Page 8 of Hush
Tom turned back to Mike. “I’m willing to bet that you have a spare suit in your office.”
Mike flushed, but nodded. “Spare suit, gym clothes, and tactical uniform.”
“Knew it.” Tom smiled. “Go change. Take a deep breath. And then come get your coffee.”
Rising, Mike bobbled for a moment, seemingly not sure whether he should scramble out of Tom’s chambers or stay and self-flagellate himself, apologize and apologize some more. His phone kept buzzing in his palm.
“Want me to take that off your hands?” Tom held out his hand. Mike hadn’t once read the incoming texts, but he hadn’t let go of his death grip on the phone either.
Tom knew, God he knew, the fastest way to get away from something was to pretend it never existed.
Mike swallowed, his Adam’s apple rising and falling. Stubble darkened his face and neck, like he hadn’t had time to shave that morning. He took a deep breath, held it, and then passed his phone over.
Tom dumped it in his top desk drawer. “See you in a few minutes.”
Mike was back in record time, impeccably dressed in another dark suit, a bold lime-green tie cutting a striking path down his starched white shirt. He’d run wet fingers through his hair, smoothing windblown strands and finger-combing them into a perfectly suave style. In minutes, he’d gone from frazzled to fantastic.
Tom was jealous of that ability. It was practically a superpower.
He held back from taking Mike in from head to toe and forced himself not to linger over his broad shoulders, his strong hands. Instead, he passed him a mug of coffee, perfectly made by Peggy, and waited while Mike chugged half of it.
He checked the clock. Nine-eighteen AM. “Are you ready, Inspector Lucciano?” Once, during his first week, he’d stumbled with how to address Mike, fumbling through the bewildering double titles of deputy marshal and judicial security inspector. Mike saved him, telling him “Inspector” was the proper, official term, but he could just call him Mike.
Mike smiled, finally, a real, honest smile, and nodded. “I am, Judge Brewer.”
“Well then.” Tom winked. “The time for justice is at hand.”
Mike laughed as he held the door for Tom and escorted him down the private hallway to the courtroom. The bailiff spotted their approach and ducked into the courtroom a minute before they arrived. Tom and Mike waited, and then entered when they heard the booming call of the bailiff. “All rise!”
Tom gave Mike one last smile before climbing up to the bench and settling in.
The trial started smoothly. Tom spent the first few minutes apologizing to the court, and to the jurors in particular, for the delay. He took the blame, spinning a story about his terrible choice of dinner the night before and his urgent detour before the start of opening arguments. He made more than one juror laugh and the AUSA, Solórzano, shake her head, so he counted that as a win.
Mike stood silently by the bench, watching him. He could practically feel the gratitude pouring from the man.
He won more points from the jury with his opening instructions. Tom had a friendly, informal style, which rankled Chief Judge Fink to no end. Chief Judge Clarence T. Fink, judicial leader of the DC federal courthouse, papa bear to all the judges, and one of the oldest serving federal judges in the entire judiciary. He’d lived through history Tom had read about in school books as a child. He was a legend on the bench.
Chief Judge Fink preferred a statelier approach, with the judge keeping his distance from the proceedings and only interacting with the courtroom when absolutely required. His poker face was the best in DC. More than one attorney had argued before him in sidebar, utterly convinced that they were making a pitch-perfect argument to their point and one that Judge Fink would most certainly agree to, only to be shredded a moment later.
Tom, many decades younger than Judge Fink, had a different style.
He came down from the bench and instructed the jury from the courtroom floor, facing the juror box. He was, he said, their partner in the trial. The trial could only be successful with all partners doing their very best. He was responsible for keeping the law correct. Keep the attorneys on track, and everything above board. Prevent any trick shots and keep the proceedings fair for all parties. The jury, in contrast, was responsible for judging the evidence. There to listen to the facts presented to them by both sides, and to then judge those facts against the law. Theirs was a solemn duty, with no small amount of significance. This trial, or any trial, couldn’t happen without them and their dedication to the proceedings.
He got about three or four jurors to smile at him, nodding along, another two to sit up straighter in their seats, and—always—another one or two to roll their eyes. Tom wished them well and climbed back up to the bench.
As he passed Mike, Mike sent him a warm smile and a shake of his head. Tom shrugged and grinned back.
Opening arguments were as expected, Solórzano delivering the government’s position and the charges against Lincoln with brisk efficiency. She detailed the evidence to be presented like the opening of a thesis, lining up the paint-by-numbers canvas for the jurors to follow. Lincoln’s defense counsel, a younger attorney from the public defender’s office and still wet behind the ears, struggled to throw doubt like black paint against the prosecution’s picture. Lincoln had been caught dealing drugs to an undercover officer, and forensic evidence put his specific weapon—which witnesses said he treated better than his own child and never let anyone borrow—as the weapon used to murder several individuals over the past two years in DC’s ongoing drug and gang wars ravaging the poorest neighborhoods.
They broke for lunch promptly at twelve-thirty. Tom could have pushed back twenty minutes, making up for the delay in the morning, but there was no faster way to piss off a jury than to delay lunch. They were already glassy-eyed, and several looked like they needed a hit from their cell phones, stat, before they expired from lack of social media infusion. He called for a lunch recess and climbed down from the bench.
Mike, of course, was waiting for him, and held open the door to the private corridor. “Should be a quick trial.”
“Should be.” Tom rolled his neck. Pops sounded.
“I was keeping an eye on the back row. Looks like Lincoln’s buddies have shown up.”
“Do we need to make arrangements for the witness testimony?”
