Washington Masquerade (21 page)

They passed through security at the courthouse and showed their credentials to the receptionist at the front desk of the appellate court. She politely asked them to wait as she picked up the phone and announced them.

“The Judge is in session and can't see you,” the receptionist said.

“Tell her we'll wait,” Fiona said.

The receptionist spoke again into the mouthpiece.

“Sorry, she will not be available. Her schedule for the day is completely filled.”

“Then tell the person you are talking to that we will show up at her home tonight. Can you please convey that message?”

The receptionist listened to the person at the other end of the phone. The woman nodded, and they were asked to wait. They did not wait long.

A young woman came out to greet them politely and told them to follow her.

“She is not happy about this,” the young woman said, turning to face them as she walked. “The session had to be recessed.”

They were ushered into a small reception room with a leather couch, two leather chairs, and a small table. Judge McGrath stood, looking formidable in her black gown. She studied them coldly through silver-rimmed spectacles. Fiona was surprised by her appearance. She was a lot older than expected, clearly—to be kind—somewhere in her fifties, Fiona estimated. Her hair was already turning salt-and-peppery, and her chin was beginning to show the sag of approaching age.

Her complexion was pale, and she wore no makeup. While her figure was sheathed in her long black judge's gown, the outlines suggested that she was unmistakably large-busted and full-figured. Imposing, dignified, middle-aged, she was a most unlikely candidate for a clandestine sexual affair in a hotbed motel. But then who could tell what was under that robe, perhaps a ripe female body, built on a scale to attract a hyperactive male libido? She appeared angry and visibly irritated.

The mystery of attraction, Fiona thought, looking toward Izzy for his reaction. Different strokes for different folks, she decided.

“I consider this an imposition, Officers. This kind of aggressive police conduct is uncalled for.”

“You have a point, Judge,” Fiona said, genuinely apologetic, trying to come up with an excuse for a graceful exit. It was impossible to believe that this lady could be the femme fatale mistress in the Burns saga. The photographs of Adam Burns showed a handsome, youthful man in his early forties or younger. Mrs. Burns had told them that they had been married very young, just out of college, where they had met. Anyone would be hard put to imagine the handsome youthful Adam Burns thrashing around in bed with this middle-aged woman standing before them in her majestic judicial attire.

“So here I am,” Judge McGrath asked imperiously, “what's the urgency?”

“As I told you on the phone,” Fiona began hesitantly, “we're trying to run down anyone that had known Adam Burns. You and he carpooled your children—”

“I barely knew this man. Yes, we did exchange pleasantries, and our daughters were once friends. Beyond that, I am afraid I can be of no help.”

Her posture seemed to suddenly elongate, as if it were a signal to quickly abort the interview.

Fiona noted the subtle difference between her conversation now and their previous dialogue. Then he was Adam, now he was “this man.” Still, this face-to-face confrontation had really punctured the balloon of her suspicion. Her glance drifted to Izzy, who was frowning and seemed troubled. Suddenly he spoke.

“Judge McGrath, does the Motel Six in Silver Spring, meaning anything to you?”

It struck Fiona as bold, a question that she could not find the will to ask. Yet, it was at the heart of why they were here, and she rebuked herself for not finding the courage to ask it. She observed a strange chameleon-like change in the woman's expression, a sudden nervous, repetitive blinking of the eyes, a slight tremor of the lips, a drained look in the complexion, going from pale to ashen to practically transparent.

The question had found its mark. The posture elongation seemed to slowly collapse, the ennobling image of the black robe seemed to lose its luster, and the air of haughtiness receded. The Judge's recovery was not fast enough to mask the truth.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Judge McGrath said, her voice constricted.

“Simple question, Judge,” Izzy said, firm but gentle.

“The implication is insulting.” Her remark was testy. “I think I've had quite enough of this conversation,” Judge McGrath said, but did not move from her standing position.

