Antonelli - 03 - The Judgment
Read Antonelli - 03 - The Judgment Online
Authors: D. W. Buffa
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Legal
| The Judgment | |
| Antonelli [3] | |
| D. W. Buffa | |
| (2001) | |
| Rating: | *** |
| Tags: | Mystery & Detective, General, Legal, Fiction |
When Calvin Jeffries's body is found in the courthouse parking garage, eyes widen and horrified tongues wag. The fact that Jeffries was a thoroughly reprehensible human being doesn't detract from the notoriety of the first murder of a sitting Oregon judge. Defense attorney extraordinaire Joe Antonelli has a long history with Jeffries. Years ago the judge threw him into jail for contempt in a vain attempt to deter Antonelli from winning yet another case. But one of Antonelli's colleagues suffered even more. As the curious Antonelli pieces together fragments of the legendary judge's past, he discovers that Jeffries apparently drove Elliott Winston insane, had him committed, and married his wife. If only Elliott weren't still securely in the psychiatric hospital, what a sterling suspect he'd make!
But the police find the killer, a homeless man with the murder weapon and a willingness to confess, who promptly commits suicide after being taken into custody. The legal community breathes a sigh of relief--until a second judge is murdered in the same manner. When another homeless man is arrested, Antonelli's "bizarre coincidence" antennae start to quiver, and he offers his services to the defendant. So convinced is he of Danny's innocence that he plunges undercover into the vagrant's world, searching for evidence of a setup. But his discoveries seem to point directly to the impossible--for how could Elliott Winston, safely tucked behind bars, be the murderer?
At some point during
The Judgment
(the exact moment will vary according to individual tolerance), you may find yourself putting the book aside and picking up an Elmore Leonard for an emergency infusion of quality dialogue. Along with everyone with whom he comes in contact, Antonelli suffers from an apparent speech impediment that usually makes him sound like a particularly pompous 19th-century pundit.
When author D.W. Buffa lets his courtroom savvy take center stage, the novel moves along briskly (even though Antonelli takes some rather remarkable legal liberties, it's all in good fun). The subplot involving the return of Antonelli's high-school sweetheart, however, feels less integral than afterthought-ish. Though Buffa tries to tie everything together at the end with a heavily contrived twist that probably set O. Henry yawning in his grave, the novel's final note isn't one of ringing irony. It's more like a dull thud.
--Kelly Flynn
Inventing a perfectly odious victim and an obvious killer with the perfect alibi, Buffa cooks up a convoluted legal thriller littered with plot-twist land mines that explode when least expected. Toss in a poignant midlife romance and an innocent, put-upon defendant, and you have a novel with wide appeal. So few people grieve when loathsome circuit judge Calvin Jeffries is stabbed to death and gutted in the courthouse parking garage that it comes as a shock when the confessed killer is revealed to be a homeless man with no apparent ties to the victim. When a second sharp-tongued judge is killed the same way in the same spot, the cops call it a copycat killing and arrest a retarded homeless man on an anonymous tip, finding him with the murder weapon. Seasoned defense attorney Joseph Antonelli, himself a particularly maligned target of the venomous Jeffries, is persuaded to take the case and becomes convinced that both murders were planned by the same brilliant criminal one Antonelli is particularly familiar with, since the man once shot him. Antonelli's investigator, disbarred lawyer and recovering alcoholic Howard Flynn, sees his own dead son in the retarded defendant and throws himself wholeheartedly into the case. Unfortunately, Antonelli's suspect has been in the state home for the criminally insane for the past 12 years and could not possibly have committed the crimes. Meanwhile, bachelor Antonelli's high school sweetheart re-enters his life after a bout with manic depression and a rough divorce. Buffa (The Prosecution) once again produces a fast-spinning tale that jolts and veers enticingly off-track, but always stays comfortably in sight of the main objective. Well-developed characters and the rich Portland, Ore., milieu add depth to this excellent thriller. Agent, Wendy Sherman. Major ad/ promo; author tour; audio.
Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc.
JUDGMENT
Previous novels by the author
The Prosecution
The Defense
D.W.
BUFFA
______________
JUDGMENT
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
THE JUDGMENT. Copyright (c) 2001 by D. W. Buffa. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
For information address Warner Books, 1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
W A Time Warner Company
ISBN 0-7595-6329-2
A hardcover edition of this book was published in 2001 by Warner Books.
First eBook edition: May 2001
Visit our Web site at www.iPublish.com
For My Father
Harold David Buffa
Who always told stories I never wanted to end
Acknowledgments
Wendy Sherman, my agent, gave me all the support and encouragement of a friend. Rob McMahon, my editor, showed me how to write the book I wanted to write. In ways only she can know, my wife, Kathryn Martin, made me believe that it was something worth doing.
JUDGMENT
One
_______
Ihave spent years defending some of the worst people who ever lived, but the most evil man I ever knew was never once accused of a crime. Nothing, not even curiosity, could have made me attend his funeral had he died in his sleep or been killed in an accident, but Calvin Jeffries had been murdered, and I felt an obligation as someone who practiced in the criminal courts to attend the services of the only trial judge to become the victim of a homicide.
