The Judge’s List
- Автор: Гришэм Джон
- Серия: Lacy Stoltz #2
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Doubleday/Random House
- ISBN: 978-0-385-54602-7
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «The Judge’s List». Краткое содержание книги:
Then she meets a mysterious woman who is so frightened she uses a number of aliases. Jeri Crosby’s father was murdered twenty years earlier in a case that remains unsolved and that has grown stone cold. But Jeri has a suspect whom she has become obsessed with and has stalked for two decades. Along the way, she has discovered other victims.
Suspicions are easy enough, but proof seems impossible. The man is brilliant, patient, and always one step ahead of law enforcement. He is the most cunning of all serial killers. He knows forensics, police procedure, and most important: he knows the law.
He is a judge, in Florida — under Lacy’s jurisdiction.
He has a list, with the names of his victims and targets, all unsuspecting people unlucky enough to have crossed his path and wronged him in some way. How can Lacy pursue him, without becoming the next name on his list?
The Judge’s List is by any measure John Grisham’s most surprising, chilling novel yet.
“It’s complicated. Sure, there’s a big pile of money, but that only attracts more vultures, more hungry lawyers.”
“I get that. But what would you settle for, Lacy? What’s your figure?”
“I don’t know. We’re not there yet.”
“You’re entitled to millions, Sis. Those bastards deliberately set you up and crashed into your car. You—”
“Please. I know all this, Gunther, and we’re not going over it again.”
“Okay, sorry, but I just worry about you. I’m not sure you have the right lawyer.”
“As I’ve said before, Gunther, I can take care of myself and my lawyer. You don’t need to waste time worrying about it.”
“I know. Sorry. I’m your big brother and I can’t help it.”
Their plates arrived and both seemed to welcome the interruption. They began eating and things went quiet. He was obviously preoccupied with ideas but couldn’t manage to work them into the conversation.
Her biggest fear was that he would need an infusion of cash at the same time she settled her lawsuit. He would never ask for money outright, as a gift, but would use the ploy of an urgent loan. If it happened, she was determined to say no. She knew he borrowed from Peter to pay Paul, hocked everything he owned, and walked the fine line between prosperity and financial ruin. He wasn’t about to touch her money, when and if she ever got it, and if her refusal created a rift, then so be it. She would rather keep the money and deal with an ugly fallout than fork it over, watch him lose it, and then deal with a future filled with empty promises.
He backed away from more discussion of her lawsuit, and proceeded to talk about his favorite subject: his latest project. It would be a planned community with mixed housing, a central town square with a faux courthouse in the center, churches and schools, lots of water and trails, and the obligatory golf course. A regular utopia. A $50 million development, with other investors, of course. Lacy forced herself to seem engaged.
The terrace began to fill and before long they were in a crowd. Gunther contemplated one glass of wine for dessert, but changed his mind when she ordered an espresso. He paid the check at one o’clock and said it was time to head to the airport. Another deal was hanging by a thread and he was needed in Atlanta.
She hugged him goodbye inside the private terminal and watched him taxi away. She loved him dearly, but took a deep breath and relaxed when he was gone.
25
From his well-stocked closet, Judge Bannick selected a designer suit from Zegna, light gray in color, worsted wool, a white shirt with French cuffs, and a solid navy tie. He admired himself in the mirror and thought the look was rather European. Late Saturday afternoon, he left his home in Cullman and drove into central Pensacola, into an historic district known as North Hills. The streets were shaded with the canopies of old oaks and their thick limbs were draped with Spanish moss. Many of the homes were two hundred years old and had weathered hurricanes and recessions. As a kid in Pensacola, Ross and his pals rode their bikes through North Hills and admired the fine homes. It never occurred to him that he would one day be welcome in the neighborhood.
He turned in to the cobblestone driveway of a beautifully preserved Victorian and parked his SUV next to a shiny Mercedes sedan, then walked across the rear patio and tapped on a door. Melba, the ancient maid who kept Helen’s life together, greeted him with her usual warm smile and said that the lady was getting dressed. Did he want a drink? He asked for a ginger ale and found his favorite seat in the billiard room.
