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Chapter 3 : The Smiling Judge
🕑 Added 2025-06-14 01:48:59 +0000 UTCChapter 3: The Smiling Judge
Judge Harold Morrison had always believed that justice was like fine wine—it improved with age, and it was always better when you could afford the good stuff.
He sat behind his mahogany desk in chambers, reading through the morning's docket while sipping coffee from a mug that read "World's Greatest Uncle." The irony wasn't lost on him—his nephew Ray had given him the mug last Christmas, shortly after Harold had made his third DUI disappear from the books. Family was important, after all. Blood was thicker than evidence.
A soft knock interrupted his morning ritual. Margaret Henley, his clerk, peered through the doorway with the nervous expression she'd worn for the past three years.
"Your Honor? The Martinez case is on today's calendar. Wrongful death civil suit?"
Harold set down his coffee and opened the thick file. Sarah Martinez vs. Apex Chemical Industries. The woman was trying to sue over her husband's death, claiming negligence and cover-up. Harold had read through the paperwork twice—once to understand the case, and once to figure out how to kill it.
"Ah yes, the grieving widow." Harold's smile was the same one he used when sentencing teenagers to juvie for possession while their dealers walked free. "What's the status on the Apex documentation?"
"Sealed by court order, Your Honor. As you requested."
"Excellent. And the EPA inspection reports?"
"Ruled inadmissible due to procedural violations."
Harold nodded approvingly. Margaret had learned well over the years. When he'd first inherited her from Judge Patterson, she'd been idealistic and thorough. Now she understood that thoroughness was a luxury that few could afford.
"The toxicology report?"
"Lost in evidence storage, Your Honor. Detective Morrison filed the report, but there seems to have been a clerical error."
"How unfortunate." Harold's fingers drummed against the desk in a rhythm that matched the tick of his grandfather's clock. "And Mrs. Martinez's attorney?"
"Public defender. Maria Vatz from the Legal Aid Society."
Harold almost laughed. Maria Vatz was fresh out of law school, probably still believed in truth and justice and all those other fairy tales they taught in constitutional law. She'd walk into his courtroom with a briefcase full of righteous indignation and walk out with a lesson in how the real world worked.
"Schedule the hearing for ten-thirty. And Margaret? Make sure we have good court security today. Grieving widows can be... emotional."
As Margaret retreated, Harold opened his personal phone and scrolled through his messages. Three new transfers from his Cayman account, courtesy of Apex Chemical's legal department. A reminder about his nephew's promotion ceremony. And a text from Vincent Torrino: *Judge - need Martinez case buried deep. Worth 50K to right decision.*
Harold deleted the message and smiled. Vincent was crude but efficient, and his money was as green as anyone else's. The beauty of Gotham's legal system was its flexibility—justice might be blind, but she wasn't deaf to the sound of cash registers.
The morning crawled by with the usual parade of misery and corruption. Harold sentenced a homeless veteran to six months for sleeping in a doorway while dismissing assault charges against a city councilman's son. He approved a search warrant that violated the Fourth Amendment seven different ways while denying a motion to suppress evidence that had been obtained through obvious police brutality.
It was a good day at the office.
At 10:25, Harold took his place on the bench, his black robes flowing around him like the wings of a carrion bird. The courtroom was nearly empty—a few law students, some court reporters, and the parties involved. Sarah Martinez sat at the plaintiff's table next to her young attorney, her hands folded in her lap like a woman praying for miracles.
Harold had stopped believing in miracles around the time he'd started accepting bribes.
"All rise for the Honorable Harold Morrison, presiding."
The bailiff's voice echoed through the courtroom as Harold settled into his chair. He enjoyed this moment—the ritual of power, the way everyone stood and waited for his permission to sit. It reminded him why he'd wanted to be a judge in the first place, back when he'd still believed his own campaign speeches about serving justice.
"Be seated. We are here today for the matter of Martinez versus Apex Chemical Industries. Is the plaintiff ready to proceed?"
Maria Vatz stood up, her hands trembling slightly as she shuffled through her notes. "Yes, Your Honor. We are prepared to present evidence that Apex Chemical Industries—"
"Objection."
The voice belonged to Richard Blackstone, Apex's lead attorney. Blackstone was everything Maria Vatz wasn't—expensive, experienced, and utterly without conscience. Harold had worked with him on dozens of cases over the years, and the man was worth every penny of his thousand-dollar hourly rate.
"Mr. Blackstone, the plaintiff hasn't even finished her opening statement."
"Your Honor, we move for immediate dismissal. The plaintiff's case relies entirely on evidence that has been ruled inadmissible, testimony from witnesses who refuse to appear, and documentation that violates our client's proprietary rights."
Harold pretended to consider this, stroking his chin thoughtfully. In the gallery, Sarah Martinez leaned forward, her dark eyes fixed on him with desperate hope. Her daughter wasn't in court—probably at school, or maybe at home having another seizure while her mother fought for justice that would never come.
