Infernal

Jack nodded. "Uh-huh. And you gentlemen are…?"

He stepped forward and extended his hand. "Ty Jameson."

He quickly introduced his three companions. The names blurred through Jack's brain.

"We're really sorry about your father. An awful fu—"—a quick glance at Gia and Vicky—"an awful, awful thing to happen to anyone, but your father…" Was that a catch in his voice? "He was one of the good ones. We would have been here sooner but we only heard this morning."

Tom cleared his throat. "What's your co

Our father, Jack thought.

"He taught us computer programming back when we were in middle school." He checked with his companions. "About fourteen-fifteen years ago, am I right?"

They all nodded.

Jack tossed Tom a questioning look.

He shrugged. "News to me."

"We belonged to a Boys Club in Camden where he used to volunteer. He donated two PCs—used but still in great shape—and every Wednesday afternoon after school he'd be there to teach the rudiments of BASIC to anyone who was interested. We were interested."

The three others nodded. One of them said, "Word. Changed our lives."

Jack remembered Dad's fascination with the home computer, remembered the time he'd bought and assembled an Apple I—back in the antediluvian days when data was stored on cassette tapes.

Ty nodded. "He infected us with the bug. We joined the computer club in high school, took programming courses there and in CCC. Finally we decided we didn't need degrees to do what we wanted, so we dropped out and started our own Web design company."

Jack nodded toward the big, spotless SUV behind them.

"Looks like you're doing okay."

He gri

Ty's voice choked off. Jack heard Gia sob, and he wanted to say something but couldn't speak past the baseball-size lump in his throat.

Ty recovered first. He pointed up the hill toward the gravesite.

"We want to go up and pay our respects, but first…"

He reached into a pocket and came up with a small gold case. He handed business cards to Jack and Tom.

"Either of you ever need anything a computer can do—anything—you just give us a call."

All four again shook hands with Jack and Tom, then trooped up the slope.

Jack watched them, trying to get a handle on this stu

"Can you believe that?" Tom said.

"I'd like to. I want to."

"No, I mean dear old Dad, Mr. Conservative, charter subscriber to the Limbaugh Letter, doing something like that."

During his Florida trip, Jack had realized that his father's conservatism was neither political nor ideological.

"Dad was mostly a traditionalist. You know, this is the way we've always done it, so this is the way we should go on doing it. But he was never racist."

"Hey, he retired because of the company's affirmative action policy."

"Yeah. He told me about that. Called it 'profiling.'"

During Jack's last night in Florida he and his father had had a long, rambling, scotch-fueled talk about all sorts of things. Some of it touched on his career as an accountant.

"But that's only half the story. Do you know the hell he caught back in sixty-one for hiring a black guy for his department—the angry calls he got from his fellow employees, calling him a commie and a nigger lover?"

Tom shook his head, his expression confused, surprised. "No, I—"

"He told me he wanted to hire this particular guy because, of all the applicants, he was the best qualified. Dad didn't care what color he was, he wanted the best. So he hired him. The result? The fast track Dad had been on suddenly slowed. That hire cost him promotions and position. I won't say he didn't care, because I sensed he was still a little bitter about it. Then in the nineties things exploded when he was directed to hire a black guy over a white guy. Dad refused because this time the white guy was better qualified. He still wanted the best guy. Dad hadn't changed, but the world had. The former commie nigger-lover was now a right-wing racist bigot. He couldn't take it, and refused to be part of a system that put ability second, so he opted out."

Tom looked hurt, but his tone was angry. "How come he never told me any of this?"

Jack shrugged. He had no answer.

He put his arm around Gia's shoulders and they looked back at the four young men standing around his father's grave with bowed heads and folded hands.

Gia whispered, "I guess that's proof the good a man does isn't always interred with his bones."

Jack, not trusting himself to speak, could only nod.

2

When they reached the cars Tom signaled his wife to roll down the window of their Lexus.

"Terry, would you mind driving Gia and Vicky to the restaurant? You can follow us. Jack and I need to talk."

Gia looked at Jack. He shrugged and nodded. This was news to him.

He held the doors for them—Gia in the front, Vicky in the back—then led Tom to his Crown Vic.

"I've been trying to get you alone for two days now, Jack," he said as he slipped into the passenger seat.

"Yeah?"

"Need to talk to you about something."

"Like?"

"I need your help."

Jack did not know if he wanted to hear this. Hell, he was pretty damn sure he didn't.

"What kind of help?"

"I'm in trouble. I've screwed up my life, Jack. I mean I could give a course in screwing up a life."

"In what way?"

"Every way imaginable. First off, I am, for all intents and purposes, broke. The Skanks have been sucking me dry for years. And you've met Terry. See the way she dresses? She's never seen a pair of shoes she didn't love. Doesn't believe in sales, either. Only shops boutiques. Three wives… can you believe I've been married three times? The triumph of stupidity over experience. And whatever's left behind after they're through with me goes for legal expenses."

The last two words startled Jack.

"Legal expenses? But you're a lawyer… a judge."

"I'm a judge in trouble. Big trouble. The Philadelphia DA is after my ass, but he's got to wait in line, because the state attorney general and the feds, not to mention the state attorney ethics commission, all want a piece of me too. At the very best, I'm looking at disrobement, disbarment, huge fines. If I had some hope, any hope of getting off with only that, I'd be a much happier man. But it appears I won't be that lucky. Things aren't going my way. I'm looking at jail time, Jack."

Dumbfounded, Jack could only stare at his brother. Tom? In the joint?

Finally he found his voice. "Why?"

A harsh, forced laugh. "Why? I can look back now and say hubris and poor impulse control. But back when I was at the top of my game—what I thought was the top of my game—it was all just a big puppet show and I was one of the string pullers. As for what … you want a list? Got an hour? How about kickbacks and influence peddling? How about indictment for judicial malfeasance and conspiracy?"

"Jesus, Tom."

"I did some shady things when I was in private practice, but it was the stuff most attorneys do. Padding the billable hours was a biggie. Double, triple, even quadruple billing was another. If I had to visit clients, I'd try to set up two or three meetings in the same area on the same day. My clock started ru