Helen was a widow and a girlfriend of sorts, though he had no interest in romance. Nor did she. Her third or fourth husband had died of old age and left her rich, and she preferred to hang on to the money. All prospective men of an age were after her assets, she assumed. Thus, their relationship was nothing more than a convenience. She loved being escorted around town with a handsome younger man, and a judge at that. He liked her because she was witty and outrageous and never a threat.
She said she was sixty-four years old but this was doubted. Years of aggressive surgery had smoothed out some wrinkles, curved her chin, and brightened her eyes, but he suspected she was at least seventy. His harem, as he called it but only to himself, consisted of several women ranging in age from forty-one all the way up to Helen. To qualify, they had to be either rich or affluent, and happily single. He was not in the market for a wife, and over the years had discarded several who got complicated.
Melba brought his drink and left him in silence. Dinner was at seven thirty and there was no possible way they would arrive on time. For a judge who demanded punctuality in most matters, waiting for Helen demanded patience. So he waited, soaking up the fine worn-leather furniture, the Persian rugs, the paneled walls, the oak shelves laden with ancient books, the magnificent chandelier from another century. The house covered 10,000 square feet on four levels, and very little of it was used by Helen and Melba.
He closed his eyes and recited the latest poem. Its author had now linked him to Danny Cleveland, the former reporter for the Ledger. Disposed of in 2009, only five years ago. And before that, Eileen Nickleberry in 1998. And after, Perry Kronke in 2012, then Verno and Dunwoody less than a year ago. He felt like his victims were now crawling out of their graves and lining up, zombie-like, to come after him. He was living in a state of stunned disbelief, his thoughts a mush of rampant flashes, his debates raging over strategies that changed by the hour.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, then reached into a pocket, retrieved a loose capsule of Xanax, and chased it down with the ginger ale. He was taking too many of the pills. They were supposed to flatten his anxieties and relax him, but they weren’t working anymore.
Could it be possible that he was about to lose such a lofty and privileged place in life? Was he about to be exposed in some unimaginable way? The past that he had so brilliantly worked to conceal was now catching up with him. The present and all its status was at risk. The future was too horrible to dwell on.
“Hello dahling,” she said as she entered the room. Bannick jumped to his feet, threw out his hands for a polite hug, and offered sexless air kisses while saying, “You look marvelous, Helen.”
“Thank you, dear,” she said, looking down at her red sleeveless dress. “You like it? Chanel.”
“Beautiful, stunning.”
“Thank you, dahling.” She was from a small town in Georgia and fancied herself a real Southern belle. The “darling” came out dahling.
She leaned in closer, frowned, and said, “You do look tired, Judge. Dark circles around the eyes. Are you battling insomnia again?”
He had never been bothered with insomnia, but said, “I guess. A busy trial calendar.” He was too polite to say, “Well, Helen, in that case, I notice an extra roll around the old waistline. Not looking as svelte as you think.”
The good thing about Helen, and something he admired greatly, was that she never stopped trying. Always dieting, sweating, shopping for the latest fashions, studying the next surgical alternatives, buying the most expensive makeup and applying it with gusto. She claimed to be waiting for the perfect female Viagra so she could hop in the sack like a teenager. Both had laughed at this because sex was a topic they avoided.
She worked so hard at looking good that he could never say anything that might deflate her considerable ego. He looked at her feet, never a dull place, and smiled at her leopard skins. “Love your hooker’s heels,” he said with a laugh. “Jimmy Choo?”
“Always, dahling.”
They said goodbye to Melba and left the house. As usual, they would take her Mercedes because, being a complete snob, Helen would be humiliated to be seen arriving at the country club in a Ford. Bannick opened the passenger door for her and got behind the wheel. It was already seven forty and the club was fifteen minutes away. They chatted about his busy week, her grandkids in Orlando — a rotten lot with problems that only serious money could create — and after about ten minutes in traffic she said, “You seem preoccupied, Judge. What’s the matter?”