DEALING JUSITCE

-Chapter One-

I should’ve been doing much better on the day the judge died. My partner at the FBI, Charlie Matthews, would say the death of Judge Griggs was and always will be irrelevant. He’d tell me this all started, later, at the hospital as my father struggled to breathe and my mother ran to go get the nurse, leaving the two of us alone. Matthews would say what happened to the judge was just a rabbit hole, a misdirection - except I don’t think so.

The two may not be directly connected, but they are certainly interwoven. I cannot think or talk about one without thinking or talking about the other, because what I did on that morning—the morning I appeared for a hearing in front of Judge David C. Griggs— and the countless, questionable decisions that followed don’t make any sense in isolation. The two cannot be compartmentalized.

Life doesn’t work that way, at least my life doesn’t work that way. It’s messy. If I’m going to do this, really explain what happened, then I must tell it all, not just the pieces or the parts that make me sound good or heroic. That’s why I’m starting here, and I apologize in advance if it’s a waste of time, but honesty is important to me, and everybody needs to know my head was still scrambled that morning, even though it had been more than a year since I’d been shot at Merchants Bridge and, yet, miraculously healed.

Every week, I went to see Dr. Dan, and that morning was no different. His assistant, first, checked to make sure my insurance was still valid. Then she’d run my credit card through the little machine on her desk to extract the co-pay from my bank account, and then I waited for the honor and privilege of sitting on Dr. Dan’s couch.

This is what I did. I never canceled. It didn’t matter what was going on at work. I took the time to take care of myself, like a good little girl. I faithfully did what I was expected to do. I lay prostrate before the psychiatric gods. I begged for them to heal me, as Dr. Dan prescribed me one more pill after another. Upon his advice, I’d stopped looking for the man with the white beard and Irish lilt and stopped returning Gray’s calls. Gray and I had been inseparable for a time, but now we were apart. Our kiss also may have had something to do with it.

Dr. Dan and I talked about that night at Merchants Bridge, session after session. There would be an occasional side-quest into the sexual harassment I’d experienced as a young female cop, but we’d soon return to what I saw and experienced lying on the ground, bleeding to death, and being healed by an old man who appeared out of nowhere. Dr. Dan, eventually, opined that I did not see what I saw or experience what I often referred to as “wrinkles in reality.” I like this term a lot, by the way, because it sounds less crazy than miracles and ghosts and supernatural powers.

Over time, our sessions had become more adversarial, and Dr. Dan’s platitudes became more frequent and even more obnoxious. “Trust the process,” he said as sleep became even harder for me to find. “You cannot control this,” Dr. Dan said after I told him I was being followed. Then, the morning the judge died, he said, “This process is not linear, Amy, surely you understand that.”

And I responded, “Linear? I’m not asking for a straight line. Two steps forward, one step back would be a miracle, but I’m still in the same place. Nothing has changed. I’m stuck.” I remember this clearly. I wanted to be normal so badly, it hurt. I wanted Dr. Dan to fix me, but I knew deep down he couldn’t.

The bell rang before we finished. I walked out the door with tears streaming down my cheeks and cried all the way to the courthouse. Like I said, I should have been doing much better on that day. I should’ve been able to make better decisions for myself and protect the people around me, but I didn’t.

###

So here it goes, I was under oath, sitting in the witness chair at the federal courthouse in downtown St. Louis. Colton Steele strutted and preened in front of me. He held up a large plastic bag containing a gun in one hand; the other held a smaller bag containing seven bullets.

Steele said, “I’d like to offer Exhibits Twelve and Thirteen into evidence.”

There was no objection, and so Steele, a rising star in the United States Attorney’s Office, took the items up to the bench. He placed each in front of Judge Griggs with as much drama as he could squeeze out of the task, twisting his wrist at just the right moment so as to allow his sterling silver and pearl cufflinks to reflect the overhead light. The movement created a momentary flash, ka-pow. Steele, then, walked back to the prosecutor’s table.

As he did so, I glanced at the clock at the far end of the courtroom, praying it soon would be over. I hated testifying. This was not unique amongst law enforcement officers, regardless of rank or jurisdiction. Nobody enjoyed being under the microscope, but my dislike was different.

It actually made me physically ill. This wasn’t because of my horrible session with Dr. Dan earlier that morning, or even Merchants Bridge. I’d always struggled with testifying. Luckily, as a low-level patrol officer working the night shift, most of those cases were pretty minor, and I could manage it with a stiff drink and some breathing exercises. I didn’t need to be a compelling witness when talking about a guy running a red light, a kid stealing sneakers, or a woman who had too much wine at an office party and drove her SUV into a lamppost. I was passable, and everybody seemed to be okay with that, but these cases were serious.

I was an agent at the FBI. The defendants weren’t looking at fifteen days in the local jail; they were facing years, if not decades, in a federal prison. Lives and careers were on the line. With higher stakes, the expectations also grew.

