Page 121 of The Proving Ground
I nodded again and headed for the door. I thought about Maggie’s demeanor the whole walk to the federal courthouse half a blockaway.Itcrowded my head when I should have been thinking about the next meeting and why I had been called to Judge Ruhlin’s chambers.
The courtroom appeared empty, but the clerk raised his head in the corral when he heard the door close behind me.
“They’re in with the judge,” he said.
“They?” I asked.
“The Masons just arrived.”
“What about my investigator?”
“Not here.”
“I called him. Send him back when he gets here.”
“Oh, I will.”
I made my way through the rear door of the courtroom and to the judge’s chambers, checking my phone for messages as I went. The door was open but I heard no voices. I rapped my knuckles on the open door as I entered.
“Come in, Mr. Haller,” the judge said. “Is your investigator with you?”
The judge was behind her desk, with Marcus and Mitchell Mason seated in front of her. I sat next to them.
“He’s not here yet, Judge,” I said. “I just got a text from him saying he is on his way.”
“I have something to show you,” Ruhlin said.
“Sure. Any word on how our sick juror is doing?”
“Well, I thought maybeyoucould tell us how she’s doing.”
I looked at the Masons for any clue as to what this was about. Mitchell’s face was blank while Marcus looked smug, as usual.
“I don’t understand, Judge,” I said. “Why would I know how—”
“Let’s just watch the video the court received this morning, shall we?” Ruhlin interrupted.
I raised my hand as if to say,Lead the way.
Ruhlin had an open laptop on the desk. She tapped a key and turned the screen toward the three attorneys sitting across from her. On it was the front of a small ranch house with white stucco walls and green shutters. It could have been one of thousands of small homes built in the Valley during the boom years after World War II. The lawn was neatly cut. There was a time stamp in the lower corner of the frame indicating that the video had been taken at 6:31 the night before. There was still natural light, and a lamp next to the front door was not on.
The frame of the video shook slightly, indicating that it was likely shot on a handheld camera or phone.
“What are we looking at here?” I asked.
“Just watch,” Ruhlin said. “You’ll get to tell me.”
The video was silent until the thrum of an approaching motorcycle came through loud and clear. Soon a Harley panhead with orange flames painted on the gas tank moved into the frame and stopped at the front curb. I knew it was Cisco before he took off his helmet. I watched as he got off the bike and propped the helmet on the gas tank. He then crossed the lawn to the front door.
“Is that your investigator?” Ruhlin asked.
“It is,” I said, my eyes not moving from the screen. “Dennis Wojciechowski.”
“He looks like a biker.”
“Well, sometimes it’s a look that helps.”
“Not this time.”
