It was a tough time of year for Tom Carroway, with the bowl games and the holiday college basketball tournaments. As the subway train lurched from station to station, he read the newspaper over the shoulder of the man beside him. Forget about watching the ball drop. Michigan played Auburn tonight with a seven point spread. Right after that came the semifinals of the Great Alaska Shootout and then the finals of the Rainbow Classic in Hawaii. Action all through the night. He switched hands on the metal bar and fingered the wad in his pocket. Just one hit and hełd be flush. But the train lurched again and shook him back to reality. He would be nuts to try.
He spotted Dominic the moment he climbed up into Foley Square. Dominic stood with one foot on the ledge of the fountain and flipped a coin like a football referee. At the sight of Tom, he snatched the coin out of the air.
“Right on time," he said. He had a pig nose and crooked teeth. “The New York T.A. is an amazing thing."
Tom said nothing. He plucked the wad from his pants and handed it over. The bills, fresh from an ATM, snapped as Dominic riffled their edges with his thumb.
“All there," he said. “Unless you sandwiched in fins for twenties. But you wouldnÅ‚t do that, wouldja?"
Again, Tom said nothing. But no, he wouldnłt.
“See you next time," said Dominic.
And the time after that and the time after that, thought Tom, the times stretching unbroken into April. If he could stay on his budget, if he could avoid his congenital need for action.
Carol already had chambers humming by the time Tom blew in. The lights were on, music played on the Judgełs radio, the coffeemaker made those long sucking sounds as it brewed. Carol wore knee boots, a plaid woolen skirt, cream colored V-neck sweater. Her face was flushed as if she had just come in from the cold, but the rims of her eyes were a deeper red.
“Hi," said Tom. He put his hand on her shoulder and let it trail off as he squeezed past her desk. “You all right?"
“Yes and no," she said. She pulled herself close to her computer monitor, shielding her face from him.
Carol always put up a perky front, even on days she felt lousy. She and Tom had worked together for five years and had been involved for the last one. He knew her moods well, and this one looked somber. He rolled his chair out from his desk and sat close behind her.
“WhatÅ‚s up?" he said.
“NickyÅ‚s physical," she said. “The doctor ... Well, you know how I always say Nicky doesnÅ‚t listen. ThatÅ‚s not far off. Nicky doesnÅ‚t hear."
Nicky was Carolłs five-year-old son, abandoned with her when her husband ducked out. He was a cute kid and didnłt seem to have anything wrong with him.
“HeÅ‚s deaf?" said Tom.
“Moderately," said Carol. She traced a finger in the air. “His audiogram looks like this."
Tom grunted sympathetically. He had no idea what the audiogram meant, but knew when he should play along. Carol leaned into her desk, sobs coursing through her body. Tom spun her around. She tucked her face into his shoulder. He wrapped one arm around her and dropped the other onto her lap. Carol was a runner. When the weather was good, she changed into running clothes at lunchtime and ran across the bridge to Brooklyn and back. Her thighs were like rocks.
“Hearing aids," she sniffled. “I canÅ‚t believe he needs hearing aids. You know what thatÅ‚ll do?"
“Poor kid," said Tom.
“That, and theyÅ‚re expensive. Three thousand an ear for decent ones."
“At least we have good medical coverage."
“Not good enough." Carol pulled back. She primped her hair, brushed TomÅ‚s hand off her lap, smoothed her skirt. She wouldnÅ‚t want the Judge to walk in on them like that. “It covers only half."
Her money situation, Tom knew, was no better than his, but for different reasons. Aside from the salary differential between a law clerk and a secretary, Carol supported her mother along with her son in a house that was falling apart. Three thousand cash was a big hit, though no one would break her legs for falling behind in her payments.
“ThereÅ‚s always Big Al," he said.
Carol forced a laugh. “My knight in shining armor."
Big Al was Judge Canter, their boss. They were at their own desks, working, when he came in, his owl eyes blurry behind thick glasses, his comb-over ruined by static electricity when he pulled his schapska off his head.