“I'm sorry, Judge McGrath,” Fiona said. “In the light of what's going on regarding Burns' death and all the implications, we can't ignore this line of questioning.”

“I can,” the Judge said, still trying desperately to recover her control over the situation but without avail. “And I think you're trying to draw me into something that sounds dangerously political. Who sent you here?”

“Perhaps you did, Judge McGrath,” Izzy said.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“We're following a logical sequence, Judge,” Fiona said. “What we're searching for is someone in the late Mr. Burns' circle who had a great deal to lose.”

“I don't understand,” Judge McGrath said, an edge of hysteria injecting itself into her tone. “You seem to be talking in riddles.”

“I think we should sit down, Judge McGrath,” Fiona said.

The Judge looked at them in visible confusion, and then moved reluctantly toward one of the chairs. Fiona and Izzy did likewise. The Judge crossed her legs; under her gown her upper leg raised and lowered itself nervously. In another gesture, Fiona noted that she played with her marriage ring.

“We think that Adam Burns was having an affair, meeting his paramour in various motels in the area. Fearing recognition, he wore a disguise, a not-very-effective one. His modus operandi was to check into the motel, pay up front in cash, and book a room. His paramour, also in disguise, joined him. They would spend an hour or two together, and then both would proceed to pursue their busy lives.”

The judge listened patiently, her leg tapping impatiently, the ring play accelerating. The color did not come back to her complexion, and her lips could not stop trembling. Fiona was convinced they were on target.

“Why are you telling me this?” the Judge said.

“We think it's relevant,” Fiona said.

“To who?” The Judge's question was a whisper.

“To you, Judge,” Fiona said.

The Judge bit her lip. But it did not stop the trembling. Then she tried to speak, stopped, and cleared her throat.

“Are you suggesting…?” She began, her throat constricting, “that Mr. Burns and I…?” She began to blink uncontrollably. It seemed obvious that she was trying unsuccessfully to control herself. “I am a happily married woman.”

“And a very important judge who could be next in line for an appointment to the Supreme Court,” Fiona said.

“Is that the basis of your inquiry?”

“We're trying to get at the truth, Judge,” Fiona said, again exchanging glances with Izzy.

“Is this some political ploy?”

To Fiona it sounded like a desperate act of evasion. If there were any doubts, they fell away.

“Really, Judge,” Fiona said, “you know better.”

“Am I being accused of some crime?”

“No,” Fiona shot back, sure now of the truth of her instincts. This woman, she was certain, was Adam Burns' lover.

“Why are you trying to ruin me?” the Judge asked, taking in a deep breath.

“Ruin you? This is not our purpose. We're simply homicide detectives investigating a suicide, or perhaps a murder. As you know, the implications of the man's death has prompted some wild ideas that have gained legitimacy and are now being retailed throughout the world. It has been loudly suggested in this paranoid town that Burns was involved in some clandestine operation to assassinate the President whom he had excoriated in his columns. It is further alleged or suggested by the media that the White House mounted a counterpunch and took out Mr. Burns.”

Judge McGrath lowered her eyes and shook her head.

“So how is this supposed to relate to me?” the Judge murmured.

“Look, Judge McGrath,” Fiona said gently, “our job is to find out how Mr. Burns died. Unfortunately, we have been forced into the position of determining whether Adam Burns committed suicide, accidentally fell, or was murdered. We have absolutely no reason to believe he was murdered. If Adam Burns had a mistress, and for some reason, the relationship was the emotional trigger for his suicide than we'll leave it at that. Without evidence or witnesses, it cannot be characterized as murder—at least, not yet. Do you understand?”

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Judge McGrath rose from her seat and opened it. They could not hear what was being said. The woman left the room and Judge McGrath turned to face them.

“I've asked for a full recess for today,” she said.

Fiona studied her face. There it was, engraved in the woman's flesh and features, the distillation of Fiona's intuition, observation, and experience exploding to create the complete revelation, the moment of truth.

“All we're asking is for your cooperation.”

