If you don't drop the federal grand jury indictment against War Supplies Corporation by midnight, your niece won't leave this precinct alive, the police officer whispered, pressing his service re...
The Baltimore night air was sharp and cold against my face as I steered my government-issued Ford through North Baltimore. My hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white. The image of Clara, handcuffed to that radiator, burned behind my eyes.
Officer Callahan’s smug face, the way he’d whispered the docket number—it had been a setup.
But a transfer warrant for a nine-year-old? That needed a judge’s signature. And Callahan had invoked Judge Harold Albright’s name. My mentor.
The tires crunched on the gravel drive leading to Judge Albright’s modest, well-kept home. A single light burned in the parlor window, casting a warm, inviting glow that felt like a slap in the face. Inside, I knew, my niece was fighting for her life.
I hammered on the polished oak door.
It opened a moment later. Judge Albright, in a worn smoking jacket and slippers, peered out, a book held loosely in one hand. His eyes, usually so kind, widened when he saw me, then narrowed with a flicker of something like dread.
“Arthur? What in heaven’s name—” he started.
I didn’t let him finish. “The warrant, Harold. For Clara. My niece.”
His shoulders stiffened. “Come in, Arthur. It’s too cold for this.”
He led me into his study, where the scent of old paper and pipe tobacco usually brought me a sense of peace. Tonight, it felt suffocating.
“You signed a warrant to transfer a nine-year-old girl to a juvenile detention facility on a trumped-up theft charge,” I stated, my voice low but hard. “Without informing me, her legal guardian.”
Albright ran a hand over his thinning grey hair. “It wasn’t trumped up, Arthur. Not according to the affidavits presented.”
“Affidavits from whom?” I pressed, my heart pounding.
He sighed, sinking into his leather armchair. “From Captain Gallagher. He personally brought them to me.”
My breath hitched. Tommy. My Tommy. The name felt like a rock lodged in my throat.
“Captain Gallagher presented sworn statements,” Albright continued, his voice wavering slightly. “Claiming she was caught red-handed stealing military-grade rations from a depot. He had witnesses, Arthur. Signed statements. It looked legitimate.”
“Military-grade rations?” I scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping me. “My niece, who has a severe, life-threatening cocoa allergy, stole a chocolate bar? This is an intimidation tactic, Harold. A direct attack on my investigation.”
Albright flinched, his gaze dropping to his hands. “He said… he said you were being irrational, Arthur. Too close to the case. That you would try to obstruct justice. He vouched for his officers.”
A wave of nausea washed over me. Tommy, my childhood friend, the man I trusted with my life, had not only orchestrated Clara’s framing but had also manipulated my mentor.
“He vouched for them,” I repeated, the words tasting like ash. “And you believed him.”
Albright lifted his eyes, filled with regret. “I… I had no reason not to, Arthur. Tommy is a police captain. A decorated officer.”
My mind raced, putting the pieces together. The secret docket number, the specific framing, the speed of the transfer order. It wasn’t a random precinct officer acting alone. It was orchestrated. By Tommy.
My best friend.
“Where is she going?” I demanded, pushing the betrayal aside for a moment. “Where did you authorize them to take her?”
Albright swallowed hard, his eyes wide. “The warrant specified the Waverly Juvenile Detention Facility. But that’s not… that’s not what Tommy told me he intended to do.”
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