“Uh, good morning," he said.
He went into his office, the innermost of the three rooms in the chambers suite. Listening carefully, they could hear the rattle of hangers in his closet as he hung his heavy black overcoat, the gurgle of coffee as he filled his cup, the squeak of his chair as he sat down, the whisk of paper as he shuffled the orders and decisions Tom had placed on his desk for signature. Carol waited the appropriate interval. Then, arching her eyebrows at Tom, she went in.
Tom couldnłt hear the exact words they spoke. But he could distinguish the staccato of Carol laying out her latest dilemma from the deep, carefully considered responses of the Judge. Tom could do a credible imitation of Canterłs voice. Sometimes, in the darkness of his bed on Saturday nights, he spoke to Carol like the Judge and made her laugh until she cried.
Carol came out. Her eyes were still red and she still sniffled, but she was unmistakably relieved.
“He said heÅ‚ll help," she whispered.
“See?" Tom forced a smile. “I knew he would."
It wasnłt much of a prediction. Judge Canter, in his Big Al mode, acted like a rich uncle toward Carol. He paid her community college tuition, bailed her out of unexpected bills (like the time she woke up to find her basement flooded because the water heater burst), and picked up for the absence of Nickyłs father by lavishing expensive birthday and Christmas gifts on the boy. Toward Tom, he was always cool and professional, respectful of Tomłs considerable analytical powers and writing skills. But Tom noticed a subtle shift in the chambers dynamic in the year since he and Carol had become involved. The Judge seemed even more generous to Carol while becoming unusually critical of Tomłs work.
“I think heÅ‚s jealous," Tom said on more than one occasion.
“But heÅ‚s such a nerd," Carol would say, and then they would trade supporting evidence. Tom thought Canter had been the kind of kid he and his friends would have beaten up at school. Carol thought he was the type of bachelor who labeled his socks and underwear for the day of the week.
Today, there were no jibes. Yes, Judge Canter, the generous nerd, had come through again. But the underlying problem was not the stuff of jokes. Little Nicky Scilingo would be just as deaf tomorrow, next week, and next year as he was today. Carol resumed typing on her computer. Tom stared, entranced by the way her back narrowed and her hips swelled. He felt hamstrung, ineffectual. He should be the one to help Carol through this crisis. But he had his own problems.
* * * *
The courthouse was quiet in the week between Christmas and New Yearłs, staffed by a skeleton crew of judges and clerks. New Yearłs Eve was quieter still. Judge Canterłs job was to sign emergency orders. A clerk from the Ex Parte Office rolled in at midmorning with a dozen orders, mostly stays of eviction. He briefed Tom on each case, then the two went into the inner office and presented them to the Judge.
“There may not be an afternoon delivery," the clerk said as the Judge signed the last order. “IÅ‚m letting my staff go at three. If anything comes in, IÅ‚ll call."
“Uh, fine," said the Judge. He locked his hands behind the back of his neck and stretched. His shoulders were bony and his AdamÅ‚s apple quivered above the tight knot of his tie.
After the clerk left and Tom sat back at his desk, the Judge came out.
“Uh, IÅ‚m going to close my door," he said. “IÅ‚m a little tired."
The Judge had been napping during the day lately, a development Tom explained away as fatigue but Carol worried might have sinister undertones. Today, they exchanged only the briefest glance.
Carol went into the middle room with a sheaf of papers to file. Tom put the finishing touches on a decision. When he was done, he got up. The door to Judge Canterłs office was ajar. Through the crack, he could see the Judge lying on his sofa, his arms crossed on his chest, his head bent against the armrest, his glasses askew.
Carol stood on tiptoes, her elbow resting on the open top drawer of a file cabinet. Tom goosed her. She stifled a gasp and turned around laughing. They kissed. He picked her up and sat her on the table near the window. This was where they had first done it, on a late afternoon last December after the Judge had gone home. The memory and Tomłs current intent were not lost on Carol.
“HeÅ‚s right in there," she said.
