Chapter 6 - Courtroom Seventeen Was Never Empty
I called Miriam Shaw.
Not my clerk.
The old one.
She was eighty-four and living in Delaware.
Thirty-one years earlier, Miriam had been my father's courtroom clerk.
She answered with:
“Evelyn Carter, if you're calling about that ridiculous dedication, I already sent flowers.”
“I postponed it.”
Silence.
Then:
“Oh.”
“Why do you sound relieved?”
“I sound old.”
“Miriam.”
She sighed.
“What happened?”
“Thomas.”
Another silence.
Longer.
“What about him?”
“Did you know he was alive?”
“No.”
Too quick.
I closed my eyes.
“You are eighty-four. Please don't make me cross-examine you.”
She laughed unexpectedly.
“Still unpleasant.”
“Still avoiding.”
“No. I did not know Thomas was alive after that week.”
“After that week.”
“Yes.”
“Did you see him the night he disappeared?”
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“Official statements say you left at seven.”
“I did.”
“Then how?”
“I came back.”
“Why?”
“I forgot Henry's medication.”
My father took blood-pressure pills.
I remembered.
“What time?”
“A little after ten.”
“Who was there?”
Miriam took time.
“Henry.”
“Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“Samuel Cole?”
“Yes.”
“Martin Pike?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“Courtroom Seventeen.”
My pulse changed.
“What were they doing?”
“Arguing.”
“About the questionnaires?”
“I assumed.”
“You didn't hear?”
“Some.”
“What?”
Miriam's voice softened.
“Thomas kept saying, ‘Tell Evelyn.’”
My throat tightened.
“What did Dad say?”
“‘Evelyn is not part of this.’”
Of course.
Everyone protecting me from the thing already using my name.
“What happened?”
“I gave Henry his pills.”
“Then?”
“Thomas left the courtroom.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
“Who?”
“Samuel.”
Aaron's father's note.
East corridor.
11:40.
“What did Henry do?”
“Stayed.”
“Did he ask where Thomas was going?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Miriam hesitated.
“Because he knew.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“Then what did he know?”
“That Thomas was leaving.”
“Courthouse?”
“More than that.”
I stood.
“What do you mean?”
Miriam's voice became quieter.
“Thomas told Henry he was done being his son.”
That sentence took me backward thirty-one years.
Thomas and Dad had fought brutally after Mom died.
Not physically.
Words.
Thomas accused Henry of turning grief into schedules and rules.
Henry accused Thomas of using grief to avoid responsibility.
They loved each other badly for years.
“What did Dad say?”
Miriam took a breath.
“‘If you walk out now, don't make Evelyn choose after.’”
I closed my eyes.
There.
Family entering institutional misconduct exactly where it shouldn't.
“What did Thomas say?”
“I don't remember.”
“Try.”
“I don't.”
Fair.
“Did you tell investigators you saw Thomas that night?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Henry asked me not to.”
My anger sharpened.
“And you agreed.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Samuel said Thomas was not under arrest.”
“That isn't a reason.”
“No.”
Miriam sounded tired.
“The reason is that Henry had been my judge for seventeen years, Thomas was his son, you were his daughter, and I told myself families deserved one night before the courthouse turned it into evidence.”
One night.
Same disease as every delayed truth.
“What happened the next morning?”
“Thomas didn't come back.”
“And?”
“Henry said I should report only what I personally knew about the questionnaire investigation.”
“You personally knew you saw Thomas.”
“Yes.”
“And omitted it.”
“Yes.”
“Did Dad tell you he had left voluntarily?”
“He told me Thomas needed space.”
“How much?”
“He didn't say.”
Weeks later Henry was frantic.
That might have been real too.
“What changed?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you ever ask?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He told me he had made a mistake.”
My throat tightened.
“Which one?”
“He wouldn't say.”
Then Miriam added:
“Evelyn.”
“Yes?”
“Your father did something else that night.”
“What?”
“He removed himself from Courtroom Seventeen.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“He had been scheduled to handle an emergency motion the next morning tied to the same trial.”
“And?”
“He reassigned it.”
“Why?”
“He said he had become too close to the problem.”
That was almost responsible.
Almost.
“Did he ever disclose why?”
“No.”
There.
The story of Henry Carter was not a man who never recognized his conflict.
He recognized it privately.
Then hid the recognition publicly.
Before we hung up, Miriam said:
“Thomas asked me something once.”
“When?”
“Two weeks before.”
“What?”
“If I thought Henry loved being right more than he loved being trusted.”
I looked toward my father's portrait.
“What did you say?”
“That it was a cruel question.”
“And?”
Miriam's voice softened.
“He said, ‘That isn't an answer.’”
Thomas had been irritating long before I became a judge.
I almost smiled.
Then Miriam said:
May you like
“You sound like him now.”
The smile disappeared.
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