Switchback. Ch11 pt2

On the other side of town, Carter pulled his Taurus up outside the well-looked-after garden of a large, red-brick house. “The Cul-de-Sac”, and that was the road’s official name as well as its design, held five other houses, each different from the next by size, age, and construction. The directions Maynard gave for the final ten miles proved to be little more than useless, so instead of getting there for one-thirty as he’d expected to, the journey had lasted an extra hour. He checked his cell for the zillionth time in the last hour to find he still had no signal. He slipped it back into his pocket and climbed out to knock on the judge’s door.

          He straightened out the travel creases in his denims and tan shirt and walked along the garden path where a plethora of floral scents hit him. He’d never gardened himself so guessing at their names wasn’t something he could do, the only scent he could name was that of a recently mowed lawn. He closed his eyes as the sweet scent brought countless memories back. Like the time he first met Stephanie at her father’s barbecue, or the picnic in the park where he’d made a hash of his marriage proposal because he couldn’t get the ring box open, and the time he−

          ‘You gonna stand on my stoop all day, son?’

          A voice, not too dissimilar from that of the actor James Earl Jones, though Darth Vader popped into Carters head first, caused him to open his eyes. In the doorway was a black man of similar height to him with gold wire-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a pair of neatly-pressed grey trousers, above which was a mustard-coloured polo shirt. His arms were as thick as logs and folded across his chest. He unfurled one of those logs and offered his hand. 

          ‘Name’s Reyner, Harvey Reyner, friends call me Harv, but until that time gets here, young man, you call me Judge.’

          Carter shook the hand. ‘Carter, Adam Carter, friends call me reckless and irresponsible. But you can call me either.’

          The judge tightened his grip and gave Carter a wide, pearly-white smile. ‘Reckless,’ he said. ‘I like that, and according to your file it suits you. However, in the interest of professionalism, I think Mr Carter will suffice for the time being.’

          ‘You’ve read my file, then?’

          The judge peered over his glasses. ‘Are you saying you haven’t read mine?’

          ‘You’re Harvey Samuel Reyner the fourth, born May twelfth nineteen-fifty-two, the youngest of four children and the only male child to Mary and Harvey Reyner the third. You were educated at Chesapeake High school in Baltimore where you graduated in nineteen-sixty-eight. You spent the next two years training to be a lawyer at the Community college of Baltimore County, Ohio. Where, in nineteen seven−’

          ‘Okay, Mr Carter,’ the judge said. ‘You’re thorough; I’ll give you that, but let’s not turn this into some kinda pissing contest, because you’d lose. Now come inside, we have a lot to discuss.

          The judge picked up a cane he’d left behind the door, and with a severe limp in his right leg, led Carter into the heart of the house. He thought back to his internet search and the Howler kid’s father who had shot the judge as he left church one Sunday morning. The judge had deemed his son’s death an act of self-defence and had said there were no charges to be brought. No details of the kid’s death were mentioned in the information he’d found, other than it was a law enforcement officer who had pulled the trigger. Tobias Howler was charged with second-degree attempted murder but jailed for eighteen years because he had shot a member of the judicial system.

          Carter followed the judge along a hallway where another smell assaulted his nostrils. He’d eaten an apple and a ham sandwich before he’d left and now the warm aroma of baking dough gnawed at the lining of his stomach. After a left and right turn, and a walk across the living room followed by another left turn, Carter found himself in what he regarded to be the judge’s study, or den.

          The room, around the size of a one-car garage, had shelves packed with legal text books lining two of the walls. Four of the thickest books were bright-red and positioned dead-centre behind a large desk, their author’s name emblazoned in gold script running down each spine, was that of one Judge Harvey S Reyner IV. A third bookshelf held only novels, mostly crime, but one row had been dedicated to the so far complete works of Stephen King. If the judge read only half of what was in there, he had far too much time on his hands.

          On the desk was very little in the way of clutter, a phone, a pen-holder with one pen, and three framed photographs. Carter couldn’t see what two of them held from where he stood, but the one he could see was a wedding photograph, the judge and his wife, who stood a good two and a half feet shorter than he did. Two burgundy high-back leather armchairs faced where the judge would sit, and to the right of the chairs was a set of glass storm-doors leading out to a garden that looked just as cared for as the front.

          ‘Nice house,’ Carter said.

          The judge moved around the desk to take his seat. ‘There’s no need to flatter me with small-talk, Mr Carter. It’s just a house, if my wife likes it, I like it, and I don’t care who else does.’ He gestured an open hand. ‘Take a seat.’

          Carter sat in the chair nearest the storm-doors and was about to speak when the den door was knocked upon.

          ‘Would you mind getting that for me?’ the judge said. ‘It’s my leg, it seems to be playing-up more than usual today.’

          Carter rose and opened the door to a short black woman, possibly in her sixties and wearing a red and white striped apron that read, “Cooks do it in the kitchen”. She resembled the beautiful woman in the photograph, but the extra years had made her look a lot wiser. In her hands she held a tray containing a coffeepot, two cups and saucers, a log of ready sliced fruitcake, a plate of chocolate cookies, and milk, sugar, two spoons, and two forks.

          ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Reyner,’ he said.

          ‘And the same to you, Mr Carter, would you mind, Harvey doesn’t allow me into his little hidey-hole when I’m covered in flour.’

          ‘Oh, of course, let me take that.’

          ‘Thank you, and when he’s finally let you out, I’ll show you to your room. It’ll be very nice to have you stay with us, Mr Carter.’

          ‘But, Mrs Reyner I…’ He looked at the judge.

          ‘Not my idea, Mr Carter.’

          ‘No, it was my idea,’ said Mrs Reyner. ‘And by the way, it’s Beverley,’ she told him, then smiled and closed the door.

          Carter couldn’t stay with the Reyners, he needed his freedom, his solitude, needed to come and go as he pleased, and having the judge know his every move would be like a leash around his neck.

He placed the tray on the desk in front of him. ‘Judge, if I’m to be impartial to all parties concerned here, I’d−’

          ‘That’s a situation I can fully understand, Mr Carter, so I called a place on the outskirts of town and made a reservation in your name. It’s nothing big or fancy but I’m sure it’ll more than suit your needs. And don’t you worry about Mrs Reyner; I’ll somehow find a way to smooth it over with her.’ He lifted the coffeepot. ‘Now, help yourself to cake and cookies, this could take some time.’