blue in the sky closer to the earth. Time slowed in the evening, the sun reluctant to set, the day holding on for just a few minutes longer. The air was warm, just on the verge of hot, brimming with humidity. Enough to feel it in the lungs and make the skin prickle. Golden light clung to Mike’s skin, caressing the planes of his face.
Mike led the way to the Mexican restaurant down the block, a cheery place in yellows and reds. Men clustered around the bar, watching the Nationals play the evening game, and families sat in booths along the wall. The hostess was a friendly young woman, her dark ponytail swishing from side to side as she said hello. Mike asked for a private table or booth against the wall, and she led them to a secluded corner booth.
Mike slid in on one side, his back to the wall, facing the restaurant. A lawman’s instinct, to survey the surroundings. Tom smiled as he sat down. He’d had enough lunches and dinners with FBI agents and police officers over the years, working as a prosecutor, to know that all federal agents and lawman types fought for the corner seat with the best vantage point of their surroundings. The gunfighter’s seat.
“Old habits die hard. I was a member of a task force for a long time.”
He’d been on the other side of the marshals, hunting fugitives. Where every marshal wanted to be, ostensibly. He heard Inspector Villegas talk about it in the break room, how he wanted to be “back in the thick of it” and he was “doing his time” at the courthouse, in judicial security, until he could transfer out. He even heard the marshals on prison transport talking about it, counting down the days until their time in the courthouse and the prisons was done.
“Why did you become a judicial security inspector?”
Mike perused his menu, pursing his lips. “Do you like queso?”
Avoidance. Hmm. His lawyer’s brain couldn’t resist a challenge, the gleeful chance to examine a witness. One corner of his mouth curled up. “I do.” He licked his lips. “Do you like being a JSI?”
Mike glanced up, eyeballing him across the table. “I do.” He tried not to smile.
The game was on. Tom flicked his eyebrows, smothering his own grin. “And you didn’t like being on the task force?”
“I never said that.”
“You never said you did like it, either.”
Mike flipped a page in his menu, his lips pressed together. “Do you like your tacos crunchy or soft?”
“Both at the same time. Crunchy, with a soft tortilla smothered in beans or guacamole wrapped around the outside.”
“That sounds pretty good.”
“As good as being on the task force?”
Sitting back, Mike flicked shut his menu, his smile breaking free. “Your reputation as a thorough prosecutor is well-founded, I see.”
“You heard about me?” He had been one of thirty AUSAs for the DC federal court, and though he’d been on the criminal side of the U.S. Attorney’s Office, he’d never met Mike until he was a judge. When he needed a JSI, it had always been Villegas or Winters, or the guys who had been there before Villegas, Winters, and Mike. Never Mike.
“I read your file when you were assigned to me.”
Not as exciting. He’d thought he’d made an impression on Mike, that Mike had known him before they’d even met. “Ah.”
“Villegas said you were a hell of a prosecutor, though. Said you could eviscerate on cross-examination.”
“I enjoy a good conversation now and then.”
“Conversation? Is that what you call it?”
“Of course. Speaking of, where were you when you were on the task force?”
Mike shook his head, holding back his laughter. The waitress came and asked for their drinks. Tom waited, letting Mike order first, and when Mike ordered water, he stuck to a diet soda. Some Dutch courage wouldn’t be amiss right now, but he should keep it professional. Mike was, obviously. Mike also ordered queso to share.
“I was assigned to a big fugitive hunt, and by the end, I was disgusted with the whole thing. I didn’t like any of it. I came away thinking that this country is holding together with bubble gum and twine, and one lit fuse in the wrong place could blow the whole thing. I wanted to do more.”
