THE LAST ALIBI

A Favor Returned

The car hummed down the back road. Dean's knuckles were white on the wheel. Cole's mother slept in the back seat, her breath shallow and slow.

Cole opened the red metal box. His hands left mud prints on the lid. Inside: stacks of paper. Photographs. A digital recorder. He picked up a document. Legal paper. Letterhead from the 7th Judicial District.

“What is that?” Dean asked, eyes on the road.

“A list. Names. Dates. Payments.” Cole scanned the page. “Judge Arlene Prescott. Twenty thousand dollars. Date matches the dismissal of a federal corruption case against one of my father's business partners.”

Dean's head turned. “Prescott? That's the judge from your arraignment.”

“The same.” Cole pulled out another paper. “Judge Prescott isn't the only one. There are seven names here. All local judges. All on my father's payroll.”

“That's how he's stayed free. He bought the bench.”

Cole kept digging. Photographs. A man in judicial robes shaking hands with Charles Mathers. The same man at a hunting lodge. The same man accepting an envelope.

“This is enough to get them disbarred. Disgraced. Prison.” Cole looked at Dean. “But it's also leverage. We find one judge who doesn't want to go down with the others. Someone with something to lose.”

Dean was quiet for a long moment. “Judge Prescott has a son. He's a lawyer. Works for a firm that represents Aegis. If she's exposed, he loses everything.”

“Then we start with her.”

“She's the one hearing Velez's motion in two hours. She's already in her chambers.”

Cole looked at his watch. 9:47 AM. The hearing was at 11:00.

“Get me into the courthouse.”

“You're a fugitive. They'll recognize you.”

“Not if I don't look like me.”

Dean glanced at Cole's mud-covered jumpsuit, his bloody bandage, his bruised face. “You look like a homeless man who lost a fight with a dumpster.”

“Exactly. No one looks twice at the homeless.”

Dean shook his head. But he turned the car toward the city.

They parked in a garage three blocks from the courthouse. Dean opened the trunk. He pulled out a worn overcoat, a knit cap, and a pair of sunglasses.

“These belonged to my father. He was a smoker. It smells like cigarettes.”

Cole put on the coat. It was too big. The cap covered his hair. The sunglasses hid his eyes. He looked in the side mirror. A stranger stared back.

“Your mother stays in the car,” Dean said. “I'll find a safe place for her. There's a church two blocks over. The priest owes me a favor.”

“Everyone owes you a favor.”

“That's how the game works.”

Dean helped Cole's mother out of the back seat. She was barely conscious. Her legs wouldn't hold her. Dean carried her across the street toward the church.

Cole watched until they disappeared through the heavy wooden doors.

Then he walked toward the courthouse.

The metal detector at the entrance beeped. Cole had left the gun with Dean. He had nothing metal except the brass key and the digital recorder from the box. He put them in the plastic tray.

“Name?” the security guard asked.

“David Kim,” Cole said. His public defender's name. He had memorized the ID number from the business card Kim had given him.

The guard looked at the screen. “Purpose?”

“Meeting with a client. Case number 24-CR-1782.”

The guard nodded. Cole picked up his items. Walked through.

The courthouse hallway was busy. Lawyers in suits. Defendants in jumpsuits. Families crying. Cole kept his head down. The overcoat was hot. Sweat dripped down his back.

Judge Prescott's chambers were on the third floor. Cole took the stairs. Each step sent pain through his ankle.

The hallway on the third floor was quiet. Wood-paneled walls. Heavy doors. At the end, a door with a brass nameplate: Hon. Arlene Prescott.

A secretary sat at a desk outside. She looked up when Cole approached.

“Can I help you?”

“I'm here to see Judge Prescott. I have information about the Mathers case.”

The secretary frowned. “Her Honor is preparing for a hearing. She's not accepting visitors.”

“Tell her it's about Charles Mathers. The father. Not the son.”

The secretary hesitated. Then she picked up the phone. Pressed a button. Spoke quietly.

A moment later, the inner door opened.

Judge Prescott stood in the doorway. Gray hair. Cold eyes. The same woman who had denied Cole bail.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Cole pulled off the sunglasses. Pulled down the cap.