“HeÅ‚s out. Dead to the world."
“HeÅ‚ll wake up."
“IÅ‚ll be quiet."
“You wonÅ‚t be quiet," said Carol, though the idea did excite her. Still, her better judgment got the better of her. She pushed Tom away, slid off the table, adjusted her skirt and sweater. It would have been bad form for the Judge to find them screwing not one hour after he offered to pay for NickyÅ‚s hearing aids.
Carol continued her filing. Tom, his ardor stifled, wrote another decision. By noon, the Judge still had not come out.
“Awfully long nap," said Carol.
“Maybe heÅ‚s still tired from waiting up for Santa Claus," said Tom.
“Very funny."
Carol went into the Judgełs office. A few seconds later, she came back to the doorway and beckoned Tom.
Tom knew the minute he saw the Judge that something was wrong. The Judge hadnłt moved since he last peeked in on him. He pressed a finger against the Judgełs neck.
“Carol," he said. “HeÅ‚s dead."
* * * *
It was Tomłs idea to take it slow. Not call 911 or the court officers, several of whom were certified EMTs.
“We need to think this through," he said.
“Think what through?" said Carol.
“What weÅ‚re going to do."
“IsnÅ‚t it obvious? DonÅ‚t we call for help?"
“ItÅ‚s no use."
“But maybe someone can revive him," said Carol.
Tom was no expert, but he had seen enough death beforehis father, an uncleto know that Judge Canter was irretrievably dead. Whatever had hit him hit him almost immediately after he lay down to take his nap. That was almost two hours ago.
“We still need to call someone," said Carol. She went to the JudgeÅ‚s desk and picked up the phone. Tom jammed the hookswitch.
“Put the phone down, Carol."
“Tom..."
“Put the phone down and listen to me. One minute. Give me one minute."
Carol put the phone down, and Tom guided her to the other sofa. They sat close together, staring across the office at the Judge. Tom put his arm around her.
“Do you know what happens when a judge dies?" he said.
Carol shook her head.
“The staff keeps their jobs until the end of that year. For us, today, that gives us twelve hours before weÅ‚re out of a job. But if the judge dies on January first, the staff keeps their jobs for the whole rest of the year."
“ThatÅ‚s crazy," said Carol.
“ThatÅ‚s the law."
“But what if heÅ‚s not really dead?"
“He is dead," said Tom. “What IÅ‚m saying is, better for us if he dies tomorrow."
* * * *
Carol stayed behind in chambers while Tom went out for the things they would need. She kept the door to the JudgeÅ‚s office closed, and if anyone came looking for him the story would be that he was asleep and left strict orders not to be disturbed. “We need to act as though nothing happened," Tom had said. And so Carol worked at her desk, typing attorney names onto form letters scheduling conferences for February. It seemed so far away.
After a while, Carol peeked through the door. Before he left, Tom had rolled the Judge a quarter turn onto his side, explaining that he needed to turn the body every couple of hours to prevent the blood from pooling and fixing the time of death too accurately. The Judgełs arms were still crossed in front of his chest, his face mashed against the back cushion of the sofa. Carol thought she saw his leg twitch. She watched closely, barely breathing, and thought she saw it twitch again. She immediately called Tomłs cell phone.
“HeÅ‚s alive," she said. “He moved."
“Carol, youÅ‚re seeing things."
“No. Really. I looked. HeÅ‚s..."
“Test it," Tom whispered. “Hold a mirror to his nose."
Carol fumbled through her purse for her compact. She held it to the Judgełs nose, then to the tiny gap between his thick, rubbery lips.
“Nothing." Carol felt herself deflate.
“Your eyes are playing tricks," said Tom.
“IÅ‚m nervous," said Carol. “When are you coming back?"
“Not long. I have one more stop."
