The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(8)

Jeri smiled and nodded and was suddenly subdued. They swapped phone numbers and said their goodbyes. Lacy hurried through the lobby and couldn’t wait to get in her car.





3


Her apartment was a chic, ultra-modern unit in a newly renovated warehouse not far from the Florida State campus. She lived alone, at least most of the time, with Frankie, her obnoxious French bulldog. The dog was always waiting at the door, turning flips to urinate in the flower beds, regardless of the hour. Lacy let him outside for a pee, then poured a glass of wine, fell onto the sofa, and stared out the large plate glass window.

It was early March, the days were getting longer but they were still too short. She had grown up in the Midwest and did not miss the cold dark winters with too much snow and too little sunshine. She loved the Panhandle with its mild winters, real seasons, and long warm spring days. In two weeks the clock would change, the days would lengthen, and the college town would get even livelier with backyard cookouts, pool parties, rooftop cocktails, and outdoor dining. And that was for the adults. The students would live in the sun, head for the beach, and work on their tans.

Six murders.

After twelve years of investigating judges, Lacy considered herself immune from shock. She was also calloused and jaded enough to have serious doubts about Jeri’s story, much the same way she doubted every complaint that landed on her desk.

But Jeri Crosby wasn’t lying.

Her theories might be wrong; her hunches off-base; her fears unfounded. But she believed that her father was murdered by a sitting judge.

Lacy had left their meeting at the Ramada with nothing. The one file she opened had been left on the table for Jeri to deal with. Curiosity settled in. She checked her phone and saw two missed calls from Allie Pacheco, her boyfriend. He was out of town and she would chat with him later. She fetched her laptop and began searching.

The Twenty-Second Judicial District encompassed three counties in the far northwest corner of the state. Among the 400,000 or so people who lived in the Twenty-Second were forty-one circuit judges, elected by that same population. In her twelve years at BJC, Lacy could remember only two or three minor cases from the Twenty-Second. Of the forty-one judges, fifteen had been elected in 2004, the year Jeri said her suspect took the bench. Of those fifteen, only one finished law school at the University of Miami.

In less than ten minutes, Lacy had the name of Ross Bannick.

He was forty-nine, a native of Pensacola, undergrad at the University of Florida, no mention of a wife or family. Scant bio on the judicial district’s website. His photo portrayed a rather handsome guy with dark eyes, strong chin, and lots of salt-and-pepper hair. Lacy found him quite attractive and wondered why he wasn’t married. Maybe he was divorced. She dug some more without getting too deep and found little about Judge Bannick. Evidently, he had managed to avoid controversy during his two-and-a-half terms on the bench. She went to her BJC files and found no complaint filed against him. In Florida, lawyers were expected to submit an annual review of the judges they encountered, anonymously of course. For the past five years, Bannick had received a stellar A+ rating from the bar. The comments were glowing: prompt, punctual, prepared, courteous, professional, witty, compassionate, bright, an “intimidating intellect.” Only two other judges in the Twenty-Second received such high marks.

She kept digging and finally found some dirt. It was a newspaper article from the Pensacola Ledger, dated April 18, 2000. A local lawyer, Ross Bannick, age thirty-five, was seeking his first political office and trying to unseat an old judge in the Twenty-Second. Controversy arose when one of Bannick’s clients, a real estate developer, proposed a water park on some prime property near a Pensacola beach. The park was strongly opposed by seemingly everyone, and in the midst of the lawsuits and related brouhaha it was revealed that lawyer Bannick owned a 10 percent stake in the venture. The facts were not that clear, but it was alleged that he tried to hide his involvement. His opponent seized the moment and ran ads that proved fatal. The election returns, from a later edition of the paper, showed a landslide defeat for Bannick. Though it was impossible to determine with such scant evidence, it looked as though he had done nothing wrong. Nonetheless, he was beaten badly by the incumbent.

Lacy dug some more and found the election coverage from 2004. There was a photo of the old judge, who appeared to be at least ninety, and two stories about his declining health. Bannick ran a slick campaign and the controversy from four years earlier was apparently forgotten. He won his race by a thousand votes. His opponent died three months later.

Lacy realized she was hungry and pulled a leftover quiche out of the fridge. Allie had been gone for three nights and she had not been cooking. She poured more wine and sat at her kitchen table, pecking away. In 2008, Bannick was unopposed for reelection. Sitting circuit judges rarely faced serious opposition in Florida, or any other state for that matter, and he seemed to be set for a long career on the bench.

Her phone pinged and she jumped. Lost in another world, she had even forgotten about the quiche. Caller unknown.

“Got his name yet?” Jeri asked.

Lacy smiled and replied, “It wasn’t difficult. Miami Law, elected in 2004 in the Twenty-Second. That narrowed it down to one.”

“Nice-looking guy, huh?”

“Yes. Why is he not married?”

“Don’t get any ideas.”

“I wasn’t.”