The Judge

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Circuit Judge Michael Sullivan had practically lived in courtrooms for the past twenty years, most of them presiding over one of two divisions in the County Courthouse.

But today - a hot Monday in July of 1995 - was the time he ever had to testify in court. And it was as a witness against his brother in a first-degree murder trial.

Judge Sullivan’s brother, Stephen, was accused of paying Greg Ketchum $500 to murder Stephen’s wife, Connie. Ketchum was a known ne’er do well in town, who had served more time in jail than he’d lived free. He’d done stints in prison for theft, assault (aggravated and not), burglary and assorted other crimes. He’d never been pinned with a murder.

And that wasn’t about to change. Ketchum took the money, and ether never intended to fulfill his end of the bargain, or had undergone a change of heart. In either case, he didn’t provide a refund.

According to Ketchum, the night after the deed was supposed to have been done, Stephen Sullivan called him and threatened him with all kinds of trouble. Ketchum may not have been a genius, but his survival skills were good. He told Stephen that he would take care of it that evening.

Ketchum at the time was out on bail awaiting another burglary trial in front of Judge Sullivan. With his record, he was looking at a long stretch with the state.

Ketchum told his lawyer about the contract. The lawyer cut a deal with the DA. In exchange for his testimony against Stephen Sullivan, he’d get immunity for the related actions, and the currently burglary charge would be dropped.

Judge Sullivan would not throw a wrench in that, the DA had said. Judge Sullivan took his job very seriously, and would not stand in the way of justice. Besides, Stephen was a little too prone to drinking and messing up his own life for Michael’s taste, and that had caused some familial friction that had been aggravated by the business.

Five years earlier, Stephen and Michael’s parents had died in a car crash. Their father had owned a manufacturing facility that his grandfather had started. The facility practically built the town, and the family had been extremely wealthy.

Michael and Stephen were both in their early forties at the time of the accident, and were their parents’ sole heirs. Under the terms of the will they split the ownership of the business. Stephen was to run the business, as Michael was already entrenched as judge, and did not have much interest in leaving the bench anyway.

Stephen and Connie had a dicey marriage. They were always fighting and on the verge of divorce. Fortunately for all involved, they never had kids. Michael never married.

Stephen was not particularly good at running the business. He was surrounded by good, loyal people who had worked with his father, but his management style (or lack thereof) had run some of them off. The profits were dipping and the numbers were dangerously close to switching from black to red.

Layoffs - which had only happened twice in the company’s history - were starting to look inevitable.

Shortly after the meeting with the lawyer, the DA picked up the phone and called Judge Sullivan. “Mike, I am not supposed to be telling you this, hell, I might even be committing a crime, but I think I owe you this heads up.” The DA laid out what he knew, and predicted his brother would be arrested the next day. Judge Sullivan sighed and agreed he would not interfere with the deal or tip off his brother. He, of course, would not handle the case against his brother. A special judge from across the state would preside over that trial.

Judge Sullivan got another call that night at around 10:00 p.m. His caller ID showed it was his brother’s house. Judge Sullivan answered, and Stephen told him, “I killed, her, Mike. What should I do?”

Stephen told him the whole story, ending with how he grabbed a cast iron skillet and hit Connie in the back of the head with it.

Judge Sullivan told him to call 911 to get medical help and to hang tight. The Judge then called the Sheriff and told him what had happened, before heading off to his brother’s house.

The ambulance was too late.

Connie was carried out on a stretcher and Stephen was led out of his house in handcuffs. “I didn’t do it!” he screamed. He caught his brother’s eye as he was placed in the Sheriff’s cruiser. “Help me, Mike! I didn’t kill her!”

And that was all Judge Sullivan could really testify to. He was calm on the stand, with traces of sadness, but he gave the testimony clearly and without evasion.

The jury found Stephen Sullivan guilty. He was given a life sentence. The special judge apologized to Michael after the trial, and Michael assured him he did not expect any special favors, and that he would have done the same thing.

Judge Sullivan went to his chambers and sat at his desk. He kept a bottle of bourbon in his desk drawer and poured himself two fingers.

He also pulled out a copy of his parents’ will.

He’d read this passage hundreds of times. But one more time wouldn’t hurt. He and his brother each got 50% of the business. In the event either of them die, their spouse would take the son’s share. If there was no surviving spouse (or if said spouse later died), their issue - that’s kids in legalese - would take their father’s share.

In the event that there was no surviving spouse or children, Stephen or Michael would take the other’s share with no future restriction on disposition.

Judge Sullivan’s door opened, and Greg Ketchum walked in.

