PUT
A SOCK IN IT By
Jean Majury
Court
reporters write down truckloads of
words dumped into courtrooms. Sometimes
the loads are so heavy, reporters explode. That’s what happened to me
in Judge
Cathy Howard’s courtroom where a slip of my tongue tied me to her
murder. Judge
Hayward’s court reporter, Jack
Dillon, was on medical leave. With my assigned judge on vacation, I
became
Jack’s substitute. Judge
Hayward’s
endless stream of words wore out my mind and fingers that day. Worse,
she
demanded a transcript of them by seven that night. That order sent me
over the
edge. “She should put a sock in it,” I muttered to her clerk, “or I
will.” Later
that night I found out someone had
taken my advice. Breaking television news revealed Judge Hayward had
been
strangled and her overactive mouth silenced by a sock.
The
clerk’s recollection of my “put a
sock in it” comment brought Homicide to my courthouse office the next
day. “I
was frustrated,” I told a detective named Norton. “The judge never shut
up.” “But
wasn’t part of her job to talk?” he
asked. His
babe-in-the-woods expression made me
realize I better have a good comeback. “Sure, it’s her job. But
usually,” I
said, aiming for tact, “judges don’t talk every second of every minute
of every
hour.” “Oh,
come on, ma’am, don’t exaggerate.” “I’m
not,” I snapped. “She was a Chatty
Cathy.” “Well,
even if she was a talking
machine, that’s no reason to kill her.” “Detective,
I did not kill her.” Norton’s
disbelieving eyes locked with
mine. Eventually he got tired of our stare-down and asked me a question. “Fill me in on where you
were from the time
you left your office the night of the murder until you arrived home.” “The
judge wanted a transcript of
pretrial motions by 7 PM that night,” I spat out. “I dropped it off on
her
bailiff’s desk five minutes ahead of time.” “Why
did you leave the murder scene?”
Norton asked. “What
murder scene?” I asked. “Nobody
was in the courtroom when I entered or left it.” Although
I provided further details,
Norton remained skeptical of my story. “I’ll get back to you,” he said
as he
left my office. I
didn’t wait for Norton to get back to
me with a possible murder charge. Instead, I hired Bob Kraft, the best
criminal
lawyer around, to defend me. His exceptional legal skills were only
exceeded by
his fees. Bob
persuaded Homicide there was no
probable cause to arrest me. Unfortunately, I remained a person of
interest in
the case. That status put me on administrative leave.
Suddenly, I was a courthouse liability. Fear
kept me awake at nights. I visualized
myself on death row morphing into a Judge Hayward.
Instead of instructing jurors and arguing
with lawyers as she had, I would forever be protesting my innocence. In
a follow-up meeting, Bob urged me to
park my worries. “That’s
impossible,” I said. “You’re
a courthouse insider,” he
reminded me. “Why not snoop around and find another suspect?” Immediately
I thought of the Judge
Wagner, my assigned judge. A month earlier I had returned to his empty
courtroom to retrieve a file. A few of his judicial buddies were
talking with
him back in his chambers. An open door permitted Judge Wagner’s angry
voice to
penetrate the courtroom. “Hayward’s a liability to the court system.” “And
a liability to us,” someone piped
up. Judge
Wagner continued. “She’s clogging
up the court calendar. Dare I suggest we hire a plumbing company to
flush her
out of here?” Laughter
erupted before the judge added,
“Gentlemen, I’m not joking.” My
eavesdropping ended when the judge
shut the door. At
the time I, too, had chuckled over
the plumber remark. I knew exactly what Judge Wagner meant when he
spoke about
“clogging up the system.” Justice is never cheap, but a modicum of
efficiency
is expected. Judge Hayward took three times longer than other judges to
try a
case. This impacted
the court calendar.
Trials got backed up, attorneys complained, and the press featured
articles
suggesting judicial reform. Did
Judge Hayward’s constant running off
at the mouth warrant murder by a judicial hit man?
Judge Wagner’s name became the first on my
suspect list. But I got no further than his.
Instead,
Jack Dillon intruded on my
thoughts. He had been Judge Hayward’s court reporter for eight years.
Surely he
would know her enemies. I dug out his phone number. My suggestion of a
morning
visit that upcoming Saturday met with his approval. Before
our meeting, I wondered how Jack
was taking Judge Hayward’s death.
