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  “And I want it to be a rich life for you, Tyler. I’m getting older. Pretty soon…” He shrugged.

  The carrot and the stick.

  Naomi Schuyler was a plain-looking woman, from a middle-class family, whose flaming desire in life was to “better” herself. She was so impressed by Harry Stanford’s name that she would probably have married his son if he were pumping gas instead of being a judge.

  Harry Stanford had taken Naomi to bed once. When someone asked him why, Stanford replied, “Because she was there.”

  She quickly bored him, and he decided she would be perfect for Tyler.

  What Harry Stanford wanted, Harry Stanford got.

  The wedding took place two months later. It was a small wedding—one hundred and fifty people—and the bride and groom went to Jamaica for their honeymoon. It was a fiasco.

  On their wedding night, Naomi said, “What kind of man have I married, for God’s sake? What have you got a dick for?”

  Tyler tried to reason with her. “We don’t need sex. We can live separate lives. We’ll stay together, but we’ll each have our own…friends.”

  “You’re damned right, we will!”

  Naomi took out her vengeance on him by becoming a black-belt shopper. She bought everything at the most expensive stores in the city, and took shopping trips to New York.

  “I can’t afford your extravagances on my income.” Tyler protested.

  “Then get a raise. I’m your wife. I’m entitled to be supported.”

  Tyler went to his father and explained the situation.

  Harry Stanford grinned. “Women can be damned expensive, can’t they? You’ll just have to handle it.”

  “But, Father, I need some—”

  “Someday you’ll have all the money in the world.”

  Tyler tried to explain it to Naomi, but she had no intentions of waiting until “someday.” She sensed that that “someday” might never come. When Naomi had squeezed what she could out of Tyler, she sued for divorce, settled for what was left of his bank account, and disappeared.

  When Harry Stanford heard the news, he said, “Once a faggot, always a faggot.”

  And that was the end of that.

  His father went out of his way to demean Tyler. One day, when Tyler was on the bench, in the middle of a trial, his bailiff came up to him and whispered, “Excuse me, Your Honor…”

  Tyler had turned to him, impatiently. “Yes?”

  “There’s a telephone call for you.”

  “What? What’s the matter with you? I’m in the middle of—”

  “It’s your father, Your Honor. He says it’s very urgent and he must talk to you immediately.”

  Tyler was furious. His father had no right to interrupt him. He was tempted to ignore the call. But on the other hand, if it was that urgent…

  Tyler stood up. “Court is recessed for fifteen minutes.”

  Tyler hurried into his chambers and picked up the telephone. “Father?”

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Tyler.” There was malice in his voice.

  “As a matter of fact, you are. I’m in the middle of a trial and—”

  “Well, give him a traffic ticket and forget it.”

  “Father…”

  “I need your help with a serious problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “My chef is stealing from me.”

  Tyler could not believe what he was hearing. He was so angry he could hardly speak. “You called me off the bench because…?”

  “You’re the law, aren’t you? Well, he’s breaking the law. I want you to come back to Boston and check out my whole staff. They’re robbing me blind!”

  It was all Tyler could do to keep from exploding. “Father…”

  “You just can’t trust those damn employment agencies.”

  “I’m in the middle of a trial. I can’t possibly go back to Boston now.”

  There was a moment of ominous silence. “What did you say?”

  “I said…”

  “You aren’t going to disappoint me again, are you, Tyler? Maybe I should talk to Fitzgerald about some changes in my will.”

  And there was the carrot again. The money. His share of the billions of dollars waiting for him when his father died.

  Tyler cleared his throat. “If you could send your plane for me…”

  “Hell, no! If you play your cards right, Judge, that plane will belong to you one day. Just think about that. Meanwhile, fly commercial like everyone else. But I want you to get your ass back here!” The line went dead.

  Tyler sat there, filled with humiliation. My father has done this to me all my life. To hell with him! I won’t go. I won’t go.

  Tyler flew to Boston that evening.

  Harry Stanford employed a staff of twenty-two. There was a phalanx of secretaries, butlers, housekeepers, maids, chefs, chauffeurs, gardeners, and a bodyguard.

  “Thieves, every damned one of them,” Harry Stanford complained to Tyler.

  “If you’re so worried, why don’t you hire a private detective or go to the police?”

  “Because I have you,” Harry Stanford said. “You’re a judge, right? Well, you judge them for me.”

  It was pure malevolence.

  Tyler looked around the huge house with its exquisite furniture and paintings, and he thought of the dreary little house he lived in. This is what I deserve to have, he thought. And one day, I’ll have it.

  Tyler talked to the butler, Clark, and other senior members of the staff. He interviewed the servants, one by one, and checked their résumés. Most of the employees were fairly new because Harry Stanford was an impossible man to work for. The staff turnover at the house was extraordinary. Some of them lasted only a day or two. A few new employees were guilty of petty pilfering, and one was an alcoholic, but other than that, Tyler could see no problem.

  Except for Dmitri Kaminsky.

