Judgment Read online

  ALSO BY JOSEPH FINDER

  FICTION

  The Moscow Club

  Extraordinary Powers

  The Zero Hour

  High Crimes

  Paranoia

  Company Man

  Killer Instinct

  Power Play

  Suspicion

  The Fixer

  The Switch

  NICK HELLER SERIES

  Vanished

  Buried Secrets

  Guilty Minds

  NONFICTION

  Red Carpet: The Connection Between the Kremlin and America’s Most Powerful Businessmen

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Joseph Finder

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  DUTTON and the D colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Finder, Joseph, author.

  Title: Judgment : a novel / Joseph Finder.

  Description: New York : Dutton, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018026165 | ISBN 9781101985816 (hardback) | ISBN 9781101985823 (ebook)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Suspense. | FICTION / Thrillers. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3556.I458 J83 2019 | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018026165

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Also by Joseph Finder

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  You cannot judge a criminal until you have come to recognize that you are just as much a criminal as the one standing before you.

  —Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

  1

  A perfect May night in Chicago, warm but not quite balmy. A soft breeze coming in off the lake, carrying with it the faint murmurings of traffic from Michigan Avenue twenty floors below. Juliana was sitting alone on one end of a couch on the Peninsula’s rooftop terrace, still wearing her conference lanyard, still wired from the speech she had given two hours earlier. She’d delivered a talk on the rules of evidence in front of five hundred people, and it had gone really well. She tended to be self-critical, but she also knew when she’d hit a home run. “Rules of evidence” wasn’t exactly a sexy topic, but she had her own take on it, and people seemed to respond.

  She’d just had a drink with six fellow attendees, all judges from Indiana, and she was talked out. Mostly she’d been the center of attention, which was flattering for a while, and then exhausting. For now, she wanted to sit by herself—not in her room, with CNN keeping her company, but out here on the terrace in the refreshing breeze off Lake Michigan. Be in her own head. She dropped her lanyard on the glass-topped coffee table and scanned an array of magazines fanned out in front of her. One caught her eye—a travel magazine with a cover story about Spain—and she started leafing through it, keeping one eye out for a server.

  But she was still wired. Another drink? She almost never did that. One drink, that was her limit.

  Her mother, Rosalind, had been a drinker. Rosalind never drank at work, but at night and particularly on the weekends she drank too much. When Juliana was twelve, Rosalind had taught her how to make a “pitcher of martinis,” she called it, as if martinis were discrete entities with a shape and form, like eggs, and you could count how many were in the pitcher if you looked really hard.

  So Juliana generally did what her mother couldn’t: stopped at just one drink. But tonight she was keyed up and thought: What the hell. She waved over a server and was about to order another Sancerre when she changed her mind once again and ordered a Pellegrino and lime. She went back to her magazine—“The Unknown Mallorca,” the piece promised. She felt someone’s eyes on her, and she glanced up; when she saw nobody looking her way, she felt a little silly. Too much time in the spotlight, she told herself with a laugh. Having delusions of grandeur. Black Robe disease.

  Juliana Brody was in her early forties, but as her mother liked to say immodestly, she had good genes. She looked younger. Rosalind had been beautiful. Juliana had long ago accepted the fact that s
he hadn’t inherited her mother’s looks, but she had her cheekbones and jawline, and the gray-blue eyes. And the russet hair—actually, L’Oréal called it “red brown.” And then there was all the time Rosalind used to spend tending to her appearance, while Juliana couldn’t be bothered.

  Again she felt that strange sensation of being watched. She noticed a man in a charcoal suit making his way in her direction. He was tall, early thirties, with an olive complexion and wavy dark-blond hair that fell below his collar. She didn’t recognize him. Maybe he was attending the legal conference too.

  “Is this seat taken?” he asked. “Or am I interrupting?”

  She gestured noncommittally to the chair by the couch. Her gaze could sometimes be stern and intimidating. “I’m not here for much longer, but help yourself.”

  Something about him gave off a slightly melancholy air, but he was a good-looking guy.

  “Long day?” he asked.

  She nodded. “And for you? Are you here with the law conference?”

