Authors: RANDY SINGER
“Yes.”
The judge checked his calendar and said he had a heavy morning docket next Wednesday but could meet at 11:30.
Eleven thirty. The middle of the day, a time when others would be milling around the office. The judge was being careful. He didn’t want the two of them to be together alone.
She wished they had both been this circumspect seven years ago.
At first, Jim Noble’s face lit up at the sight of his kids and Matt Corey standing on his doorstep. He looked like a child who had stepped into a surprise birthday party. His expression only made Jason feel worse.
“Jules!” he exclaimed. Julie stepped forward and gave him a hug.
“Hey, Dad.”
He smiled at Jason. “Hey, buddy.”
“Hey.”
Dr. Prescott stepped forward and extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Paul Prescott. I work with the force on a number of matters.”
The introduction froze Jason’s dad, his impromptu joy quickly turning to realization that something nefarious was going on. He ignored Prescott’s hand, looking from Jason to Matt. “What’s this about?” he asked. The momentary silence made his eyes narrow and his complexion darken—suspicion giving way to the first vestiges of anger.
“Somebody want to fill me in?”
“We want to talk with you for a few minutes about some personal matters,” Prescott said. “Can we step inside?”
“Personal matters?”
“Let’s do it inside.”
Jason’s dad stood there for a few seconds, blocking the way of the much larger Prescott. Jim Noble might be down four inches and seventy-five pounds to the doctor, but there was no doubt where Jason’s money would lie if a fight broke out. His dad was one tough dude.
“Please don’t make this any harder than it already is,” Prescott said, his voice calm.
It took Julie to break the stalemate. When she asked her dad to cooperate, he stepped aside and let them in. “What’s going on, Jules?” he asked.
“Can I tell you when we get inside?”
He nodded and followed his daughter into the living room.
The place looked even worse than it had at Christmas. In addition to empty glasses, unopened mail, and dirty clothes, the living room had various case files scattered around the floor. There was an old bowl of Doritos, an empty coffee mug, a few books, and a couple of magazines on the coffee table. Jason counted at least a dozen empty beer bottles strewn around the room. The four visitors each had a seat, Jason bringing in a chair from the kitchen table. They left the reclining chair empty.
Prescott invited Jason’s dad to sit, but he refused. “What’s going on here?” he asked, looking from one person to the next.
“It would really help if you had a seat,” Prescott insisted, his voice firmer this time. Jason knew it was the wrong approach. He studied his dad’s reaction. He had lived with the man for eighteen years and had learned to recognize the signs of an impending explosion—veins bulging in the neck and forehead, nose flaring, intense scowl.
“Your kids and Matt care a lot about you,” Prescott said. “They’ve seen some things that concern them enough to come all the way here—in Julie’s case from California—and talk to you about them. They’re just asking that you hear them out.”
Jason’s dad snorted, his temper taking control. “Don’t give me this psychobabble crap,” he said. He turned to Jason. “My son comes once a year at Christmas and then gets out of town as soon as he can. Even Julie thinks of every reason to stay away—”
Matt was on his feet, taking a step toward his former partner. “Don’t,” he said calmly. “Don’t take this out on them.”
“If you care so much, couldn’t you just pick up the phone and call me?” The old man’s eyes were filled with resentment, swinging from one person to the next. “You’ve got to gang up on me? get some psychologist in here to certify me as crazy?”
“C’mon,” Matt said, holding up his hand to get his friend to stop. “We’ve been through a lot together. Don’t say stuff you’ll regret.”
Jason jumped in as well. He forced himself to ignore his dad’s comments and speak past the pain. “You need help, Dad. We’ve come to help.”
His father laughed him off. “
You’ve
come to help.” He turned to Matt Corey. “Isn’t that the same thing we tell our targets just before we nail them during interrogation? ‘We just want to help.’”
“Why don’t you sit down?” Matt said.
Jason’s father stared at him, but Matt didn’t blink.