  Dmitri Kaminsky had been hired by his father as a bodyguard and masseur. Sitting on the bench had made Tyler a good judge of character, and there was something about Dmitri that Tyler instantly mistrusted. He was the most recent employee. Harry Stanford’s former bodyguard had quit—Tyler could imagine why—and he had recommended Kaminsky.

  The man was huge, with a barrel chest and large, muscular arms. He spoke English with a thick Russian accent. “You want to see me?”

  “Yes.” Tyler gestured to a chair. “Sit down.” He had looked at the man’s employment record, and it had told him very little, except that Dmitri had come from Russia recently. “You were born in Russia?”

  “Yes.” He was watching Tyler warily.

  “What part?”

  “Smolensk.”

  “Why did you leave Russia to come to America?”

  Kaminsky shrugged. “There is more opportunity here.”

  Opportunity for what? Tyler wondered. There was something evasive about the man’s manner. They spoke for twenty minutes, and at the end of that time, Tyler was convinced that Dmitri Kaminsky was concealing something.

  Tyler telephoned Fred Masterson, an acquaintance of his with the FBI.

  “Fred, I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Sure. If I’m ever in Chicago, will you fix my traffic tickets?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I want you to check on a Russian who came over here six months ago.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re talking CIA, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe, but I don’t know anyone at CIA.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Fred, if you could do this for me, I would really be grateful.”

  Tyler heard a sigh.

  “Okay. What’s his name?”

  “Dmitri Kaminsky.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I know someone at the Russian Embassy in D.C. I’ll see if he has any information on Kaminsky. If not, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  That evening, Tyle
r had dinner with his father. Subconsciously, Tyler had hoped that his father would have aged, would have become more fragile, more vulnerable with time. Instead, Harry Stanford looked hale and hearty, in his prime. He’s going to live forever, Tyler thought despairingly. He’ll outlive all of us.

  The conversation at dinner was completely one-sided.

  “I just closed a deal to buy the power company in Hawaii…”

  “I’m flying over to Amsterdam next week to straighten out some GATT complications…”

  “The secretary of state has invited me to accompany him to China…”

  Tyler scarcely got in a word. At the end of the meal, his father rose. “How are you coming along with the servant problem?”

  “I’m still checking them out, Father.”

  “Well, don’t take forever,” his father growled, and walked out of the room.

  The following morning, Tyler received a call from Fred Masterson at the FBI.

  “Tyler?”

  “Yes.”

  “You picked a real beauty.”

  “Oh?”

  “Dmitri Kaminsky was a hit man for polgoprudnenskaya.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “I’ll explain. There are eight criminal groups that have taken over in Moscow. They all fight among themselves, but the two most powerful groups are the chechens and the polgoprudnenskaya. Your friend Kaminsky worked for the second group. Three months ago, they handed him a contract on one of the leaders of the chechens. Instead of carrying out the contract, Kaminsky went to him to make a better deal. The polgoprudnenskaya found out about it and put out a contract on Kaminsky. Gangs have a quaint custom over there. First they chop off your fingers, then they let you bleed for a while, and then they shoot you.”

  “My God!”

  “Kaminsky got himself smuggled out of Russia, but they’re still looking for him. And looking hard.”

  “That’s incredible,” Tyler said.

  “That’s not all. He’s also wanted by the state police for a few murders. If you know where he is, they’d love to have that information.”

  Tyler was thoughtful for a moment. He could not afford to get involved in this. It could mean giving testimony and wasting a lot of time.

  “I have no idea. I was just checking him out for a Russian friend. Thanks, Fred.”

  Tyler found Dmitri Kaminsky in his room, reading a hardcore porno magazine. Dmitri rose as Tyler walked into the room.

  “I want you to pack your things and get out of here.”

  Dmitri stared at him. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m giving you a choice. You’re either out of here by this afternoon, or I’ll tell the Russian police where you are.”

  Dmitri’s face turned pale.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Da. I understand.”

  Tyler went to see his father. He’s going to be pleased, he thought. I’ve done him a real favor. He found him in the study.

  “I checked on all the staff,” Tyler said, “and…”

  “I’m impressed. Did you find any little boys to take to bed with you?”

  Tyler’s face turned red. “Father…”

  “You’re a queer, Tyler, and you’ll always be a queer. I don’t know how the hell anything like you came from my loins. Go on back to Chicago with your gutter friends.”

  Tyler stood there, fighting to control himself. “Right,” he said stiffly. He started to leave.

  “Is there anything about the staff you found out that I should know?”

  Tyler turned and studied his father a moment. “No,” he said slowly. “Nothing.”

  When Tyler went to Kaminsky’s room, he was packing.

  “I’m going,” Kaminsky said sullenly.

  “Don’t. I’ve changed my mind.”

  Dmitri looked up, puzzled. “What?”

  “I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay on as my father’s bodyguard.”

  “What about…you know, the other thing?”

  “We’re going to forget about that.”

  Dmitri was watching him, warily. “Why? What do you want me to do?”

  “I’d like you to be my eyes and ears here. I need someone to keep an eye on my father, and let me know what goes on.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because if you do as I say, I’m not going to turn you over to the Russians. And because I’m going to make you a rich man.”