Surrounded by strangers, I sat in the crowded church and listened to the eulogy of someone I had never met. There were words about justice and public service and dedication and honor and goodwill, words about family and friends and how much the honorable Judge Jeffries would be missed, words which made everyone feel better because the lie is so much more comfortable than the truth.
At the end, when there was nothing left to say, the widow of Calvin Jeffries placed a rose on top of his flag-draped coffin, waited until the pallbearers were ready, and then, turning around, walked at the head of the procession as it moved down the aisle. Even the light that streamed through the stained glass windows failed to penetrate the heavy black veil that covered her face, and I wondered as she passed by me what emotions were masked behind it.
Outside, under a harsh blue sky, the mourners watched while the coffin was lifted into the back of a sleek, shiny hearse. The judge’s widow was helped into the first of a half dozen waiting limousines and, moments later, with two police motorcycles leading the way, the cortege began the long slow journey to the cemetery.
The bitter March wind stung the side of my face and watered my eyes. I pulled my topcoat close around my throat and began to jostle my way down the church steps. I was in a hurry to get away. Now that it was over, I wanted to forget all about the late lamented Calvin Jeffries.
As I turned up the sidewalk, I almost ran into Harper Bryce.
“Any comment you’d care to make, Mr. Antonelli?” he asked.
Bryce, who had covered the courthouse as a newspaper reporter longer than I had practiced law, was standing in front of me. His tie flapped outside his buttoned jacket and his eyes squinted into the wind, each gust stronger than the one before. I made no reply other than to shake my head, and we trudged up the street without exchanging a word until he asked me if I wanted to stop somewhere for a drink.
“It’s a little early, isn’t it?”
On the next block, in one of the old buildings with the date of its construction embedded in stone above the entrance, a bar and grill was just opening its doors. We ordered at the empty bar and carried our drinks to a wooden table next to a dusty brick wall covered with the autographed pictures of people once famous or important and now long forgotten.
With a slow, heavy breath, Harper drew the chair as close as his expansive stomach would allow, hunched his sloping shoulders forward, and rested his arms on the edge of the table.
“Here’s to Judge Jeffries,” he said as he lifted his glass. When he finished, he cocked his head, waiting for me to explain why I had not joined him. “Most people liked him,” he reminded me.
I nodded and then took a drink, wincing as it burned its way down my throat.
“Whatever you thought of him, you have to give him credit,”
Harper went on. The words came a few at a time, punctuated by the wheezing sound of his breath as his chest heaved up and down like a bellows. “He wrote most of the law—most of the procedural law—in this state. He had a brilliant legal mind. You have to give him that.”
The liquor had reached my stomach, and I remembered I had not had anything to eat.
“You have to give him that,” Harper was still insisting as I got up from the table. At the bar, I exchanged the drink for a cup of coffee and ordered bacon and eggs.
“I’m having breakfast,” I told him as I sat down. “You want something?”
He started to shake his head, then changed his mind. “I’ll have the same thing,” he yelled across the empty room.
“Don’t you think he had a brilliant legal mind?” Harper asked, curious why I seemed so reluctant to agree.
“You want me to tell you about the first time I ever met him?”
I asked, surprised at how clearly I remembered what until that moment I had not thought about in years. “That isn’t exactly right,” I corrected myself. “I didn’t really meet him. I appeared in front of him, in a trial—not even a real trial—a trial on stipulated facts.”
It had happened years ago, at the beginning of my career, and it was as if I had just walked out of that courtroom. Harper gave me a quizzical look as I laughed at how angry it still made me.
“You know what a stipulated facts trial is? It’s a plea bargain that allows the defendant to appeal a legal issue that is in dispute. That’s what we were doing. I had not been practicing more than six months, and I had this kid charged with stealing a car.
I tried to get his confession thrown out, but I lost on that. The deputy D.A. was one of the good ones. He thought it was a close call, and that an appellate court should decide.”
Harper never forgot he was a reporter. “Was Jeffries the judge who denied your motion?”
“No, another judge had done that. Jeffries wasn’t the one who might get overturned on appeal. He didn’t have any stake in what happened one way or the other. At least not that way,” I added.
I lifted the cup with both hands and sipped the black coffee, remembering the way Jeffries had looked that day, his pug-fingered hands folded in front of him, waiting for me to begin. He was still in his thirties, but his wavy hair, which ran in a straight line from his brow, was already silver smooth.
“McDonald—that was the name of the deputy D.A.—recited the facts of the case. The defendant—I’ve forgotten his name—
was standing right next to me, his hands cuffed in front of him.
He had broken into the home of his former girlfriend, taken her keys, and stolen her car. It was simple, straightforward, nothing to it. McDonald finished, and Jeffries turned to me. ‘Does the defendant agree with this rendition of the facts?’ he asked. The kid nodded and I said yes out loud for the record. It was the first stipulated facts trial I had done, but McDonald had done dozens of them. It was all routine.