Isolated Judgment Read online

  “Why would that disqualify lawyers?” Darren mused. “It’s pretty hard to get more confidential than a lawyer-client relationship. Also, we’re lawyers. None of this makes sense.”

  Here, Judge Hodgens hesitated, and she looked like she was struggling for a diplomatic response.

  “We aren’t firm lawyers,” Issabella ventured. “We don’t mingle with the other lawyers around town.”

  “Exactly,” Hodgens agreed. “Strict rules of ethics aside, lawyers chat and gossip amongst themselves as much as anyone else. Bernard’s most prized possession is his sterling reputation. He wants a lawyer skill set. He doesn’t want that skill set to be attached to someone who can’t wait to rush off and tell colleagues all about whatever’s going on with the famous state supreme court judge.”

  “So, we’re helping because we’re...pariahs?”

  “I’m not a pariah,” Issabella corrected. “I just got an award. You might be a pariah. I’m well-regarded.”

  Deputy Finch nodded his head from where he stood just behind Darren.

  “I never heard a bad word about you around court, Miss Bright. Never mind who you work with.”

  “This is turning abusive,” Darren said.

  Judge Hodgens reached up and laid her palm on Darren’s whiskered cheek. Her expression softened, and Issabella saw the deep regard the Judge held for the rumpled miscreant.

  “I gave him your name, Darren,” Judge Hodgens said. “And I did that because nobody defends a client like you do. And because maybe I think my old friend out there all alone on his island might need someone who thinks more of defending his client than about strict ethical rules. Are those good enough reasons?”

  “Island?” Issabella said.

  “Yes. Judge Prosner inherited an island estate on Lake Erie when—”

  “Get on the plane, Darren. Time to go. On the plane. To the private island. Okay, I’m done talking. Your Honor. Deputy Finch.”

  And she was off, spinning around and marching quickly away. She mounted the stairs up into the plane and disappeared inside. A gleeful yelp issued from the plane’s interior and Issabella popped her head back out and shouted, “They have swivel chairs and flat-screen televisions in here!” before ducking back inside.

  “I think maybe she wants to fly on a plane,” Judge Hodgens sighed. “Poor thing. You need to take her out more.”

  “I won’t cover up a crime,” Darren said.

  “I know that.”

  “Does Judge Prosner?”

  “If he doesn’t, feel free to set him to rights. This isn’t a favor, Darren. I quoted him a retainer and an hourly rate I thought sounded fair. What are you two charging these days?”

  Darren told her the number, and Judge Hodgens clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

  “Well, don’t tell him that. Consider this the first case under your new, adjusted fee schedule.”

  “This all seems improbable,” he continued, paying no heed to the promise of money. “Look, I know I skirt the edges of things—”

  “That what you call being a jailbird, Fletcher?” Finch drawled.

  “That’s enough, Dan,” she admonished the stern old bailiff, though not ungently. She fixed Darren with a serious, unblinking stare. “Darren, get on the plane. I know I haven’t told you anything you can go on, but I don’t have any more than this. You’re here because I know you can’t help yourself when someone in need shows up on your radar. So get on the fucking plane and stop fishing around for me to tell you what a great lawyer you are. You’re not a great lawyer. You’re a great defender. So go do that and let me get home and into bed. Some of us have court tomorrow.”

  Darren digested what she’d said, and his eyes trailed away to the plane and the staircase leading up into it. A turbine whine rose around them, sending vibrations through the cement floor and up his shins.

  He turned to look at Finch.

  “See you soon, Deputy Dan.”

  “I got no doubts on that front, shyster.”

  Darren leaned down toward the Judge, planted a kiss on her cheek and strolled away. He disappeared inside the hatch.

  * * *

  To Issabella’s keen disappointment, there was no stewardess on the plane.