Carol went back to her desk and ate her hummus sandwich on seven grain bread and ate her six carrots and drank her bottled water. She wished it were a warmer day so she could change into running clothes and run the bridge. Running helped her sort out her problems, made her feel better once the endorphins kicked in. But no number of miles, no amount of endorphins would help today. She wished she had stood firm, not allowed Tom to talk her into this plot, but the truth was that she had no real choice. These jobs were scarce, and she needed this job now more than ever because of the medical benefits. Bad enough Big Alłs promise to pay for half of Nickyłs hearing aids died with him. Without a job, shełd have to pay it all.
Three ołclock came and went. The Ex Parte Office was closed now. The rest of the day would likely pass without the need for the Judgełs signature. Carol felt a slight lift in her spirits.
She called home. Nickyłs voice sounded different to her now that she knew, the slurs and the dropped consonants not just simple mispronunciations. Carolłs mother took over the line.
“I may be home a little late, Ma," said Carol.
“Fine. No problem. Nicky and I are making popcorn."
Everything always was fine with Carolłs mother. Shełd had a stroke a few years earlier, which seemed to have affected the part of the brain where her considerable powers of worry once resided.
As Carolłs mother talked, the phone beeped. A Florida number appeared on the caller ID screen, the Judgełs brother calling from Naples. Carolłs heart raced as she waited for the red light indicating a voice mail to pop on. It didnłt, and she relaxed.
“IÅ‚ll call you later, Ma," she said.
* * * *
Tom caught breaks at the luggage store and the car rental agency, and now that he approached the courthouse on Centre Street he caught the biggest break of all. Foxx, a court officer he knew well, was working the tiny judgesł parking lot on the northeast corner of the building. The lot was mostly empty, and Foxx, once he recognized Tom through the windshield, pointed him to a spot on the curb. He and Foxx once had been close, like drug buddies except different. They would fill out the football sheets together on Fridays, take extended lunches at the OTB parlor on Canal Street, hit flat tracks as far away as Monmouth on Saturday afternoons. Foxx had straightened himself out, forced by circumstances he never discussed but, in rumors, sounded like a problem with Internal Affairs. Sometimes Tom wished he had been scared straight too.
“WhatÅ‚s with the wheels?" said Foxx. He had a cock-hipped stance and a habit of following the most innocuous statement with a challenging stare.
“Rental," said Tom. “Going away for a couple of nights."
“With sexy Carol Scilingo? Jackpot, man." Foxx slapped Tom a brother shake.
Tom popped the trunk and hauled out the suitcase.
“ThatÅ‚s pretty big for a couple of nights," said Foxx.
“Yeah, well, we each brought our own suitcase but weÅ‚re going to consolidate everything into one."
Tom felt Foxxłs eyes on him as he rolled the suitcase in through the street level entrance. Inside, he called the judgesł private elevator with a key. He shuddered, wondering whether he convinced Foxx with his hastily back-filled lie. But once the elevator car arrived and he fit the suitcase along the side wall and the car ascended to the fifth floor, he felt an edge to his mood. It was a good edge, a confident edge, the kind he felt when his bets were laid and he knewknewhe was going to win.
Carol hugged him the moment he walked into chambers.
“IÅ‚m glad youÅ‚re back," she said.
He squeezed her once, then let go.
“Anything?"
“Nothing. Never heard from Ex Parte. Oh, but his brother called twice from Florida. DidnÅ‚t leave a message."
“Okay," said Tom.
“What do we do now?" said Carol.
“We wait."
* * * *
They waited for the solitude and the darkness five ołclock would bring on one of the shortest days of the year. Tom scouted first, walking casually around the entire fifth floor. The library was deserted, the transoms dark above the other chambersł doors. A court officer sat at the security desk, but they didnłt need to pass him on their way to the elevator.
It was shortly after six when they had the Judge, bent like a contortionist, in the suitcase. They shut the lights, locked chambers, and proceeded down the corridor with Tom pulling from the front. The wheels rolled hard on the terrazzo floor, the bottom of the suitcase bowed with one hundred and seventy pounds of dead weight. Carol steadied the suitcase from behind.
They made it to the elevator without encountering anyone. In the tiny car, with the suitcase wedged between them, they exhaled deeply.
