“What’s this CVB warrant for?” Cutter asked.
Phillips gave a conspiratorial wink. “Public urination within three hundred feet of an outhouse in a national park.”
“Guess we really are the action service,” Lola scoffed. “You’re sending us five hundred miles to arrest a guy for peeing in the woods?”
“No,” Phillips said. “I’m sending you five hundred miles to protect a federal judge.”
CHAPTER 7
There was no escaping an edict from the chief, but Cutter tried anyway. “Excuse me, ma’am, but a protective detail because someone drew a penis on the judge’s car?”
“There’s a little more to it than that, Big Iron.” Phillips rarely missed the opportunity to tease him about the fact that he carried his grandfather’s revolver—an anachronism in this era of high-capacity semi-automatic pistols that Cutter thought of as combat Tupperware. The chief envied him, so she teased him.
She nodded to Inspector Keen, giving him the floor.
“Three days ago,” Keen said, “Judge Markham received this letter, postmarked from Bethel.” Keen opened a manila folder and took out a plastic sleeve containing a single sheet of paper. He passed it to Lola, who scanned it, then gave it to Cutter. This was a photocopy, but the original looked to have been handwritten on a sheet torn from a spiral notebook, the frayed edges still attached. Printed in all capitals, the writing was neat and meticulous, as if the author had taken a great amount of time on each individual letter. There were a few misspellings and some kind of stain on the bottom corner, but it was impossible to tell what it was on the copy.
Cutter read it aloud.
TO: THE DISHONORABLE JUDGE MARKHAM.
FINDING: WE WILL MEET ONE DAY. VERY SOON AS A FACT.
JUGMENT: VERY GUIOLTY
SENTENCE: SHALL BE TAKEN AWAY.
NO ONE CAN EVERY FIND YOU. MY HAPPINESS IS TO HOLD YOUR BEATING HEART IN MY HAND.
YOU WILL NEVER SEE ME COMING BUT YOU WILL KNOW JUGMENT.
“Jug-ment,” Lola said, reaching over to tap the misspelled word. “That sounds interesting. Maybe the letter-writer is a porn star with an axe to grind.”
“Yeah,” Keen said. “Because you have to be able to spell to be a threat.”
Lola rolled her eyes. “I’m joking, Scott.”
“Okay,” Cutter said. “We’ll be happy to head to Bethel and arrest whoever you want us to arrest.”
“Nice try,” Phillips said. “We don’t have any suspects.”
“Not yet,” Keen added. “But the way the letter is written suggests someone who had a case before the judge.”
Phillips put a hand flat on her desk and leaned back slightly in her chair. “Our problem is this. Judge Markham is on his way to a Yup’ik village called Stone Cross tomorrow, where he will preside over arbitration in a land dispute. He’ll have to fly to Bethel, where he’ll take a boat or small plane upriver to Stone Cross. He won’t be in Bethel long, but the arbitration in Stone Cross has been in the news for a couple of weeks.”
Keen took the letter and slipped it back in his file.
“How about the Bureau?” Lola asked. “Are they sending anyone out?”
Though the two agencies worked in tandem after a threat to a federal judge, the FBI customarily handled the criminal investigation, while the Marshals Service focused on the protective intelligence that might or might not be used in a prosecution.
“They have the original letter,” Phillips said. “And they’ve already interviewed Markham.”
“The case agent and I are supposed to meet this afternoon to share any intel we each have. I don’t think Markham likes the FBI much. They have a tendency to spin him up.”
“I hate to defend the Feebs,” Lola said, “but spinning up this judge is not all that difficult.”
“Scott already suggested a protective detail,” Phillips said. “But Judge Markham is having none of it.”
“Okay then.” Lola threw up her hands. “I say that’s great news. We can’t protect him if he doesn’t want us to.”
“That’s where you two come in,” Phillips said. “The CVB warrant gives us an excuse to go to Stone Cross.”
Keen spoke next. “Markham seems to think a protective detail would make him appear weak. He’s not a bad guy, really. Just used to everyone telling him yes all the time and laughing at all his jokes.”
“Due respect, Chief,” Cutter said. “But I may not be the right guy for this.”
Phillips waved off the notion. “Because of that deal with Gayle during the fire alarm? You briefed me about that when it happened. It won’t be a problem.”
Cutter nodded, still sounding unsure. “Okay . . .”
Lola cocked her head. “What deal with Gayle? I never heard about any deal.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Cutter said.
“Exactly,” Phillips said. “Don’t worry about it. I doubt he even remembers.”
Cutter closed his eyes and groaned. J. Anthony Markham didn’t strike him as the type to forget much of anything, least of all a perceived slight in front of his administrative assistant.
“You’ve not had the pleasure of spending a night out in a bush village yet, have you?” Phillips asked.
“I have not,” Cutter said, already thinking through how this was going to play out. He was accustomed to work-arounds. One of the things he’d always loved about the Marshals Service was the unpredictability of coming to work. He’d learned early in his career that he might show up thinking he was going to spend a day hooking and hauling prisoners from jail to court, only to have the chief send him on an assignment to seize a horse ranch, or hunt down a bunch of escaped convicts in the Caribbean after a hurricane blew down their prison.
Phillips slid the single sheet of paper with the CVB warrant across the desk to Lola. It didn’t even rate a warrant file. “I haven’t run this guy yet, but you never know. Make sure you do a workup on him.”
Teariki gave her a dyspeptic thumbs-up and tucked the paper in her pocket.
Cutter’s eyes narrowed and he looked directly at the chief. “So Markham has agreed to let us shadow him so long as we’re there on other business?”
“He doesn’t know yet.” The chief pushed away from her desk and stood. “We’re about to go tell him.”
* * *
The elevator from the US Marshals cellblock exited into the secure hallway on the second floor, allowing deputies to escort prisoners into court through a back door without passing through any public areas. The arrangement gave USMS personnel direct access to judges where other law enforcement agents and employees of the US Attorney’s office were required to make an appointment. Still, judges were notoriously aloof, so few besides the brass and the judicial security inspector ventured into the no-man’s-land of the hall where their paths might cross with anyone in a black robe.
Chief Phillips led the way down the narrow hall, mumbling quietly that she was a nursing mother and this appointment with Markham was cutting into the time when she needed to pump. Cutter had gotten used to the chief’s lack of a filter. There was nothing sneaky about her. No guile, no hidden agenda. She said what was on her mind, making it easy for her subordinates to know where they stood. Like any large government organization, the Marshals had its share of bosses who liked to pit staff against one another, if only to see who was the most loyal. Phillips mentored everyone, even the misfits—which meant even the few who didn’t like her, still trusted her. Grumpy always said that there were damned few people worth emulating. But Cutter was certain his grandfather would have liked Jill Phillips.