  “We get one to come in on corporate trips sometimes,” the pilot, whose name was Hugh, explained while she got herself seated and buckled in. “Mostly they work full-time with the big airlines and just swing a corporate gig when they have the time. Anyway, Put-in-Bay Airport’s only a little over a half hour for us from here. Go ahead and feel free to enjoy the bar over there, though. Bathroom’s straight back. You folks want the full safety speech? Or can we just agree to keep the belts on until I call back and say different?”

  Darren was settled into his overstuffed beige swivel chair across the aisle from her.

  “We’re good to go, Captain.”

  “I still think there should be a stewardess,” Issabella mumbled once Captain Hugh was ensconced in the cockpit and the plane was rolling down the taxi strip. “Shouldn’t private planes still be like in the sixties? With a pretty girl serving drinks and ashtrays built into the armrests and...you know...?”

  “Like what James Bond would fly in.”

  “Yes! That’s what I was hoping for.”

  “How about you serve me drinks and bat your eyes a lot? And I’ll do my best Scottish brogue. I’d even be willing to pinch your behind when you pass by.”

  “Well, now it doesn’t sound as appealing anymore.”

  Soon they were accelerating down the main runway, and Issabella pressed her face against the little window. She smiled out at the darkness as they lifted up into the air.

  “I can’t see anything.”

  “You act like you’ve never been on a plane before. We’ve flown together.”

  “Yeah, but not in a private one. It should be different.”

  Captain Hugh’s voice came over an intercom and announced that they could move around and “enjoy yourselves. It’s a short hop where we’re going, but someone paid a pretty penny to get me out here on short notice. Feel free to use the bar and the televisions. Forecast is as clear as can be, so this should be a smooth ride, folks. Okay, I’ll leave you alone until we get ready to land.”

  When Issabella pulled herself away from the window, she saw that Darren had reseated himself right next to her, reclining in his new chair with a glass of golden-hued liquid held loosely in one hand. The rumpled, unshaven lawyer offered her a friendly wink and sipped his drink.

  “Crown and Seven?” she said. “Seriously?”

  “A man should know his drink, Izzy.”

  “Maybe not as intimately as you do. Or was that not what landed you in jail this time?”

  “It was, in fact, not. Not primarily, anyway. Collaterally? Mayhap, fair Izzy, mayhap.”

  Staring at the side of his face, Issabella sighed. Darren would have a story. He regarded his run-ins with the authorities in much the same way as hunters cherished their kills. There was a trophy room in Darren’s head, its walls hung with the unlikely, alcohol-fueled misadventures that occasionally landed him in custody.

  Issabella shrugged and said, “Fine.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Tell me why you got dragged out of the awards ceremony. My awards ceremony. The one where we were supposed to go out for a nice evening afterwards. That one.”

  Darren pinched his lips into a frown and rattled the ice in his glass.

  “I was defending your honor.”

  “What?”

  “Simon Cunningham? The tax lawyer over at...you know, the firm...”

  “I don’t remember the names of the partners, but yeah. I know who Simon is.”

  She wasn’t sure whether she did or not. But saying she did would move
the story along.

  “He was at the bar with me. Not with me, but up there when I walked up. Right after you got done with your acceptance speech. You were walking down off the stage, so I was going to bring you a glass of wine. And he leaned over and...this is stupid. It was my fault. Look, I’m sorry—”

  Issabella saw how uncomfortable he had suddenly become, and realization crept in. She felt herself smiling again, and she leaned her head on his shoulder.

  “This Simon person said something crude about me when I was walking back,” she said.

  “Quite crude.”

  “Something vulgar?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you couldn’t permit that.”

  “I could not.”

  “So you punched a tax lawyer from a powerful firm.”

  Darren raised the glass to his lips and chewed on a piece of ice.

  “Something like that,” he answered.

  “That’s not your best story. I was expecting something stranger.”

  “I’d like to just forget about it. I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

  “We’re on a private jet, on the way to see some weird mystery client on a private island. And you defended my honor. This is actually a pretty good night.”