He had
never criticized her. In fact, he had been surprisingly silent about
her
Chatty-Cathy qualities. Was it because his transcript income from her
court was
triple that of other court reporters. Words, in reporters’ jargon,
produce
transcript pages. And reporters get paid by the page. So, the more
words, the
more pages, the more money reporters make. And if a judge never stops
talking,
well, go figure. My
visit with Jack that Saturday morning
began at his Georgian-style townhouse located in an exclusive
neighborhood. A
rap on the lion’s head knocker brought Jack to the door. “Step right
into my
little abode,” he said. Once
inside, I remarked, “Your so-called
‘little abode’ is gorgeous.” “It
should be,” Jack said. “How many
transcript pages do you think I churned out for the down payment?” “Based
on the exterior alone, I’d say
thousands.” “Many
thousands,” he said. I
followed Jack past the foyer where a
massive Italian vase resided. He
nudged
its glossy surface and said, “The Carlson transcript bought that
beauty.” We
moved into the living room. Its
interior spelled dollar signs. So
did the art, mostly colorful landscapes,
which crammed the walls. Every time I admired a specific item, Jack
named a
transcript he had produced which paid for it. “What
a wonderful home,” I
complimented. “It
is, isn’t it? But I’ve still got a
hefty mortgage to pay off.” Jack’s
“hefty mortgage” explained why he
had never complained about Judge Hayward’s river of words. Payment for
the
multiple-page transcripts from her prolonged court proceedings must
have
bankrolled his home and the fabulous possessions inside. Jack
led me into his study where a
six-foot-long desk held a computer, monitor and printer. “Make yourself
comfortable,” he invited. I plunked down into a leather club chair. Up
to that point, Jack’s home had
captured my attention more than he had. Now, as he sat across from me,
I focused
on the splints fastened by Velcro extending down his wrists. “What’s
wrong with
your hands, Jack?” “Well,
it’s, hush-hush, carpal tunnel.” “I’m
sorry,” I said, commiserating. “I
knew you took a medical leave, not why.” Court reporters over the years
had suffered
from carpal tunnel. The cause was almost always over-use. “It’s
not that bad,” Jack said. “My
hands just need rest.” “I
bet they do. Judge Hayward probably
wore them out.” “Oh,
the attorneys talked as much as she
did.” I
wanted to say, “Tell me another
story.” Instead I offered, “So sorry about her dreadful death.” Jack
bowed his head and said nothing. I
waited a tactful amount of time before
steering the conversation in my direction. “Do you think I killed the
judge?” Jack
leaned back in his chair, eyes half
closed. “No. You had no reason to.” “You
worked for the judge a long time.
Can you think of anyone who wanted her dead?” “No,
I can’t.” Jack’s voice was Arctic
cold. He abruptly stood up and motioned me out of his study. My
question must have cemented her death
in his mind. “Sorry,
I didn’t mean to upset you,” I
said. Jack
patted my arm. “You’ve done nothing
wrong. You just needed someone to turn to.” He
steered me to the front door. I
paused, glancing down at his splinted wrists and hands. “Jack, I’d be
glad to
proof any outstanding transcripts for you,” I said. “No charge, of
course.” “You’re
too kind, Diane, but Nancy
proofs them for me.” “Well,
call if you change your mind,” I
offered as I left. Jack
dominated my thoughts on the drive
home. He had slaved for his luxurious home and the furnishings inside
it. What
would he do now that Judge Hayward was dead? No other judge could
provide him
with the transcript income her mouth had generated. Yet when I
expressed sympathy
over the judge’s death, he had displayed no grief. The
following Monday I met with Bob
again. “Any suspects yet?” he asked. “Just
one possibility.” I recited what I
had overheard Judge Wagner say.
Bob
chuckled. “Judges complain about
their peers, particularly when they fit Judge Hayward’s profile. Anyone
else?” “Not
really. Except I visited Jack
Dillon, Judge Hayward’s court reporter, this past Saturday. He couldn’t
think
of anyone who hated the judge enough to kill her.”
“Tell
me more about your visit,” Bob
urged. I
began with a brief description of
Jack’s townhouse. “What’s
your estimate of its market
price, Diane?” “A
million-plus.” “What’s
the interior like?” “Straight
out of Architectural Digest.” “What
did you and Jack talk about?” As
I repeated the conversation, Bob
scribbled notes down on his yellow legal pad. “Let me mull this over,”
he said
when I finished. “Come back around four today.” The
courthouse law library was two
blocks from Bob’s office. I thought what better time to check out legal
spelling and cites for a transcript I was working on. Minutes later, as
I
scanned law books, a familiar voice said, “Diane, so sorry to hear
about your
situation.” It was Nancy, who Jack had said proofed his transcripts. “I’m
sorry, too.” Before she asked for
details, I moved on to another subject. “You must be swamped proofing
Jack’s
transcripts.” Nancy’s
mouth dropped. “Huh? The guy
hires me about once a year. He proofs almost all of his own stuff.” I
returned to Bob’s office at four
o’clock and mentioned what Nancy had told me. Instead of pursuing that
news, he
opened a huge reference book and flipped to a marked section. He
pointed to the
page and said, “This says splints relieve carpal tunnel symptoms. A
splint
immobilizes and rests the wrist, but the hand and fingers can usually
do some
normal activity.” Bob
thumped the
section with his knuckles as if he had opened a lava pit. “Jack
took medical leave,” I said. “So
what if splints allow him to work on transcripts?” “Because
he said Nancy was proofing
them. Because this section shows he could have used those hands to kill
the
judge.” I
burst into laughter. “Jack would never
kill his cash cow.” “Never
rule out a possible suspect,
Diane. I’ll do more digging. You should, too.” My
digging continued with Linda, Judge
Hayward’s bailiff. She expressed doubts over my person-of-interest
status and
agreed to have lunch with me. In between enormous bites of a tuna-fish
sandwich, she said, “Jack and the judge were like this.” She twisted
her chubby
fingers together. “I’m
not surprised. Jack is such a
superb court reporter.” “True.”
