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.
Preston Dill had been one of his first clients. He and his wife wanted a no-fault divorce but couldn’t manage to scrape together the $500 fee. The two hated each other and had future spouses already lined up, but Lawyer Bannick refused to take them to see the judge until he got paid. Preston then accused Bannick of sleeping with his wife and everything blew up. He filed a complaint with the state bar, one of many over the years. His game was to hire a lawyer, stiff him on the fee, then complain when the work didn’t get finished. All of Dill’s complaints were dismissed as frivolous. Four years later they found him in a landfill near Decatur, Alabama. His family was scattered, unremarkable, and probably not suspicious.
Professor Bryan Burke, dead at the age of sixty-two, his body found beside a narrow trail not far from his lovely little cabin near Gaffney, South Carolina. The year was 1992. Looking at his photo from the law school yearbook, Bannick could almost hear his rich baritone as it wafted over the classroom. “Tell us about this case, Mr. ...” and he always paused so they would squirm and pray someone else got the call. His students eventually came to admire Professor Burke, but Bannick didn’t hang around long enough. After his nervous breakdown, one he blamed squarely on Burke, he transferred to Miami and began plotting his revenge.
Burke had two adult children. His son, Alfred, worked for a tech company in San Jose and was married with three kids. Or, that was where he had been during the last update, some eighteen months ago. Bannick dug around for a while and could not verify Alfred’s current employment. Someone else now lived at his address. Obviously he had changed jobs and moved. Bannick cursed himself for not knowing this earlier. It took an hour to find Alfred living in Stockton, employment unknown.
Burke’s daughter was Jeri Crosby, age forty-six, divorced, one child. The last update had her living in Mobile and teaching political science at South Alabama. He found the university’s website and verified that she still taught there. Oddly enough, in the faculty directory there were photos of the professors in the Department of Political Science and Criminal Justice, but not of her. Evidently, she was very private.
An earlier file gave her undergraduate degree from Stetson, a master’s from Howard in DC, and a PhD in political science from Texas. She married Roland Crosby in 1990, had a child within the first year, and divorced him six years later. In 2009, she joined the faculty at South Alabama.
The Mobile link was intriguing. The investigator the person had hired, Rollie Tabor, was based in Mobile.
Bannick sent Rafe back into the Hertz records and fell asleep on the sofa.
He was awakened by his alarm at 3:00 a.m., after two hours of sleep. He splashed water on his face, brushed his teeth, changed into jeans and sneakers, and locked the Vault and the outer door. He left town on Highway 90 along the beach, and stopped for gas at an all-night convenience store where cash was still welcome and there was only one security camera. After filling his tank, he parked in the darkness beside the store and changed license plates. Most toll roads in Florida now photographed every vehicle. He took an empty county road north, picked up Interstate 10, set his cruise on seventy-five, and settled in for a long day. He had six hundred miles to cover and plenty of time to think. He sipped strong coffee from a thermos, popped a benny, and tried to enjoy the solitude.
He had logged a million miles in the dark. Nine hours was nothing. Coffee, amphetamines, good music. Properly juiced, he could drive for days.
Dave Attison had been a fraternity brother at the University of Florida, a hard-partying frat boy who also finished near the top of his class. He and Ross had roomed together in the fraternity house for two years and shared many hangovers. They went their own ways after college, one to law school, the other to dental school. Dave studied endodontics and became a prominent dentist in the Boston area. Five years earlier, he had tired of the snow and long winters and returned to his home state, where he purchased a practice in Fort Lauderdale and was prospering doing nothing but root canals at a thousand bucks a pop.
He had not seen Ross since their twentieth reunion seven years earlier at a resort in Palm Beach. Most of the old Pikes were diligent with their emails and texts, others were not. Ross had never shown much interest in keeping up with the gang. Now, out of the blue, he was passing through and wanted a quick drink. On a Sunday afternoon. He was staying at the Ritz-Carlton and they agreed to meet at the bar by the pool.
Ross was waiting when Dave walked up. They embraced like the old roommates they were and immediately examined each other’s graying hair and waistlines. Each agreed that the other one looked just fine. After a few insults, a waiter appeared and they ordered drinks.
“What brings you down here?” Dave asked.
“Looking at some apartment units out in East Sawgrass.”
“You’re buying apartments?”
“We. A group of investors. We buy stuff everywhere.”
“I thought you were a judge.”
“Duly elected from the Twenty-Second Judicial District. On the bench for ten years now. But in Florida a judge makes one hundred and forty-six thousand bucks a year, not exactly the road to riches. Twenty years ago I started buying rental properties. Our company has grown slowly and we’re doing well. What about you?”
“Very well, thanks. There is a never-ending supply of sore teeth out there.”
“Wife and kids?” Ross wanted to broach the family subject before Dave had the chance, in part to show that he was not afraid of it. Since their student days, he had suspected that his brothers had doubts about him. The incident with Eileen was legendary. Though he later lied and claimed he was active with other girls, he had always felt their suspicions. The fact that he had never married didn’t help.
“All is well. My daughter is at Florida and my son is in high school. Roxie plays tennis five days a week and stays out of my hair.”
According to another Pike, the marriage to Roxie had been anything but stable. They had taken turns moving out. When their son left home they would probably throw in the towel.
The cold beers arrived and they tapped glasses. A serious bikini sauntered by and they took the full measure of it.
“Those were the days,” Ross said with admiration.
“We’re almost fifty, you realize that?”
“Afraid so.”
“You think we’ll ever stop looking?”
“If I’m breathing I’m looking,” Ross said, repeating the mantra. He sipped his beer slowly as it warmed. He wanted only one. The drive home was the same nine hours.
They batted some names back and forth, their old pals from the glory days. They laughed at the stupid things they had done, the pranks they had pulled, the near misses. It was the same aging frat boy talk every time.
Ross began his fiction with “I had a strange encounter last year. Remember Cora Laker, Phi Mu?”
“Sure, cute girl. Became a lawyer, right?”
“Right. I was at the state bar convention in Orlando and bumped into her. She’s a partner in a big firm in Tampa, doing very well. Still lookin’ good. We had a drink, then another. Somehow she brought up Eileen, I think they were close, and she got all choked up. She said the case will never be solved. Said an investigator of some sort tracked her down and wanted to talk about Eileen as a sorority girl. She hung up and that was it, but she was ticked off that somebody found her.”
Dave snorted and looked away. “I got a call too.”
Bannick swallowed hard. The quick trip, brutal as it was, might just pay off. He asked, “About Eileen?”
“Yep, probably three or four years ago. We were living here, could’ve been five years back. The lady said she was a crime writer and was asking about Eileen’s college days. Said she was working on a book about cold cases. Women who were stalked, or something like that.”