  “So, let’s see that award, anyway.”

  She fished it out of her purse. Darren reached over and tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

  “I really am proud of you, you know. You’re a better lawyer than I am.”

  “I’m a harder worker than you are,” she corrected. “That’s all.”

  “You look gorgeous.”

  “You’re a little unkempt.”

  “We only have half an hour, kiddo.”

  Issabella put the award back in her purse, straightened in her chair and answered his sly smile with one of her own.

  “Get me a glass of wine first,” she said. “Let’s have the whole enchilada, Ivanhoe.”

  Chapter Two

  The airport at Put-in-Bay Island consisted of a single strip of tarmac and a prefabricated, one-story terminal with a squat air traffic control tower attached on one end.

  Captain Hugh peered up into the sky as the three of them set foot on the tarmac. He bowed his back and stretched in the chill humid air blowing in off Lake Erie.

  “It’ll be light soon,” he observed. “Either of you two ever visited the island? No? Well, I don’t know what your business is, but if you get a chance you should spend a day. There’s a real town here—schools, police department, the whole thing. Lots of shops and restaurants. My wife and I came a few years ago on our anniversary. A cave, too. Crystals...I forget exactly what they called them, but it was like being surrounded by diamond walls. Okay, they don’t pay me to pitch this place, so I won’t hold you up.”

  He gave a nod towards the little terminal.

  “My wife handles my bookings. She said the man who’ll ferry you out to Wailing Isle should be waiting inside. Said to tell you he’d be an older fella with a European accent.”

  Issabella had been stifling a yawn, but seemed to snap to alertness as the captain spoke.

  “Wailing Isle? That’s the name?”

  Captain Hugh nodded.

  “I guess so. There’s a whole mess of little islands out on this end of the lake. Put-in-Bay is about the largest I know of. My guess is the one you’re off to is one of the little spots just big enough for a house or two. There’s a heck of a lot of money tied up out there.”

  “We’re being ferried by an old man with a European accent to a private island named Wailing Isle,” she said, beaming up at Darren. “I love this. This should be our job all the time. Legal consultants for the discriminating island-owners of the world. That’s our new business model.”

  “Very practical,” Darren agreed.

  They shook the captain’s hand, and then they were walking together toward the little terminal building. In the short time they had been standing on the tarmac, morning had begun, so that the world was lit in a faint, milky half light. Issabella took Darren’s hand in hers and smiled up at him.

  “He was nice not to mention the carpet fibers in my hair.”

  “Airplane captains are notorious for their discretion and tact.”

  “That’s a fact?”

  “It could be. Let’s just say it is.”

  “Still, I need to find a washroom before we meet the Judge. So do you.”

  A set of three wooden steps led up to the door of the building. As Darren reached the first step, the door swung open and a man in a police uniform leaned out with his hand on the knob. He was short, with narrow, stooped shoulders and a paunch. He wore a very close buzz cut and a pair of glasses with thick black frames.

  The cop looked at Darren, then Issabella, then back to Darren.

  “The two lawyers?” he said, blinking rapidly.

  “With a strong emphasis on the ‘the,’ yes,” Darren said, and Issabella tightened her grip on his hand.

  The cop nudged his glasses up with a thumb and didn’t let anything he might be thinking touch his face. His eyes, through the heavy lenses, looked bigger than they should be.

  “Well, come on in. Lou and I were just chatting.”

  Inside was a waiting room with plastic chairs along the walls, magazine racks and two candy vending machines in a corner. There was a service window on the far wall that was closed, the room beyond it dark.

  A very old man in a red flannel coat was standing in the center of the room, his thick-fingered hands folded together in front of him, holding a black knit cap. He nodded as the two lawyers stepped in past the cop, and managed a faltering, nervous smile.

  “I am Lou. We go to the island together, yes? You are who the Judge has sent for?”