“WeÅ‚re in the game now," said Tom.
Carol forced a smile.
Theirs was the only car in the parking lot. Everyone was gone, including Foxx. Traffic was thin. Across Worth Street, a single pedestrian walked with his head down and hands in his coat pockets. Tom waited for him to pass out of sight before opening the back door of the car and cartwheeling the suitcase inside.
They got in, Tom behind the wheel. Carol pressed her forehead to the dashboard.
“Hey," said Tom. He reached over and massaged the back of her neck. “ItÅ‚s not like we killed him. WeÅ‚re just floating him for awhile. He wouldnÅ‚t mind. He always was concerned about us, especially you."
“Yeah, whatever," said Carol. She hoped that maybe tomorrow or the next day she could look back on this and realize it wasnÅ‚t so bad. Right now, she couldnÅ‚t.
The Judge lived in Stuyvestant Town, in a two-bedroom apartment he had shared with his mother until she died about seven years earlier. Tom parked on the street, and they rolled the suitcase out of the car and into the elevator and then into the apartment. They were just as lucky, if not luckier, than when they left the courthouse; they encountered no one. As they stripped off their coats and turned on the lights and lowered the shades, Tom began to feel that edge again. This is going to work, he thought. This is going to work.
The bed was neatly made. Carol pulled down the covers while Tom dragged the Judge out of the suitcase and onto the bed. The plan, hashed and rehashed during the long afternoon, was to change him into his pajamas and lay him in his bed. Someone would find him eventually, a neighbor or the super. If not, they would report him missing after he failed to show up for work. By then, enough of the new year would have elapsed.
The Judgełs joints were beginning to stiffen, but Tom straightened them with some gentle pressure. He removed the Judgełs clothing a piece at a time, handing each to Carol. She dropped his socks in a hamper and hung his suit in the closet. She counted five suits in all and saw, from the way they hung, the precise order in which he wore them.
A stench rose off the Judge as Tom worked closer. Not quite death, he thought, but the smell of living decay, an old manłs odor. He hooked a finger under the waistband of the Judgełs boxers, then stopped.
“Do I need to go on?" he said.
Carol turned from the closet. “I wonÅ‚t, if thatÅ‚s what youÅ‚re asking."
Tom pulled out his finger. Who the hell would know the difference?
They yanked on the Judgełs pajamas and plumped his pillows and covered him with the sheets. Carol unhooked his glasses from his head and placed them on the nightstand. Tom took one more look around the bedroom. Everything seemed normal. He shut the light.
Tom planned to roll the body a quarter turn every two hours, which would allow them to leave around ten. They would drive up to Carolłs house in White Plains to ring in the New Year together, then Tom would turn in the rental car and return to his apartment on the Upper West Side.
They went out to First Avenue and bought sandwiches and chips. On the way back, a liquor store caught Tomłs eye. He went in and grabbed a cold bottle of champagne. His wallet was light, so he charged it on his credit card. What the hell, he thought. It was New Yearłs Eve. And in a few hours, if all went well, he and Carol would have a yearłs worth of good fortune to celebrate.
Back at the apartment, they ate their sandwiches at the coffee table.
“What do you think happened to him?" said Carol.
“Stroke, heart attack," said Tom. “Probably heart attack."
“He hardly ever went to a doctor."
“He looked like a nerd, but he was strong in his own way. The lawyers knew. They couldnÅ‚t push him around."
Tom went into the kitchen while Carol gathered the sandwich wrappers into the plastic deli bag. He opened the fridge, but paused before taking out the champagne. The fridge was almost empty: a carton of skim milk, a bottle of seltzer, a half apple wrapped in a paper towel, a nearly empty jar of Cajun hot sauce. Canter led such a bleak life, and Tom, who saw himself as a judge one day, wondered if he would share the same fate.
Carol came up behind him. She snaked her arms under his and pinched his nipples through his shirt. He turned. They kissed hard. Tom lifted her onto the counter, insinuated himself between her knees. What bleak life, he thought, as their combined orgasms rattled them both. He doubted anything like this ever happened in this kitchen.
