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Eyes murderous, his face turns red with nothing but fury. “That stupid bitch, I told her not to talk—”
He can't finish his sentence because his head just slammed onto his polished mahogany desk. Blood splatters from his nose, gurgling at the back of his throat. His scream is muffled as I press down.
I lean in, my voice a sinister whisper. “No, no, we don’t do that, judge. That’s not how we speak about her. Careful next time.”
Yanking him upright by his collar, I brush off the drops of blood staining his pristine shirt and hand him the napkin from his barely touched sandwich. “You’re making a mess on your desk. Sit the fuck down.”
Wide, fear-stricken eyes stare back at me before his knees bend, and he sits.
“I know you tried to spin the story to fit your narrative. And as much as I would love the world to know what kind of scumbag you raised; Beth doesn’t want it out there.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but I hold up a finger. His mouth snaps shut again.
“That house was burned to the ground. After your son killed himself, you were declared his next of kin for all belongings not under Beth's name. Her name wasn't on the house, so whatever remained inside went to you and your wife.”
How he managed that when Beth was Rob’s wife, I’ll never know.
I give him credit; he doesn't flinch.
“Get me the photographs, judge.”
“I don’t have the photographs.”
He’s bluffing. His mouth is twitching.
“You do. And I’ll assume it’s not you that’s giving this information to The Times because you want this story buried as much as Beth. So that leaves me to believe you have a leak within whatever household staff you have. Maybe the young woman who cleans your dirty laundry or the gardener that keeps your rose bushes pristine but is probably fucking your wife, or maybe it’s the recent contractor you had to renovate the dining room.”
Nothing but a clenched jaw. “How do you know that?”
“It doesn’t matter. I want those photographs. Now!”
He tips his chin in defiance. When he flashes me a smug smirk through the blood, I need to remind myself not to smash his head against his desk again.
“Or what?”
“I was hoping you’d ask that.” I remove my phone from my pocket and press play on the video Ace sent me while I was driving here. “I’ll give that reporter something better to write about. I know men who think they are powerful like to pay for sex, but judge, you are into some weird shit.” I hold the video playing on my phone to his face. “And you like to record it. Come on, Ellison. I thought you would know better.”
Any color in his fat, red stained cheeks drains in an instant.
“There’s plenty more.”
“Everything in those videos was consensual.”
“Was it?”
“You can’t do that. It can be proved.”
“Proof, right. But by the time you get that proof, everything about you will already be pulled into question. You’ll end up paying her off, but your reputation will be in tatters because guess what? Mud sticks. And that’s only the beginning. She’s only the tip of the iceberg. More women come forward. Prime time television with these women detailing how rough you could get, how possessive. Secrets come to light. That little pillow-talk you had with a woman you were paying suddenly isn’t so innocent anymore.” My eyes scan the room as if I’m following something. “See that.” I point into thin air. “That’s your Supreme Court nomination. Wave goodbye, judge. Now stop sitting there and looking at me. You’re wasting my time. I asked for five minutes. There’s two left, so I suggest you use those minutes to make whatever phone calls you need to have those photos appear in my hands.”
He gulps, still holding his busted nose.
Patience lost, my fist slams down on his table. “Fucking move.”
His back goes ramrod straight before finally, he picks up the phone.
A minute later, he hangs up and stares over at me. “My wife is on the way.”
“Great.” I smile, picking up his sandwich to examine it. “I fucking hate tuna.” I put it back on the plate before leaning back and getting comfortable. “Please, continue with your lunch.”