Her eyes widened.

“Mr. Mathers. You're under arrest.”

“I'm here to offer you a deal.” Cole stepped closer. The secretary stood up, reaching for the phone. “Don't. Hear me out first.”

Judge Prescott held up her hand. The secretary stopped.

“You have two minutes.”

Cole reached into his pocket. He pulled out the photograph of Prescott accepting the envelope from Charles Mathers.

He held it up.

“This was taken three years ago. At your son's hunting lodge. The man handing you the envelope is my father. The envelope contained twenty thousand dollars. In exchange, you dismissed a case against his business partner.”

The judge's face went pale. But her voice stayed steady.

“That's a fake.”

“It's not. And I have seven more just like it. Different judges. Different amounts. Same my father.” Cole put the photo back in his pocket. “In two hours, you're supposed to sign an order declaring my mother mentally incompetent. If you sign it, I release these photos to every news outlet in the country. You go to prison. Your son loses his law license. Your legacy becomes a punchline.”

“And if I don't sign?”

“Then you delay the hearing. You give me twenty-four hours to find a federal prosecutor who isn't on my father's payroll. And when this is over, your name stays out of the files.”

The judge stared at him. Her hands were shaking. Just a little.

“You're threatening a sitting judge.”

“I'm offering you a way out. Take it. Or don't. But know that I have nothing left to lose. My wife is dead. My mother was poisoned. My father is a monster. I will burn this entire courthouse to the ground if that's what it takes.”

A long silence.

Judge Prescott looked at the secretary. “Leave us.”

The secretary stood. Walked out. Closed the door.

Now it was just Cole and the judge.

“Sit down, Mr. Mathers.”

He sat. The chair was leather. Expensive.

Judge Prescott sat behind her desk. She folded her hands.

“Your father approached me three years ago. He said he needed a favor. I was in debt. My son had gambling problems. I took the money.”

“How many other favors have you done for him?”

“Enough.” Her voice was quiet. “Dismissals. Reduced sentences. Favorable rulings. He kept a ledger. I knew he would use it against me someday.”

“Today is that day.”

“So it seems.” She looked at Cole. “What do you really want? Not just a delay. You want something bigger.”

“I want my father in prison. I want the people who killed Lauren brought to justice. And I want my name cleared.”

“That's three things.”

“They're the same thing.”

Judge Prescott was quiet for a long moment. Then she nodded.

“I'll delay the hearing. Twenty-four hours. I'll tell Velez there's a procedural issue with the motion. That will buy you time.”

“And after that?”

“After that, you either have evidence that sends your father to prison, or you don't. If you don't, I sign the order. Your mother goes back to The Pines. And you go back to your cell.”

Cole stood up. “Fair enough.”

“Mr. Mathers.” The judge's voice stopped him at the door. “Your father killed people. Not just your wife. I've heard things. Rumors. Men who crossed him disappeared. Witnesses recanted. Juries were bought.”

“And you looked the other way.”

“I looked the other way because I was afraid. But I'm also tired. Tired of being afraid.” She opened a drawer. Pulled out a business card. “This is a federal prosecutor. Her name is Dana Richter. She's been trying to build a case against your father for years. She's honest. She's not bought. Go to her.”

Cole took the card. “Why should I trust her?”

“Because she's the one who prosecuted my son. She didn't take a bribe. She didn't cut a deal. She put him in prison for two years.” The judge's eyes were wet. “She's the only honest person in this city.”

Cole put the card in his pocket. “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me. Just make sure your father pays.”

Cole left the chambers. The hallway was empty. He walked to the stairs. Descended. The security guard at the metal detector didn't look up.

Outside, the rain had started again. Cold. Hard.

Cole walked to the church. Dean was waiting on the steps.

“Well?”

“She delayed the hearing. Twenty-four hours.”

Dean's eyebrows rose. “You threatened a federal judge and lived?”

“I gave her a way out. She took it.” Cole pulled out the business card. “She also gave me this. A federal prosecutor. Dana Richter. She's clean.”

Dean took the card. Read the name. His face changed.

“Richter. I know her. She tried to take down a human trafficking ring last year. Half the police department tried to stop her. She kept going. She's dangerous.”

