DO NOT ASSUME 

 

The President taps Federal Judge Warren Alexander for a seat on the U.S. Supreme Court.  But when the Judge's wife is arrested for murdering a United States Senator, his nomination is quickly withdrawn.

 

Determined to exonerate his wife, Judge Alexander begins digging through the Senator’s life and discovers a mysterious link between the Senator and the rape and murder of a beautiful girl in a Maine resort town more than 40 years earlier.  Is the key to the Senator’s death buried with the girl? 

 

As the Judge begins narrowing in on suspects, unearthing disturbing secrets along the way, he is unprepared for the consequences.  The White House is watching him, waiting for the right moment, determined to do whatever it takes to keep the truth from coming out.

 

EXCERPT

 

I'm an old man now and desperate.  My wife's been through hell and the hallways of three mental institutions.  That's because our daughter, Linda, was brutally raped and murdered forty years ago.  You may think that's a long time ago.  It ain't.  I think about it every day.  Think about the boy who did it.  Now, he's old, like me.  But not too old to pay for his crime.  I need your help in bringing him to justice.

 

His parents spent their summers in our little town, had a fancy house, a big fieldstone mansion overlooking the shoreline.  They threw a fancy party up here.  It was August 25th.  That was the day my daughter died.  If you have children, you never forget their birthday or the day they leave this world.  August 25th.  That's when his parents had their end-of-the-season party for their other New Yorker friends.

 

They held the party on their yacht anchored at the end of their long green lawn.  Fireworks shot off the boat's bow, into the night sky.  The fireworks cracked like rifles and exploded into white and gold glitter before plunging into the ocean.  I stood and watched them from my store.  You could see it all over town.  It was a big display.  Some of my neighbors said they was showing off.  Most of the locals resented his family and their friends, called them summer folk, but the money they spent lasted the winter, and in Maine, winter is a bleak and bitter season.

 

I was an exception.  I liked his folks.  They would stop in my sandwich shop and call me by name.  And they were good to my daughter, Linda.  Gave her work at the house they called La Petite Maison.  That's French for little house.  Maybe for them it was.  Linda would clean their silver and run their errands, summer household help.  His parents thought she was a good worker, a nice girl.  I found out later that Linda and their son got into a little sex game.  It's hard for a parent to talk about, but I need to give you the whole picture here.  Linda was a little naughty.  I guess that's a teenager for you, trying to act sophisticated at sixteen.

 

The butler, Evan, talked to me after the family's team of lawyers sent him back to New York.  Evan felt bad about Linda, and even though he'd been with the family for years, he felt that I had the right to know about Linda's relationship with the boy.  Evan said that every night on Linda's way out the door, the boy would invite her to use their swimming pool.  I don't know, but Evan said she led him on.  Evan would see her bikini top floating in the pool when they thought no one else was around.  But when the boy grabbed at her, she would laugh and jump away.  Evan saw them, Linda for the last time, walking from the mansion toward the boy's red Alfa Romeo.

 

The boy took her down to the water, to a little beach by the marsh.  That's where we found her, in the tall grass.  To a kid it would be a romantic enough spot and the wind would carry the music and laughter from the boat they'd left.  For him, his parents' party was a bore.  He had better plans.  He wanted her and he took what he wanted.  Linda was as beautiful as any of his girlfriends in New York, but naive.  He was aware of his place in life, and hers.  He was Deerfield and the following year, Yale.  She was one of the locals, just someone to lay.

 

    -  LETTER FRAGMENT - HENRY CRUMP TO JUDGE WARREN ALEXANDER