  “Venture capital. I think there are three conferences going on here this weekend.” He paused, took in the magazine. “Planning a visit to Spain?”

  “Looking at rentals in Costa Brava. In my dreams, mostly.” She drained the last few drops of her seltzer.

  “You should go for real.”

  “Oh, Spain is my favorite place on earth.”

  “I just got back from Mallorca a couple days ago.”

  She tipped her head. “Nice vacation.”

  “On business, but still nice.”

  She put down the magazine. “Never been to Mallorca. I hear it’s beautiful but overrun by tourists like me.”

  “Not if you know where to go.”

  She put out her hand. “Juliana Brody.”

  He shook it firmly. His hand was dry and smooth, his nails neatly trimmed. “Matías Sanchez.” Just the faintest accent.

  “You’re Spanish?”

  “Argentine. Spanish and Argentinians, we’re like cousins.” He shrugged.

  “But you know Mallorca.”

  “Quite well. I travel a lot.”

  “So where do I have to go in Mallorca to escape the crowds?”

  He paused briefly. “The most spectacular sunset you’ll ever see happens at Cap de Formentor. You’ve got to drive up a terrifying little winding road, but by the time you get there it’s worth it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh, and there’s this great little restaurant in the old town called La Bóveda, nothing fancy, but their tapas are to die for. And you can have a drink nearby at Abaco, this fourteenth-century house filled with flowers and baskets of fruit. You tell them Matías Sanchez sent you, they’ll take care of you right.”

  “Okay, I’m sold.” She laughed lightly. “When it comes to Spain.” She flushed. Then, to cover her embarrassment, she gestured for the server again, who’d miraculously appeared. She held up her glass of ice and mineral water. “Another one of these?”

  He ordered an Ardbeg, ten years old, on the rocks.

  “You know what?” she said. “I think I’d like another Sancerre after all.”

  The waitress gave a quick double head nod, like a shore bird swallowing a bread crust, and strode off.

  “I’m afraid I was staring at you before,” Matías said. “It’s just that you remind me of someone I used to know.” He smiled again, a nice, frank smile. He had a sexy gap between his front teeth.

  “It happens with me a lot,” Juliana said. She used to remind some people of the movie actress Amy Adams. “Used to” being the operative phrase, she thought.

  And then: Is this guy actually hitting on me? It had been a while since she’d felt that particular buzz. This fellow—Matías—was easily ten years younger. And unnervingly handsome, she had to admit.

  This is exactly the kind of thing I don’t do, she thought. Would never do. She wanted to say to the guy: You’ve got me all wrong. She’d say, If you knew anything about me, you’d know I’m not your “live in the moment” kinda gal. You are wasting your time, buddy.

  He tilted his head as if assessing her anew. “Know what’s weird? Up close you don’t look anything like her. It’s just— I can’t put my finger on it, it’s something in the way you hold yourself. A kind of self-confidence, or maybe it’s elegance, or both.”

  She felt herself blush, asked a question to cover her embarrassment. “So who do I almost look like?”

  “The woman I used to be married to.”

  “Oh, I see. Nothing quite like being compared to a person’s ex.”

  The server put down their drinks. Matías averted his gaze. “It’s not like that. . . .”

  “I was only teasing. And anyway I’m sure you have a girl in your life already.”

  “I do. An amazing, beautiful girl. She’s everything to me.”

  He pulled out his phone and swiped at it. She leaned in close to him and looked. An actual girl, a cute little blonde, maybe seven or eight, a gap-toothed smile, sitting in a rowboat. A red-and-white-striped T-shirt. Not what she expected.

  She caught him watching her and smiled.

  “She’s a darling. Is she with her mother?”

  “Her mother . . .” He looked away, put the phone back in his jacket’s breast pocket. She noticed tears in his eyes.

  “Hey,” she said, touching his wrist. “I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “No, it’s . . . We were swimming in Costa Rica, a place called Playa Hermosa, and she . . .” He compressed his lips. “She was a terrific swimmer, but the riptide was too strong, and by the time . . .” His face seemed briefly to crumple in on itself; then, just as quickly, he recovered.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought this part of it was behind me.” He got up, bowing his head in apology. Juliana reached out a hand, caught his forearm, beseeching him to stay.