“You know I love you, man,” Matt said. “But I don’t know what happened to the Jim Noble I used to respect. That man would have never acted this way. That man wouldn’t have hurt the people he cared about most.”
The comment seemed to penetrate Jason’s dad’s defenses like a tranquilizer dart. He said nothing but sat on the edge of his recliner, his eyes fixed on Prescott.
Matt took a seat as well. “Thanks,” he said softly.
Prescott took control of the meeting and explained how Jason, Julie, and Detective Corey had each become independently concerned about their father and friend. “Your drinking is affecting everything,” Prescott said. “Your work. Your relationship with your kids, and in Julie’s case, her willingness to let you have a relationship with your grandkids. These three folks all care about you very much and decided to do one of the toughest things in their lives—participate in this intervention.”
For once, Jason couldn’t read the expression on his dad’s face. He listened intensely to Prescott, never once looking at Jason or Julie or Matt until Prescott came to the end of his spiel.
Prescott explained that he had asked each of the participants to write a letter and thought perhaps Matt should go first.
Matt Corey read his letter slowly and emphatically, with frequent glances at Jason’s dad to assess its impact. He spoke about his great respect for his former partner, of all that the older cop had taught him, about how he had wanted to model his own career after his partner’s. “In some ways, you’re closer to me than my own father,” he said.
The letter pulled no punches in detailing the current state of James Noble’s job performance. His hours had become sporadic. A few partners had requested transfers because they couldn’t take his mercurial personality swings. His case closure rate was down, and now there were rumors about missing cocaine. “I know it’s not you,” Matt read. “But let’s be honest, you’ve got an addiction. It’s just that yours comes in a bottle.”
Jason watched his dad’s face redden, but the man made no attempt to respond. Matt finished with a plea for Jim to get help and pledged his own support. In the silence that followed, the attention shifted to Jason.
“I guess I’m next.”
Jason’s heart pounded as he unfolded his letter. It took every ounce of willpower to look his dad in the eye as he prepared to read. He would have only one chance to do this, and he wanted to get it right. He had to keep reminding himself that the man sitting in this room was not really his father. The booze had stolen James Noble’s soul and left a demon in its wake. This might be Jason’s only hope for changing all that.
Jason’s letter began by recounting some bright memories from his childhood, events that had been lost in the turmoil of the last few years. He glanced at his father as he read, apologizing for disappointing his dad in so many ways. Even during this part of the letter, words he had wept over as he wrote them, his father’s expression never changed. Julie’s cheeks, on the other hand, were wet with quiet tears.
Jason detailed the changes he had noticed in his dad and how they had affected their relationship. He admitted that his own response had been avoidance and asked forgiveness for staying away. If his dad got help, Jason promised to be there and to work through this with him. But honestly, if his dad didn’t change, Jason just couldn’t bear to stick around and watch him self-destruct.
“You always taught me that being a man meant you faced your problems and never quit,” Jason said. “Don’t give up on your family, Dad. We want you back. We love you too much to watch this happen and not do anything. I’m begging you, Dad—get some help.”
Jason finished, his eyes stinging with tears, and looked up. His father stared back, still emotionless, looking as if he couldn’t believe his own son had turned against him.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Jason said. “But this is the only way we knew to help.”
His father nodded grimly and turned to Julie. “I’m sure the old man’s let you down, too,” he said, the words dripping with sarcasm. “But I really can’t take much more of this right now. The stuff about my job performance is all bull.” He looked at Matt Corey with eyes flaring again. “You know what that place is like. And you know darn well that this crap against me is just political.”
He turned back to Jason. “As for you—I’m sorry I’ve been such a complete and total failure as a father.”
“That’s not what I’m saying—”
“That is
exactly
what you’re saying,” the older man fired back. If the others hadn’t been there, Jason had no doubt that his dad would have physically attacked him. “And it’s easier to blame it on the booze than it is to talk about the real issues.”
“Let’s talk about the real issues,” Prescott interjected, his voice still calm.
