“Yeah, we’re out front, Gavin,” Birk yelled back.
The Shard pushed through a row of bushes that had once formed a neat hedge but had been left to run wild. He pulled off a pair of thick work gloves, smiled a caved-in smile, and pointed at Gibson.
“Told you he’d show.”
“He’s here.”
“Told you,” said the Shard again, like an older brother who couldn’t not have the last word.
“I’m here. I think we’ve settled that. Gavin, right?”
“Nobody calls me Gavin. I answer to Swonger.”
“He called you Gavin,” Gibson pointed out.
“Yeah, and been telling him for fifteen years not to. College ain’t what it used to be.”
“Wouldn’t know.”
“That’s right, you wouldn’t. His uncle did you the Marines, yeah? Good on you.”
Birk was getting impatient. “What’s in the bag?”
“A little something for the judge,” Gibson said. It had taken him three stops to find it. “Is he here? I didn’t drive down here so you two could argue the fine points of where I am.”
“Ain’t no call to be talking out your neck.” Swonger took an angry step toward Gibson.
“Who is this guy?” Gibson asked Birk. “I know you’re the nephew, but what’s Cletus here got to do with it?”
Birk sprang forward to block Swonger as he lunged for Gibson.
“My name’s Swonger, you son of a bitch. Swonger.”
Either Birk was stronger than he looked or Swonger allowed himself to be guided away, blustering at Gibson as he went. Gibson stood impassively on the steps while Birk soothed Swonger’s ruffled feathers out in the driveway, then came back.
“Look. Swonger’s particular about his name. So no nicknames, okay?”
Gibson shrugged. “Fine, but who is he?”
“Grew up with me. His daddy’s the farm manager. The Swongers live a half mile up. And, yeah, they’re a part of this.”
“His dad runs the farm? So what does your dad do?”
“My dad? He drinks.”
That ended the discussion. Swonger leaned against Gibson’s car like he owned it, smoking a cigarette and still arguing some invisible argument. Watching him, Gibson felt slightly reassured. Whatever else was happening here, Birk and Swonger didn’t strike him as part of any grand conspiracy. Perhaps the Spectrum timing and the nosy visitor to the Nighthawk were just coincidences after all.
“Look, I’m here to talk to the judge. Is he here, or not? I’ve got family in Charlottesville to visit if he isn’t.”
“You’re here to see him,” Swonger said with a smile. “No one said nothing about talking.”
Gibson didn’t know what to make of that.
“Yeah, he’s here,” Birk said. “He lives in the back house.”
“He lives here on the farm?”
“Couple of years now,” Birk said. “Come on. I’ll take you out to see him.”
Birk led Gibson around the side of the house and down a path between two fields. Thirty head of cattle watched their progress with a lazy pivot of their necks. Swonger, trailing behind, stopped to fix a section of fence that had collapsed.
The hedgerow on their left gave way, and they came up on the “back house.” It was, in reality, an ancient single-wide trailer set on a cracked cinder-block foundation. Whatever color it had once been, it had long since sloughed off its paint like dead skin. Trash lay on the path leading up to the door, which Birk tried to sweep out of the way with an embarrassed foot. To the right of the front door, under a makeshift awning, three faded, folding patio chairs sat in the dirt around a ramshackle card table.
“He lives here?” Gibson tried to keep the surprise out of his voice.
During his trial, Judge Birk had cut a grand figure, imperious in his black robes, with a patrician bearing that overawed everyone in the courtroom. Gibson hadn’t known much about courtrooms but knew a little something about power, and even he could see that the lawyers on both sides were intimidated by Birk. Gibson assumed the judge’s family background would match it. His father had often warned against making assumptions about people based on too few data points. The farm, these people, this was far from the Virginia aristocracy. So who was Hammond Birk?
“Yep,” said Birk in answer to Gibson’s question. “Hold up here a second.” Birk walked up to the front door but didn’t knock. “Uncle Hammond? Hey!” Birk called. “Old man, you in there?”
Gibson heard movement from inside. A man appeared at the door in a filthy orange University of Virginia T-shirt and underwear that had once been white but now looked gray with age.
“Is it bath day?” the Honorable Hammond D. Birk asked, moving from foot to foot like a little boy who needed to pee. His long, unkempt beard swayed joylessly with him beneath eyes stained the jaundice yellow and red of a poisoned skyline.
It was hard to reconcile this man with the judge who had once silenced a packed courtroom with a single upraised hand. It had been more than ten years, but the judge’s condition owed itself to much more than the passage of time.
“No, it’s not bath day. Bath day is Wednesday. This is Tuesday. Now come on, I have someone here to see you.”
“Who?” the judge asked.
“Gibson Vaughn. You remember. I told you he was coming.”
The judge took a step back into the trailer, his expression uncertain.
“Come on, now. Don’t make me come in there.”
“I don’t know . . .”
Birk caught hold of the judge’s wrist. The judge tried to pull free, but his nephew was too strong and dragged him out the door.
Gibson didn’t care much for bullies.
“Hey,” he said. “Take it easy.”
The judge stopped struggling and looked in Gibson’s direction. At first, Gibson saw only confusion and fear in his eyes. Then, like smoke clearing, a distant awareness sparked, followed swiftly by shame.
“I should put on some trousers,” the judge said.
“Yeah,” said Birk, “I think that would be fine.”
The judge disappeared back into the trailer. Birk and Gibson stared each other down while they waited. After a minute, the judge called for his nephew.
“Great. Now I got to go in there. Make yourself at home.” Birk gestured to the card table and disappeared into the trailer.
From inside, Christopher Birk scolded his uncle the way an exasperated adult might upbraid a child. But more than that, an angry, loveless undercurrent colored the nephew’s tone. It broke Gibson’s heart. How had a man as vital and wise as the judge come to live here, like this? A pariah to his own family. The man should be in assisted living, not dying alone in a trailer.
It dawned on Gibson now why the judge had stopped answering his letters. It hadn’t been out of anger over losing his judgeship; he simply hadn’t been able. Was that also why he had defied Benjamin Lombard in the first place? Because he already knew he was sick and wouldn’t be fit for another term on the bench anyway? Lombard had tried to play politics with a man whose diagnosis had transcended career aspirations. Life had a sense of humor to it, Gibson had to give it that.