  “Yes.” Issabella nodded, and made introductions. While she did, the cop produced a notepad from his shirt pocket. He began to write, pausing twice to reflexively push his glasses back up with the end of the pen.

  “Welcome to Put-in-Bay,” he said, without looking up and without any hint of a welcome in his voice. “So, what are you two doing for the Judge?”

  Darren cleared his throat and the cop looked at him, pausing his pen above the page.

  “You don’t honestly expect us to answer that, do you?”

  “Why not?”

  “I dunno. I’m a private kind of guy, I guess.”

  “No need to be hostile,” the slight, stooped cop said. “This isn’t an interrogation. We had a boat get stolen on the north shore a few hours ago.”

  “Okay.”

  “And now two lawyers are rushed out to the Judge’s island in the wee hours. Busy night, apparently.”

  Issabella touched Darren’s elbow lightly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’ve been awake for hours. You are...?”

  “Chief Fish.”

  “No way,” Darren breathed.

  “Darren.”

  Chief Fish frowned and slipped the notepad back in his pocket.

  “Do either of you have a business card?”

  Issabella plucked one out of her purse and passed it over.

  “Detroit? Wow. Well, Lou and I were about done chatting. But could you maybe do me a favor and keep an eye out for this boat when you’re crossing over to the Judge’s place? It’s a seventeen-footer with an outboard motor and a red stripe along the side. It says Bass Tackler in big black letters on the sides. The owner says someone cut the chain he was using as a tie-down. Probably we’ll find it near one of the rental cabins sooner or later, but you never know. Kids get drunk, steal a boat. Decide to take a skinny-dip. Next thing you know, they’re bored with it and they just let it drift away from whatever place they’re renting.”

  “The fast times of Pu
t-in-Bay,” Darren mused.

  Issabella smiled her best diplomatic smile and nodded agreeably.

  “We certainly will keep an eye out, Chief.”

  “I saw no boat on the journey here,” Lou said, and it had the rote sound of something he had already repeated to the chief. “My eyes are still good. I would see a boat if there was a boat to see.”

  “Of course,” Chief Fish agreed. “Thanks for your help, Lou. Tell the Judge we all said hello, will you?”

  “I will tell him.”

  Chief Fish crossed to the door and had it open, when he turned back on his heel and gave Darren a flat, steady look.

  “It’s a name with a lot of history,” he said. “Fish’ve been here as long as anyone. We sailed out with Perry to whip the British, and we’ve been proud islanders ever since. People around here respect the name.”

  He nodded once, as if to confirm to himself the rightness of what he’d said, and marched out into the morning air.

  “You know,” Issabella sighed, once the door had shut behind the retreating chief, “you don’t always have to begin with snark. You could ease into it now and then.”

  Darren shrugged and scratched at his whiskered jaw.

  “I could give it a try, maybe.” He turned to the old man in the flannel coat. “We’re all yours, Lou. Lead on.”

  Ludolf put his knit cap back on and pulled it down over the tops of his ears.

  “You did not bring coats? It is very cold on the water.”

  “We’ll suffer nobly. Stiff-lipped and stoic. That’s what the sign says outside our office.”

  Ludolf gave Darren a quizzical look.

  “We’ll be fine,” Issabella offered. “It won’t be any trouble.”

  * * *

  Chief Timothy Fish guided his cruiser down County Road 163 toward the police station and decided he wasn’t done wondering about the two Detroit lawyers who’d been rushed out to meet with Judge Prosner.

  He pulled over onto the soft shoulder of earth and plucked his notebook back out of his breast pocket. Each page that he’d written on was folded at the bottom, so he could flip immediately to a fresh one when the need arose. In clean block letters he wrote the date, the time and Judge Prosner and Detroit Lawyers, re: stolen boat and general evasiveness. Lou shaky. Seemed very nervous. Follow up as schedule permits. He jotted his initials beneath the note, folded the bottom of the page and slipped the notebook away again.