“What the hell are you doing here, Ketchum?”

“Just came by to extend my sympathies for your brother.”

Judge Sullivan said nothing.

“That whiskey looks good, mind if I have some?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I do,” Sullivan said.

Ketchum smiled and sat down in a chair opposite the Judge’s desk.

“Anyway, just wanted to think you for letting the charge against me go. I’m a free and changed man, hallelujah.”

“That’s enough, Ketchum. You need to go.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Ketchum said, picking up the bottle from the desk. “See, I don’t think you and me are done.”

“We’re done.”

Ketchum smiled and took a long drink from the bottle.

“Good stuff,” Ketchum said. “No, we aren’t done by a long shot. See, here’s the thing. If I start talking…”

“You’ll get the death penalty.”

“I might. But, shoot, judge, I think I won’t be the only one.”

“No one would believe you.”

“Let me tell you how the story will go down.”

***** 

Two weeks before Ketchum’s lawyer met with the DA, Judge Sullivan had already offered Ketchum a deal. The Judge would get the case against Ketchum dismissed. All Ketchum had to do was tell a couple of lies. And kill the Judge’s sister in law.

It was simple enough. Ketchum had to claim that Stephen paid him to kill his wife. It wouldn’t be a stretch for people to believe that. The Judge gave him the money.

The Judge told Ketchum to show his lawyer the money and tell him the story, and see if he could leverage that into a deal.

Easily done.

And, of course, Judge Sullivan would not stand in the way of that deal.

Now, the tricky part.

Ketchum, while still out on bail had to break into Stephen and Connie’s house and kill Connie. He was to call the Judge from Stephen’s home phone after the deed was done.

But, what would have kept Stephen from interfering, or stopping the murder? Well, that was a theoretical tough nut to crack, but a fairly simple one in practice. Judge Sullivan knew that more often than not Stephen was passed out in bed by 9:30 after having had his third drink of the night. Once asleep, Stephen always slept like a log; a petrified one if he had been into his cups. Which he was more often than not.

History and the odds were in Ketchum and Judge Sullivan’s favor.

Stephen was passed out before 9:30.

Ketchum broke in, killed Connie with the skillet (an improvised touch Ketchum was proud of), and called the Judge.

The Judge told him to call 911 and then get out of the house and go home.

The rest more or less happened as the Judge had testified to.

***** 

“No one is going to take your word over mine. I banked on that when I got you involved, Ketchum,” the Judge said.

“I suppose that might be true. But maybe I recorded our conversations. Maybe I’m recording this one.”

“Are you?”

Ketchum shrugged and took another drink.

“You’re bluffing.”

“Could be. But, even if I’m not, if I tell this story, it’ll at least make people start asking questions. You don’t need that, your honor.”

“What do you want?”

“Fifty grand should do it.”

The judge laughed. “That’s it? And how do I know that if I pay you a penny now you won’t ask for two tomorrow?”

“You don’t. I guess you have to trust me.”

“I know better than that. You lay down with dogs, you get fleas.”

“The way I see it, Judge, is you’re filthy with flea bites already. And the medicine to stop the itching, well, it isn’t cheap.”

“Even if I wanted to pay you, I can’t. Not as long as my brother is still alive. I don’t get full control until he passes.”

“I assume that was the point of all this, Judge. You going to have him taken care of in jail?”

“No, Ketchum. I just wanted him out of the way so he doesn’t drive the company into the ground. Maybe he dies in jail, maybe he doesn’t. But at least he won’t be doing more damage.”

“That’s messed up, your honor. You killed the man’s wife.”

“Point of fact, you did. And no great loss. It was either her or him, and despite our differences, I still love Stephen as a flawed brother. You done with that bottle?”

Ketchum took one more sip and handed it back.

“Thanks, Judge. So what do you suggest here?”

The Judge put the bottle back in his drawer.

“Well, I think you shouldn’t threaten a judge.”

Ketchum smiled.

The Judge pulled a .357 revolver out of the drawer and leveled it at Ketchum.

Ketchum’s smile faded.

“Now, hold on Judge. No need to get crazy here.”

“Show me the recorder.”

“There’s no recorder.”

“Show me.”

“There’s not one. I swear.” Ketchum stood up and started emptying his pockets and showing he had no hidden recorder.

“Was there ever one, Ketchum?”

“No. Never. I don’t have anything on you. Trust me, Judge. I just wanted a little something, you know?”

“Okay. I trust you,” The Judge said as he squeezed the trigger.

His next set of lies was going to be a lot easier.