The Final Judgment by Richard North Patterson Page B

felt empty. It was a time before she felt Jackson’s scrutiny, wondered how long she had gazed at the knife. Turning over the bag, she saw the serial numbers on the blade, just as she expected. The blood obscured them. Caroline had to squint; her reading glasses were in the briefcase. But she did not wish Jackson to know what she was doing. Since childhood, it had been her gift to memorize numbers. Slowly, she passed the bag to Jackson. “A fine one. Just as you said.” He placed the knife on the desk between them, looking into her face. “Is that all?” he asked. “Or is there something else you want to cover?”
    “Not now.” She hesitated. “Thank you.” Caroline stood. Somehow she felt distant, a bit light-headed. Jackson rose from behind the desk, hands on hips. “Did I understand that you may not handle this?” It brought her back a little. She looked at him directly. “If there’s no prosecution, it shouldn’t really matter.” He did not answer but simply gazed at her, his eyes intent and curious. “I hear you’re going to be a federal judge.”
    “So it seems.”
    For another moment, he seemed to appraise her. “Well,” he said at length, “I’m sorry about this. For Brett, and for everyone involved.” He held out his hand. Caroline took it, clasped it quickly. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll let myself out.” She turned and left him there. She hardly remembered her walk to the car, did not look up at the capitol, or anywhere except in front of her. Getting to the car, she sat there awhile. Her briefcase was on the seat beside her. She reached inside, found a pen and a piece of paper, and wrote down the serial numbers from the blade of the Cahill knife.
     
     
CHAPTER SIX
    When Caroline returned, she saw no one. It was as she wished. But when she climbed the stairs to the room where her things were, hoping to be alone, there was a message taped to her door. She stared at Betty’s careful script. Bob Carrow had called. From the Manchester Patriot-Ledger. Caroline sat on the bed. She was not prepared. The one statewide newspaper, the Patriot-Ledger, had long dominated New Hampshire; its politics were harshly right-wing—bitterly antagonistic to Democrats, feminists, and judges such as Caroline promised to be—and its stock-in-trade since Caroline’s youth had been its crusade for more criminal convictions and longer sentences. There was nothing to gain from returning this call; certainly not for Caroline, whose potential involvement in a criminal matter involving her family—if publicized—would surely get back to the White House. Angry and exhausted, she started to crumple the message into a ball. Her hand froze. She opened her palm, staring at the crumpled paper. Who, she wondered, had done this to her? For there was Brett to consider. If there should be a trial, it would become a major story in such media as New Hampshire had, and never more so than in the Patriot-Ledger. For Caroline the defense lawyer, it was important to get her client fair coverage in the press—better than fair, if Caroline could help it. And one did not do that by ignoring the state’s largest newspaper.
    For another half hour, she thought. About the reasons she had left here. About the twenty years spent trying to become a judge. About a girl she barely knew. She went to the kitchen to call.
    “Bob Carrow.” A voice such as she had heard in countless newsrooms—edgy, eager, aggressive. Part of her despised him. She made her own tone polite, puzzled, faintly bored. “This is Caroline Masters.” “Oh, yes. Thank you for getting back to me. I hear your niece is Brett Allen.”
    “Yes.” More arid now. “I hear that too.” A hesitation. “She may be charged with murder.”
    “Really? Who did she kill?”
    “Well, James Case ...”
    “Who told you that? Not, I think, the Attorney General’s Office.” Caroline’s tone was finn and even. “This is a young woman who has just lost someone she loved in the most shocking circumstances, including the