  “Sit, please,” she said. “How long . . . ?”

  He picked up his drink, sipped, put it down. “Two years.” He slowly sank into his chair. “I still can’t really talk about it. I shouldn’t have tried. I— I never do this. This isn’t me.”

  “It’s quite all right—Matías, is that right?”

  “Yes. And—Juliana?” She nodded.

  “I don’t know you,” he continued. “But I feel as if I do, that’s the weird thing. Just something I saw when I looked at you. Don’t ask me to explain.”

  “Okay, now you’re going to have to explain.”

  “Well, I can try. You’re beautiful, of course. But so many beautiful women have this icy reserve—they have to, it’s how they protect themselves, keep guys out of their swim lane. But you—this is going to sound crazy. I saw a sense of a light inside you.”

  She blushed again, hoped it wasn’t visible. “LED, I’m sure.”

  “You’re making fun of me, and you should,” he said, tipping his glass of Scotch toward her and taking a sip.

  “No, I’m sorry, go on. What else did you see?”

  “Honestly?”

  Juliana reached for her wineglass, took a steadying sip. “Sure, why not?”

  “I see a kind of . . . loneliness. Not by-yourself lonely. But lonely. Maybe because . . . well, didn’t you say you’re with the law conference? You are a lawyer? A judge?”

  Juliana was momentarily speechless.

  “I am so sorry,” Matías said. “I swear I’m not normally like this. Let’s blame the Ardbeg.” He put his hand on hers briefly, and she felt the heat. “Four hours ago I killed a deal that looked great on paper until I met the management team. And I knew within two minutes these guys couldn’t execute the plan. These were not the guys. Now, that’s where my instincts are good.”

  She gave him a long look. “Maybe not just there,” she said, and she took a good swig of the Sancerre.

  * * *

  —


  They kissed leaning against the door to his suite. She could taste the single malt. She pulled back, took a breath. He smelled of wood smoke and leather. He found a tendril of her hair and ran his fingers under it, along her cheek. His eyes met hers for a moment. “I wonder if you know how beautiful you are.”

  She could feel the heat radiating off his body. “Tomorrow I’m flying off. Back to my life. This . . . this can’t mean anything.”

  Something was happening inside her. Like a wave that suddenly, startlingly forms in a usually placid lake. A wave formed by that surprisingly good French Sancerre and some kind of reservoir of resentment at how goddamned predictable she’d become. Everybody knew she’d never do this. But shouldn’t there be more to her than what everybody knew?

  For just one night, she’d pretend to be that woman she’s not. For just one night, she’d do what she never does. For just one night, she’d live a life that wasn’t the one she’d so carefully mapped out.

  Just one night.

  He found his key card and the lock beeped open and he held the door.

  2

  The next afternoon, waiting for an Uber home from Logan Airport in Boston, she found herself in a reverie, replaying moments in her mind from the night before. She couldn’t remember when she’d last been touched like that, by Duncan or by anyone else. It was as if he’d found her reset button; even now, her body hummed. At one point she had seen tears in his eyes, and she had wondered whether he was thinking of his late wife, making up for lost time.

  Sitting on a corner of the king-size bed, she’d said, “I have a family.”

  “I understand,” he’d replied, his voice gentle. “It can’t happen again.”

  They were agreed.

  She briefly wondered whether Duncan’s “dalliance,” as she thought of it, three years earlier, had played a role in her decision to go to Matías’s hotel room. She didn’t think so; she’d come to accept what had happened with him, and she wasn’t a petty person. She didn’t believe there was a balance sheet in a marriage, a ledger of rights and wrongs. In any case, the problems in their marriage, if she were being honest, were bigger than that one incident.

  No, she had done something she’d never done before. She had taken a risk. She’d had a second drink. That wasn’t her at all, that woman in the bar at the Peninsula. She was the A student, the obeyer of rules. Judge Juliana Brody: sensible, prudent, and cautious. Unlike her mother (and because of her mother, who lived in her own dream world), she had always been a planner, always been careful to put her foot right, choose the next step thoughtfully.