“Good. I need dangerous.”

“You need alive. Richter will want you to surrender. Turn over the evidence. Let the system work.”

“The system is broken. My father bought the system.”

“Then Richter is the one person who can fix it.” Dean handed back the card. “You have twenty-four hours. What's the plan?”

Cole looked at the sky. Gray. Endless.

“I need to get my mother to a doctor. A real doctor. Someone who can examine her and testify that she was poisoned.”

“There's a doctor in the south side. Dane. He's retired. But he's honest.”

“Dane? The retired homicide detective?”

“Same person. He became a doctor after he left the force. Medical school in his forties. He's eccentric. But he's good.”

“Where do I find him?”

Dean pulled out his phone. Typed. Showed Cole an address.

“He lives above a funeral home. Fitting, right?”

Cole memorized the address. “Take me there.”

They walked back to the car. Cole's mother was still in the back seat. Still asleep. Still breathing.

Dean drove. The south side was different from the courthouse district. Poorer. Darker. Graffiti on every wall.

The funeral home was a brick building with a faded sign: Eternal Rest Funeral Services. Dean parked in the alley.

“I'll wait here,” he said. “Take your mother. Dane will help.”

Cole lifted his mother from the back seat. She was lighter than before. He carried her to the side door. Knocked.

A man opened the door. Late fifties. Gray beard. Kind eyes. He wore a black sweater and jeans.

“Cole Mathers,” the man said. “Dean called. Bring her in.”

Cole stepped inside. The room was an apartment. Books everywhere. Medical equipment in the corner. A exam table.

“Put her on the table,” Dane said.

Cole laid his mother down. She stirred. Opened her eyes.

“Where am I?”

“Safe,” Cole said. “This is a doctor. He's going to help you.”

Dane washed his hands. He put on gloves. He examined her gently. Checked her pupils. Her pulse. Her reflexes.

“Muscle atrophy. Nerve damage. Chronic sedation.” He looked at Cole. “She's been poisoned for years. Barbiturates. Benzodiazepines. High doses.”

“Can she testify?”

“She can testify. But a good lawyer will tear her apart. She's weak. Her memory is spotty. She'll need medical records to back up her claims.”

“The records are in the box.”

“Then you have a chance.” Dane stepped back. “But you need more than a chance. You need a miracle.”

Cole looked at his mother. Her eyes were closed again.

“I'll take a miracle.”

Dane walked to a cabinet. Pulled out a vial. A syringe.

“This will help her stay awake. Stay focused. It's not a cure. But it will get her through a deposition or a court hearing.”

He injected the liquid into Cole's mother's arm. She didn't flinch.

“She'll be lucid for about six hours. Use the time wisely.”

Cole looked at his watch. 10:45 AM. Twenty-four hours until the hearing.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Don't thank me. Just make sure your father pays for what he did.” Dane looked at Cole's shoulder. “You're bleeding. Let me see that.”

Cole sat down. Dane cut away the bandage. Cleaned the wound. Stitched it. The needle tugged. Cole didn't flinch.

“You should be in a hospital,” Dane said.

“I should be in a lot of places.”

Dane finished. Bandaged the wound again.

“There. Now go. And don't come back here. My neighbors talk.”

Cole lifted his mother. Carried her to the car. Laid her in the back seat.

Dean was on the phone. He hung up when Cole got in.

“That was Richter's office. She'll see you. At her home. Tonight. 8 PM.”

“Her home?”

“She doesn't trust her office. There are bugs.”

Cole looked at his mother. She was awake now. Her eyes were clear.

“Mom. Tonight, we meet a federal prosecutor. She's going to ask you questions. About Dad. About what he did. Can you answer?”

“I've been waiting eight years to answer,” she said. Her voice was stronger now.

Dean started the car.

“Where to?” he asked.

Cole looked out the window. The rain was letting up.

“Somewhere safe. Somewhere my father can't find us.”

Dean nodded. He drove toward the highway.

Behind them, the city faded.

Ahead, the truth waited.

And somewhere in the shadows, Charles Mathers was watching.

Waiting for his son to make a mistake.