Colton Steele had spent hours prepping me. It didn’t matter that this was just a preliminary hearing, a pro-forma motion to suppress some drugs and a gun found after an arrest. It didn’t matter that there was no jury, no members of the media, no weeping victims, nor friends of the defendant. He and the other prosecutors expected a performance from me, a perfectly executed dance.

I think the problem was and has always been that I was convinced, at some point during the proceeding, I’d be publicly exposed as a fraud, an imposter. This could occur in a myriad of different ways: a prosecutor could inadvertently let it slip that my father pulled some strings and got me into the police academy or Matthews vouched for me during the hiring process when others at the FBI had doubts; or maybe a judge was going to castigate me for mishandling evidence or flouting some protocol I’d never heard of; or perhaps a clever defense attorney would probe the real reasons why I left the St. Louis Police Department or inquire into my mental health.

These were the thoughts that crowded my head and tied my stomach in knots as Colton Steele continued to question me. He asked, “Did you inform Mr. Marsh of his Miranda rights?”

“I did,” I said, a little too softly, which caused the court reporter to look up from her steno machine and ask me to repeat my answer. I sat up a little straighter. “I did…um…I did read him his rights.”

“And did Mr. Marsh waive his right to an attorney, and also his right to remain silent?”

“Initially he waived it, but halfway through the interview, he asked to stop, and so we stopped.”

It was then I remembered my father had an appointment to see his oncologist. In my angst over Dr. Dan and the hearing, I’d forgotten he was going in for lab work and a consultation. Both he and my mother assured me it was minor, nothing to worry about, but cancer was still cancer. I looked up at the clock and wondered whether his appointment was already over.

“Agent Wirth, did you hear my question?” One of Steele’s perfect brows was raised, and then his expression tightened into one of annoyance.

I had not heard the question. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat it?”

“The conversation with the defendant,” Steele said. “Was it recorded?”

“Yes.”

The moment those words were said, Steele placed an envelope in front of me. “Marked as Exhibit Fourteen is what the United States proffers as a recording of the conversation between Agent Amy Wirth and Defendant Jeremiah Marsh.” He pointed at the envelope. “Do you recognize that?”

“Yes.” I picked up the envelope and examined it. My signature was across the seal. “This contains a flash drive of a video recording of my conversation with the defendant.”

“And did you watch this video prior to testifying today?”

“Yes, a few days ago, I watched the video. Then I placed the flash drive back into the envelope and re-sealed it.”

“And is that seal unbroken?”

“Yes, it is unbroken.”

“And is this,” Colton Steele held up a half-dozen stapled sheets of paper high into the air as if they were stone tablets delivered to him by the Almighty, “a true and accurate transcription of the video?”

“I think so…” my voice trailed, again, “but I’d actually have to see it.” The judge’s law clerk suppressed a laugh, but Steele was unfazed. His performance continued, despite me.

“Of course.” He bowed his head slightly, then handed me the papers with another flourish. I couldn’t help thinking Colton Steele was the most pompous asshole I’d ever met, and in my job, that’s saying a lot.

He turned to Judge Griggs. “Let the record reflect, Your Honor, that I have given to Agent Wirth what I have marked as Exhibit Fourteen-A.” Steele gave me a moment to flip through the pages of the transcript. “I’ll ask the question, again, now that you have reviewed it.” He tilted his head to the side with a little smirk. “Is Exhibit Fourteen-A a true and accurate transcript of Exhibit Fourteen, the video?”

“It is.”

Colton Steele, then, offered both into evidence without objection and asked the judge for permission to “publish,” meaning to play the recording.

Judge Griggs nodded, then pressed a button on a small monitor that controlled the courtroom’s video and audio.  Various screens throughout the courtroom lit up as the video began to play.

Along with everyone else, Judge Griggs watched the interview with little expression. He was in his mid-fifties and was now in his seventh year serving as a federal district court judge. Griggs was childhood friends with Missouri’s senior senator, and during his confirmation hearings, people had been worried about whether Griggs was only a political hack, a man who would be forever indebted to his friend and the machine that had granted him a job for which he could never be fired.

During his time on the bench, however, Judge Griggs, had distinguished himself largely by not distinguishing himself at all. His criminal sentences were neither harsh nor lenient. His rulings in civil cases were also even-handed. He avoided courthouse gossip. He treated attorneys, staff, and his fellow judges with respect, and Griggs was careful to avoid any case that could be considered by anyone as remotely “political.”

When asked about this by a reporter, Judge Griggs merely pointed to the Rules of Judicial Conduct. The rules require recusal whenever there is actual bias or the appearance of bias. “Given my close friendship with the senator, it’s not a stretch to conclude that one of the parties may feel like I am biased against them or closed minded to their position, even when I am not. Appearances matter to the integrity of the system of justice. Ultimately, getting a decision right is important, but procedural fairness—how parties feel about the method in which the decision is made—is even more important to our collective faith in the rule of law than the ultimate decision.”