Linda licked a scrap of the tuna
fish off of her thumb. “But there was Jack’s latest worker’s comp
stuff. You
know, supposedly on-the-job injury, the carpal tunnel.” I
seized the opening. “Did that bother
the judge?” “Didn’t
seem to, except—” “Except
what?” “She
asked me to check my calendar for
the number of sick days Jack took off.
Lately, it was a lot.” “I
never thought Jack took much time
off.” I dangled the comment, hoping Linda would snatch onto it. “All
I know is the judge wanted to talk
to him about it. Probably wasn’t that big a deal.” Afterwards
I called Bob. When I repeated
the conversation, he thought it was a big deal. “I’m going to run all
this
information by Homicide. They’ve got the authority to hunt down details
we
don’t. I’ll call
you once I know
something.” That
night I realized how much my life
had changed in a mere three weeks. I was a person of interest in a
murder case.
I was bad publicity for the court. Now, what I had discovered might be
used
against Jack Dillon. Or would it? The notion of Jack strangling anyone
with
splinted hands seemed ridiculous. Homicide detectives probably would do
laughter gigs if Bob spun his Jack-the-killer theory on them. A
doorbell buzzer interrupted my
thoughts. Was it Bob, ridicule stinging his ears, ready to admit how
off course
he had been? I opened the door not to Bob, but Jack. “I
was in the neighborhood and thought
I’d drop by,” he said. “Come
on in.” Jack
trailed me into my living room, an
amalgam of odd pieces of furniture, with theater posters adorning the
walls. “Now
you know my secret,” I said, “I’ll
never be an interior designer.” Jack
didn’t smile. He just eased into a
rocking chair my grandmother had given me. “Would
you like something to drink, some
wine?” I played hostess, but inwardly I felt a storm blowing my way. “No
thanks. I stopped by because of
Linda.” “Linda?”
I visualized her chubby fingers
clutching the tuna-fish sandwich. “Yes.
I telephoned her this afternoon
about something. She said you had lunch together.” I
sat down on the sofa across from him.
“We did. This very day.” “Linda
said you asked about the judge
and me.” “Actually,
I commented about what a
superb reporter you are.” Jack
rocked back and forth in the chair.
“I appreciate that. But why did you ask Linda about us?” “It
was in response to what she said.” “Which
was?” Jack halted his rocking. “Something
about your sick leave and the
carpal tunnel.” “What
else did Linda say?” “Just
that the judge wanted to know how
many sick days you took off. Linda didn’t think it was any big deal.
But was
it, Jack? Was the judge making a fuss about it?” Jack’s
left thumb and forefinger fumbled
with the Velcro on his right wrist and hand.
“What
are you doing, Jack?” “Releasing
the splint. My hand is a bit
stiff.” He shrugged off the Velcro attachment like it was a wet towel
before
doing the same thing with his left. After he finished, he resumed his
rocking. “Diane,
I told the judge I loved being
her court reporter, but sometimes I needed a little time off to rest my
hands.”
Before
I could follow up on his
statement, Jack said, “I’d like that glass of wine now, please.” I
moved into the kitchen and chose a
pinot noir. I
twisted the cap off.
Before I could pour it into the glass, a pair of hands encircled my
neck. “Stop
it,” I managed to screech. The
powerful hands tightened around my neck. Until I remembered I had
hands, too.
My right one still gripped the wine bottle. I jerked it up and behind
me before
smashing it down on Jack’s skull. His
hands loosened and I whipped around
to face him. Wine mixed with blood streamed down his face. He turned
away from
me and staggered back to the rocking chair and sat down. He began
picking bits
of cut glass off his head and face. “Don’t
try anything else,” I said,
grabbing the cell phone from my pocket. “I’m calling 911.” Jack
raised his head and stared at me.
“I didn’t want to harm you, Diane,” he said, his voice trembling, “but
you were
interfering.” “Interfering
with what?” I demanded. “My
dream.” Jack started rocking back
and forth in the chair again. “What
dream, Jack?” “Judge
Hayward told me if I didn’t
retract my worker’s comp claim, she’d get rid of me. She said she’d
tell the
other judges I was unreliable.”
“That’s
dreadful,” I said. “You
bet it was.” Resentment clung to
Jack’s words. “But
what does that have to do with your
dream and me interfering with it?” I asked. “Without
a job, I couldn’t pay for my
dream, my beautiful home and possessions. I couldn’t let the judge or
you, with
your snooping, destroy that dream.” Jack’s hands clasped an imaginary sock. They remained in that position until the police arrived. Jean
Majury’s mysteries have been
published in Woman’s
World and received
mention
several times in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine’s
write-a-plot type monthly contests. Her
short story “Watchdog”
appeared in omdb! in December, 2012. Copyright
© 2018 Jean Majury. All rights reserved.
Reproduction in whole or in part in any form or medium without express
written
permission of the author is prohibited. OMDB! and OMDB! logos are
trademarks of
Over My Dead Body! |