Jim Noble leaned forward, forearms on his knees, hands clasped. He studied the floor for a moment and then looked up at Prescott. “Get out,” he said. “You’ve played your little game, and I get the picture. My drinking days are over. I needed a wake-up call, and I got it. Thank you very much. Now get out.”
“You need help, Dad,” Julie said.
“You can all leave,” Jason’s dad insisted. “And you can all leave
now.
”
Prescott nodded, and the others followed his cue. They had talked about this. Jason’s dad had to know they would follow through. He had to know they would walk out of his life if he didn’t change.
They left him sitting there, hunched over and staring at the floor. Julie put a hand on his shoulder as she walked by. Jason left without a touch.
“Give him a day or two to think it over,” Dr. Prescott said as the four of them huddled in the driveway. “My guess is that he’ll talk to Matt about getting treatment.”
Jason had his doubts. He knew in his heart they had done the right thing. But he had little hope that his father would actually change.
He folded up his letter and put it in his pocket. At the airport, he pulled it out and thought about all the emotional energy involved in writing it. He threw it in one of those modern trash cans with an electric compressor. Right on cue, the receptacle vibrated and crunched the letter together with discarded newspapers and candy bar wrappers and Burger King french fries.
It was time, Jason decided, to put that part of his life behind him.
Kelly spent most of her time on Saturday morning staring out her office window, thinking about Judge Shaver. Perhaps this person named Luthor had intended merely to distract her from preparing for the deposition of Melissa Davids. If so, it was working.
In a naive way, she thought she had put the Shaver chapter of her life firmly behind her. There were scars, to be sure. There was also a type of relentless shame that never seemed to take a minute off, always lingering just below the thin film of the surface. But she had always assumed that these matters were private ones, requiring penance and atonement before God, affecting no one but her.
The e-mail yesterday had shattered that assumption. Somebody else knew. And worse, that person was intent on using this knowledge to manipulate Kelly on the Crawford case.
She was not going to let that happen. Blake Crawford had entrusted her with the most important matter in his life. She would represent him well, even if it meant public exposure and humiliation. She couldn’t waver on that, couldn’t even allow herself to entertain alternatives. Life might be hell for the next few months. But at least she would be able to look herself in the mirror when it was over.
In some ways, she worried more about Judge Shaver than herself.
She could honestly say she was not bitter or vengeful toward the man. It had been her fault as much as his. If the press found out, they would undoubtedly condemn him as the predator—a powerful federal judge holding sway over a smitten law clerk. Not that Kelly would be unscathed. Though Shaver would bear the brunt of the media scorn, she would be portrayed as an opportunistic manipulator, willing to trade her body for power, mindless of the toll it would take on an innocent wife and children. Her name would be mentioned in the same breath as Monica Lewinsky.
In truth, it was nothing like that.
It began as an emotional attachment. Sure, the man was good-looking, but Kelly had first been attracted to his heart. He championed the causes of the poor and helpless, risking reversal on appeal to rule in favor of justice. He had listened to Kelly’s dreams and sympathized with her disenchantment with the political process. In retrospect, she realized that the dynamics had changed when the judge started sharing his own struggles—the pressures of the job, a marriage gone cold, a teenage daughter who no longer wanted to spend time with him.
His vulnerability had only elevated him in Kelly’s eyes. He was authentic and transparent, confident enough to break with judicial conventions, secure enough to share his struggles with a law clerk. Kelly had worked harder for Judge Shaver than she had for anyone or anything in her entire life. He inspired her. He helped her regain a respect for the law as a vehicle for changing people’s lives, something she had lost in the cynical atmosphere of law school.
Late working nights led to shared dinners and the judge providing Kelly with rides back to her apartment. He didn’t want her riding the Metro, D.C.’s subway system, alone late at night.
Sometimes they sat in his car while it idled at the curb for nearly an hour before she finally said good night. Confidences were shared. The judge’s struggle to make his marriage work, the way his wife had turned the kids against him. Kelly had met Lynda Shaver, a hard-charging partner at a large D.C. law firm, at a social event. Kelly had no idea why the judge had ever been attracted to the woman in the first place.