It’s that reputation and even-handed demeanor that made the following sequence of events so surprising. When the video finished, Judge Griggs announced it was now time to take our morning recess. He gathered all the exhibits, picked them up, and exited the courtroom with his law clerk and court reporter. Five minutes later, there was a gunshot and the sound of a woman screaming.

###

Some cowered under the tables or ran toward the exit, but I did the opposite. I unholstered my gun and went toward the sound. In hindsight, this was surprising. I think Dr. Dan and I would have both predicted I’d either be the first person out the door or curled up in the corner with my eyes shut. There was, however, no flashback to that cold night at Merchants Bridge. There wasn’t time to ruminate about how I was perceived by my colleagues or to doubt my own abilities. There was an active shooter, and when there’s an active shooter, every second mattered.

I knew I had to cut off the path to the courthouse’s public areas. Even if I couldn’t take down the shooter, it might give others enough time to escape to safety. As I crossed the room, I saw Colton Steele. He was hiding under a table.

“Get up, and get the others out.” I grabbed Steele, pulled him to his feet, and shoved him toward the exit. “Did you hear me? Get these people out.”

I couldn’t waste any more time on him. I ran up a few steps, past the area where administrative staff sat during hearings, and then to the door behind the judge’s bench. It led to a back hallway. Two U.S. Marshals followed me, with their guns drawn as well. The door was locked, but a marshal pressed his key card against a black box. The door clicked open, and I was the first to go through it.

The back hallway was empty and quiet now.

We moved together, past several conference rooms, toward Judge Griggs’s chambers. Halfway, a woman stumbled into the hall, crying for help. Adrenaline was running so high, I almost shot her, but by the grace of God, I made the split-second decision to wait.

She was the court reporter. Her face was twisted in a knot of anguish and fear. Then she pointed. “The judge!” she screamed, then repeated it over and over. “The judge. The judge. The judge.”

I directed one of the marshals to stay with her and continued inside, with the second marshal following behind into the suite. The first area was small, like a waiting area: four chairs and a table with magazines. Beyond it were workstations for the judge’s staff, a conference room, and then in the back was the door to the judge’s chambers.

I didn’t see anyone upon entry, but I heard a soft whimper. We took a few, slow, cautious steps further inside. Then I saw him. The law clerk sat on the floor, back to the wall. His legs folded, pulled tight against his chest. His head buried in his hands. His body shaking.

There was no blood on him, no apparent weapon, but as far as I knew, he could be the shooter. I directed the second marshal to search the clerk, while I called out to the judge.

“Griggs.”

Still no answer. Although the shooting hadn’t continued, there was no guarantee the danger had passed. I wasn’t going to assume anything.

“Judge Griggs, are you okay?” I stepped closer to the door. “Is anybody else in there with you?”

Gun extended, I counted to three under my breath and crossed the threshold to work the room. Nobody in the corners, behind the couch, or in the bathroom.

It was clear.

There was only Judge Griggs, slumped in a large brown leather chair. A bullet hole under his chin, and the back of his head gone. Shards of bone, clumps of hair, blood and brain were scattered on the ceiling and wall behind him.

On the judge’s desk was a picture of his family and two clear evidence bags. Both were empty. On the floor was Exhibit 12, the gun that had been offered into evidence that morning. Nearby was a spent shell casing I assumed was one of the seven bullets, which Colton Steele had entered into evidence as Exhibit 13, with his cufflinks flashing. I figured the other six bullets would be found in the gun.

I backed out, slowly. There was nothing left for me to do, and I didn’t want to contaminate the scene any more than I already had. 

In the hallway, I passed the marshal who’d been tending to the court reporter. “It’s clear.” I pointed at the door. “Make sure nobody goes in. The techs need to tear that place apart.” Then I continued, not waiting for a response.

I kept walking until I found a bathroom at the far end of the hall. Once the door closed behind me and I was alone, my whole body began to shake, just like the court reporter and law clerk. The more I tried to calm down, the harder I shook.

At the sink, I set my gun down on the counter and turned on the faucet. I splashed cold water on my face. I told myself it was over, then I splashed even more water on my face, again and again, until my breathing returned to normal.

I took a paper towel and dried myself. Then I looked at the mirror, examining the person staring back, feeling like I’d seen something in Judge Griggs’s chambers, but maybe not. Maybe I hadn’t seen anything, but instead felt it. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the room, but it didn’t take long for my concentration to break. It was interrupted by my doubts and insecurities, surfacing, again.

Would my father have done it differently? How could I have done it better? What mistakes had I made?

The vibration of my cell phone brought me out of the trance. I pulled it from my pocket and sighed when I saw whose name appeared on the screen. It was a call I couldn’t ignore.

I tapped the screen and put the phone to my ear and said, “Hello, Chief.”