  Dmitri Kaminsky studied him a moment. A slow grin lit his face. “I’ll stay.”

  It was the opening gambit. The first pawn had been moved.

  That had been two years earlier. From time to time, Dmitri had passed on information to Tyler. It was mostly unimportant gossip about Harry Stanford’s latest romance or bits of business that Dmitri had overheard. Tyler had begun to think he had made a mistake, that he should have turned Dmitri in to the police. And then the fateful telephone call had come from Sardinia, and the gamble had paid off.

  “I’m with your father on his yacht. He just called his attorney. He’s meeting him in Boston on Monday to change his will.”

  Tyler thought of all the humiliations his father had heaped on him through the years, and he was filled with a terrible rage. If he changes his will, I’ve taken all those years of abuse for nothing. I’m not going to let him get away with this! There is only one way to stop him.

  “Dmitri, I want you to call me again on Saturday.”

  “Right.”

  Tyler replaced the receiver and sat there, thinking.

  It was time to bring in the knight.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In the Circuit Court of Cook County, there was a constant ebb and flow of defendants accused of arson, rape, drug dealing, murder, and a variety of other illegal and unsavory activities. In the course of a month, Judge Tyler Stanford dealt with at least half a dozen murder cases. The majority never went to trial since the attorneys for the defendant would offer to plea bargain, and because the court calendars and prisons were so overcrowded, the State would usually agree. The two sides would then strike a deal and go to Judge Stanford for his approval.

  The case of Hal Baker was an exception.

  Hal Baker was a man with good intentions and bad luck. When he was fifteen, his older brother had talked him into helping him rob a grocery store. Hal had tried to dissuade him, and when he couldn’t, he went along with him. Hal was caught, and his brother escaped. Two years later, when Hal Baker got out of reform school, he was determined never to get in trouble with the law again. One month later, he accompanied a friend to a jewelry store.

  “I want to pick out a ring for my girlfriend.”

  Once inside the store, his friend pulled out a gun and yelled, “This is a holdup!”

  In the ensuing excitement, a clerk was shot to death. Hal Baker was caught and arrested for armed robbery. His friend escaped.

  While Baker was in prison, Helen Gowan, a social worker who had read about his case and felt sorry for him, went to visit him. It was love at first sight, and when Baker was released from prison, he and Helen were married. Over the next eight years, they had four lovely children.

  Hal Baker adored his family. Because of his prison record, he had a difficult time finding jobs, and to support his family, he reluctantly went to work for his brother, carrying out various acts of arson, robbery, and assault. Unfortunately for Baker, he was caught flagrante delicto in the commission of a burglary. He was arrested, held in jail, and tried in Judge Tyler Stanford’s court.

  It was time for sentencing. Baker was a second offender with a bad juvenile record, and it was such a clear-cut case that the assistant district attorneys were making bets on how many years Judge Stanford would give Baker. “He’ll throw the book at him!” one of them said. “I’ll bet he gives him twenty years. Stanford’s not called the Hanging Judge for nothing.”

  Hal Baker, who felt deep in his heart that he was innocent, was acting as his own attorney. He stood before the bench, dressed in his bes
t suit, and said, “Your Honor, I know I made a mistake, but we’re all human, aren’t we? I have a wonderful wife and four children. I wish you could meet them, Your Honor—they’re great. What I did, I did for them.”

  Tyler Stanford sat on the bench, listening, his face impassive. He was waiting for Hal Baker to finish so he could pass sentence. Does this fool really think he’s going to get off with that stupid sob story?

  Hal Baker was finishing. “…and so you see, Your Honor, even though I did the wrong thing, I did it for the right reason: family. I don’t have to tell you how important that is. If I go to prison, my wife and children will starve. I know I made a mistake, but I’m willing to make up for it. I’ll do anything you want me to do, Your Honor…”

  And that was the phrase that caught Tyler Stanford’s attention. He looked at the defendant before him with a new interest. “Anything you want me to do.” Tyler suddenly had the same instinct he had had about Dmitri Kaminsky. Here was a man who might be very useful one day.

  To the prosecutor’s utter astonishment, Tyler said, “Mr. Baker, there are extenuating circumstances in this case. Because of them and because of your family, I am going to put you on probation for five years. I will expect you to perform six hundred hours of public service. Come into my chambers, and we will discuss it.”

  In the privacy of his chambers, Tyler said, “You know, I could still send you to prison for a long, long time.”

  Hal Baker turned pale. “But, Your Honor! You said…”

  Tyler leaned forward. “Do you know the most impressive thing about you?”

  Hal Baker sat there, trying to think what was impressive about himself. “No, Your Honor.”

  “Your feelings about your family,” Tyler said piously. “I really admire that.”

  Hal Baker brightened. “Thank you, sir. They’re the most important thing in the world to me. I—”

  “Then you wouldn’t want to lose them, would you? If I sent you to prison, your children would grow up without you; your wife would probably find another man. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

  Hal Baker was baffled. “N…No, Your Honor. Not exactly.”

  “I’m saving your family for you, Baker. I would think you’d be grateful.”