"Ms. Vatz, how do you respond?"
The young lawyer stood again, her voice stronger now. "Your Honor, our case is built on solid evidence of negligence and deliberate cover-up. David Martinez died because Apex Chemical failed to maintain proper safety protocols. The toxicology report clearly shows—"
"What toxicology report?" Harold's voice cut through her words like a blade through silk. "I don't see any toxicology report in the evidence file."
"It was submitted three weeks ago, Your Honor. Detective Morrison took the blood samples personally."
Harold made a show of shuffling through papers, even though he knew exactly where the report was—at the bottom of Gotham Harbor, courtesy of his nephew's attention to detail.
"I'm afraid there's no such report in the court record, Ms. Vatz. Perhaps you could refresh my memory about this alleged evidence?"
Maria Vatz's face went pale. She fumbled through her briefcase, pulling out folders and loose papers with increasing desperation. "I have copies, Your Honor. Right here—"
"Copies of what, Ms. Vatz? Without chain of custody documentation, without the original samples, what exactly are you presenting to this court?"
Harold watched the young lawyer's world crumble in real time. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish drowning in air, her carefully prepared case dissolving into legal quicksand. Behind her, Sarah Martinez gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white with tension.
"Your Honor," Maria Vatz said, her voice barely above a whisper, "surely we can request new samples—"
"From a body that's been cremated?" Blackstone's voice dripped with mock sympathy. "Your Honor, this is exactly the kind of desperate fishing expedition that wastes the court's time and taxpayer money."
Harold nodded gravely. "I'm inclined to agree, Mr. Blackstone. Ms. Vatz, do you have any admissible evidence to present?"
The silence stretched like a torture rack. Maria looked at her notes, at her client, at the empty gallery where justice was supposed to sit. Finally, she shook her head.
"No, Your Honor."
"Then I have no choice but to grant the defendant's motion for dismissal." Harold's gavel came down like a gunshot. "Case dismissed with prejudice. The plaintiff is ordered to pay court costs."
The sound that came from Sarah Martinez wasn't quite a scream—more like the noise a wounded animal makes when it realizes the trap won't open. She stood up slowly, her face a mask of disbelief and devastation.
"Your Honor," she said, her voice cracking, "my husband is dead. My daughter is dying. They killed him, and you're letting them walk away?"
Harold's expression didn't change. "Mrs. Martinez, I understand you're grieving, but this court deals in evidence, not emotions. If you have new, admissible evidence, you're welcome to file a new suit."
"With what money?" Sarah's voice rose to a shriek. "I can't even afford my daughter's medicine! They destroyed everything, and you're helping them!"
The bailiff stepped forward, his hand moving to his taser. Harold held up a hand to stop him—the woman was no threat, just another broken piece of Gotham's machinery.
"Mrs. Martinez, I suggest you compose yourself. Outbursts like this won't bring your husband back or help your daughter."
Sarah stared at him for a long moment, tears streaming down her face. Then she turned and walked out of the courtroom, her footsteps echoing like a funeral march.
Harold waited until the room cleared before allowing himself a small smile. Another case closed, another check deposited, another day in the life of Gotham's most flexible judge. He gathered his files and prepared to return to chambers, already thinking about his lunch appointment with Vincent Torrino.
His phone buzzed as he reached his office. A text from an unknown number:
*Justice may be blind, but judgment sees everything.*
Harold frowned and deleted the message. Probably some crank who'd been following the case. Gotham was full of bleeding hearts who thought the system owed them something. They'd learn, eventually, that the system only owed you what you could afford to buy.
He opened his safe and pulled out a leather-bound ledger that matched the one Vincent kept. Three generations of Morrisons had sat on Gotham's benches, and three generations had understood that justice was a business like any other. Supply and demand, profit and loss, winners and losers.
Harold opened the ledger to today's date and wrote: "Martinez v. Apex - Dismissed. Payment received. Case closed."
But as he locked the ledger away, something nagged at him. The text message had felt different somehow—not desperate or angry like the usual crank mail, but cold and certain. Like a diagnosis from a doctor who'd already seen your X-rays.
Harold shook off the feeling and straightened his tie. He had three more cases this afternoon, all of which would require his special attention. A rape case where the victim was poor and the defendant was rich. A drug trafficking charge where the suspect had friends in city hall. A child abuse case where the social worker had asked too many questions.
It was going to be another profitable day in paradise.
Outside his window, Gotham stretched out like a cancer under the gray sky. Somewhere in that maze of suffering and corruption, Sarah Martinez was walking home to tell her dying daughter that justice was a luxury they couldn't afford.
But somewhere else in that same maze, something was watching and waiting and remembering every unpunished crime, every denied appeal, every time the scales of justice had been rigged by men like Harold Morrison.
Something that understood the difference between law and justice.
And had already chosen which side it served.