Later, they lolled on the couch and sipped champagne. Ten ołclock approached, the last time Tom planned to turn the body. He lifted Carolłs elegantly booted feet off his lap and crossed to the bedroom door. He opened it.
“Getting a little ripe in here," he said.
The phone rang. Tom froze. Carol bolted upright on the sofa. After the fourth ring, an ancient answering machine engaged and a muffled recording of the Judgełs monotonous voice announced his inability to answer the phone right now.
“Al, Jack. This is the third time I called today, and I have to say IÅ‚m getting a little worried. IÅ‚ll try you again at midnight. Hope youÅ‚re having a good time."
The phone disconnected, and a deep silence ensued.
“We canÅ‚t leave," Tom finally said. “If he doesnÅ‚t talk to Al, weÅ‚re screwed."
“But heÅ‚s in Florida."
“Right," said Tom, “and if he calls at twelve and doesnÅ‚t talk to the Judge and the Judge is found dead, the implication will be that the Judge died today instead of tomorrow."
“So what do we do?"
“We let him talk to the Judge," said Tom.
He turned the body, then joined Carol on the couch and watched the New Yearłs Eve telecast cut back and forth between London and Times Square. The London shots heartened them; midnight there already had come and gone. As local midnight neared, Tom moved a chair next to the phone. He cleared his throat, let his jaw go slack, assumed the Judgełs slouch sitting posture. This time his imitation of Judge Canterłs dull monotone would be for real.
On television, the ball dropped in Times Square. Carol leaned over Tom and kissed him, careful not to ruffle his Judge Canter persona. Before the minute ran out, the phone rang again. Tom gathered himself and answered.
“Hey, bro, where the hell have you been?"
“Uh, hi, Jack. Around. Doing things. Happy New Year."
“Same to you. You had me worried. Almost called the cops to break into your apartment. You remember what happened to Pops. Here one minute, gone the next."
“I know."
“So whatÅ‚d you do tonight?"
Tom felt a bead of sweat squeeze out of his forehead. He needed to say something vague and unverifiable.
“Uh, had dinner in Chinatown. Walked around."
“YouÅ‚re not with that hot secretary of yours?"
“Uh."
“CÅ‚mon, you old dog. You sent me the pictures. How the hell did you get her to pose like that?"
Tom looked across the room at Carol. She was sitting on the sofa, hugging herself as if cold. She couldnłt possibly hear what Jack Canter was saying.
“Uh, loyalty," he said.
“That kind of loyalty is priceless," said Jack. “You sure youÅ‚re not with her and just donÅ‚t want to tell your bro?"
“I should be so lucky," said Tom.
“Glad I got you. Glad youÅ‚re okay. Happy New Year."
Tom hung up.
“That went well," said Carol.
“Uh yeah," said Tom, still in character. “Real well."
* * * *
Tom turned the body one last time, then he and Carol drove to her house in White Plains. He begged off her invitation to come inside, saying it was late and he was tired. He avoided calling her the next day, and they spoke only briefly on the day after that. On January third, their first day back in chambers, they waited for the Judge who never would come.
It was mid morning when Tom brought up the subject of the pictures the Judge had sent his brother. Carol denied it at first, then explained it had been over a year ago, before he and she had become involved. The Judge was going to his fifty-year high school reunion and wanted to show her off. It was nothing, she said, just a joke. But Tom persisted. What was the pose, he wanted to know. Carol refused to answer. They were deep into their argument when Foxx escorted two NYPD detectives into chambers.
It turned out Jack Canter got suspicious as soon as he hung up the phone. When he called again New Yearłs morning and got no answer, he hopped a plane north. He knew something was wrong as soon as he saw the body; the Judge never slept in his boxers.
“But we didnÅ‚t kill him," Tom protested as the handcuffs clicked around his wrists.
“We know," said the lead detective. “But IÅ‚m sure youÅ‚ve heard the word fraud."