She looked toward Izzy, who had been silent. He nodded his approval.

“But why?”

“Because we believe that you were Adam Burns' lover,” Fiona said sharply. “You can deny it, of course, but we are sure to find witnesses, disguise or no disguise—perhaps, the motel clerks. Really, Judge, do you want to be put through this?”

The judge seemed to stagger. Her complexion now was white alabaster.

“Having an affair, Judge, is not a criminal act. Who would know better than you?”

“It was always our worst nightmare,” the Judge muttered.

Fiona remained silent.

The Judge was sending up the white flag of surrender. She raised her eyes and suddenly seemed stronger for it, relieved, perhaps rescued from the overwhelming burden of her secret.

“I suppose I could hire a lawyer and go on denying everything. What would that solve? It would only make things worse. If this comes out, which is more than likely, I'm finished.”

“I wish I could promise you that it would be withheld. I can't.”

Judge McGrath nodded.

“I told them I'm not feeling well, but if you'll follow me to my office, I'll speak to the issue.”

The lawyerly response struck Fiona as oddly dignified under the circumstances. They followed the Judge to her chambers. In her flowing black robe, her stride was purposeful and determined. Her chambers, an antiquated description for a well-appointed, book-lined office, were festooned with diplomas, photographs of the Judge with famous people, sculptures of legendary figures like Einstein, Churchill, and female heroines of a bygone era. There was one labeled Joan of Arc.

“I have a request,” she said, addressing Izzy. “It's probably not part of your protocol, but I wonder if you would give me the courtesy of telling my story to Officer Fitzgerald alone.” She paused, waiting for an answer. “No insult intended, Officer. I'm quite realistic about my position. With all that is going on, I doubt if you can keep this under wraps. Just grant me that courtesy. Let me talk privately to a woman. Then let the chips fall where they may.”

A long silence followed as she alternately studied the faces of the two police officers. Fiona shrugged, looked at Izzy, and nodded her consent. Izzy, with obvious reluctance, faced the two women.

“I'll wait in the reception area,” he said.

“Thank you so much for your understanding, Officer,” Judge McGrath said. “I guess I'm old-fashioned when it comes to girl talk. I'll need all the comfort level I can garner for this.”

Izzy turned and silently exited.

“You realize I may have to use whatever you say to pursue the case,” Fiona said. “Neither is any official confession required since you are not being accused of a crime.”

“I fully understand, Officer,” the Judge said, her voice authoritative.

Fiona had a pretty good idea of what was coming. A story of love, lust, and obsession that the woman could no longer bear to keep bottled up inside her, a story that needed to be told to someone of her own gender. Fiona could relate to that. Contrary to what was politically correct, there was a glass wall between the genders, transparent but impenetrable.

Judge McGrath cleared her throat, nodded to herself, and began her story. It was a confessional narrative of an organized mind. Fiona listened intensely.

She told of the chance meeting with Adam Burns while waiting side-by-side in the stands for their children's soccer practice to be over. It had been perfectly innocent, casual, barely relevant, and hardly instant. Slowly, the relationship grew, imperceptibly at first, then accelerating. For weeks, she denied its intensity. She was, after all, middle-aged, and had never strayed from the marriage bed. But something happened, something profound and unexpected, an explosion of sexuality she had never before experienced. Apparently, this mysterious sexual attraction was mutual. She could never understand why. It was as if they had stumbled into some magnetic field, both of them simultaneously. It drew them together in a way totally unimagined. Considering her age, it was beyond logic or understanding.

“Look at me, Sergeant,” she said. “Who would believe it?” She smiled. “I reveled in it. I was completely addicted. Was I in love? I honestly don't know. But I was… we both were slaves to the process. It was the most explosive emotional and sexual experience of my life. Can you understand what I'm telling you, Officer Fitzgerald?”

“Please call me Fiona, Judge. As for your question, been there. I understand the power of this kind of attraction.”

For a moment, the Judge remained silent. Their gaze met and held for a long moment.