“Where Rivers is?”

“Right, and about to be-or was about to be-moved up to the court of appeals,” Marty said, going for the ear. “It’s a good stepping-stone to the Supreme Court.”

“At the federal level,” Jake said.

“Justices like Holmes,” Marty said, nodding zealously. “Cardozo. Big guns who went through the New York Court of Appeals.”

“Is that where Rivers was headed?”

“Maybe. It’d be in striking distance if she sat on the court of appeals for a couple years.”

“And they get appointed by the president?”

“Well, technically,” Marty said. “But it’s really the party.”

“Using what standards?” Jake asked.

“The usual ones,” Marty said, dropping his tie.

“Judgment. Consistency. Respect.”

“Philosophies,” Marty said. “Affiliations. Contributions.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Jake said, snapping his fingers.

“Affiliations?” Marty said.

“Contributions,” Jake said, his voice rising. “It’s part of the game?”

“Well, always. Kind of.”

“Because the party likes that. Even from judges.”

“Sure.”

“So how do we find out?” Jake asked.

Marty leaned toward the window. Jake heard sirens racing past.

“I think that was Brad Pitt,” Marty said, his shoulders sagging.

“Marty, how do we find out?” Jake asked again.

Marty turned to the computer on his desk and tapped at the keyboard. “Board of Elections keeps it all. I think I can get it.”

“Are you shitting me?” Jake said, circling the desk and leaning over Marty’s shoulder.

“Like, here’s Judge Kollar,” Marty said. “Remember the Rotary lunch last week? See, this is his fund. Here’s the money that went in, $5,735.00. Look, I can go to here and see how they got to that number, who all the contributors are. There’s you and Ms. Jordan. Her check for one hundred dollars.”

“And he’s got $77,894 in all?” Jake asked, pointing.

“Right,” Marty said, his fingers dancing. “All these people, see? Legislators. DAs. Supreme Court judges. You don’t see-”

Marty stopped abruptly.

“What? You don’t see what?” Jake said, studying the screen.

“This,” Marty said, pointing. “Judge Rivers never closed her account.”

“What’s that mean? Is that illegal?”

“Not technically,” Marty said, his voice soft. “I’ve never seen it.”

“Songs from the eighties are, like, oldies to you, though, right?” Jake said.

“All politics are local,” Marty said. “When a judge gets a big appointment, he shuts down his campaign fund, he doesn’t need anyone. Same thing with, like, an administrative appointment, head of the DEC or the Thruway Authority or something. You shut it down because you don’t want people to say you were political.”

Jake restrained himself from asking what all that had to do with politics being local and instead focused on the meat of what Marty was saying. He nodded his head to go on.

Marty’s fingers played the keyboard and he clicked his tongue. “Very clever.”

“What is?”

“See this?” Marty said. “She never stopped raising money. Money coming in and, then, here’s the brilliant part of it, money going out.”

“Slush funds?” Jake asked, feeling the thrill surge through his veins.

“Not that.”

“So, what?”

“Campaign contributions. Look,” Marty said, running a long fingernail across the screen. “She’s hedging her bets. Raising money, I don’t know from whom. Probably special interests or trial lawyers or just legal junkies-”

“Legal junkies?”

“This is the cutting edge,” Marty said, his voice rich. “Jurisprudence is the flash point of democracy.”

“Okay,” Jake said slowly, but nodding in agreement.

“See? She’s making contributions to both party’s general funds. That’s how the big boys do it. Guys like Graham. They want to pump a million into Obama’s next campaign? Boom, they write a check to the party. No limits.”

“But the party knows what to do with it,” Jake said, “and when the time is right, she’s got friends in Washington.”

“Dear friends. Both sides.”

“Smart. Oh, this is beautiful,” Jake said. “People love full-figured corruption, and she looks good, too. Not hot, but… handsome, they’d call her. In Victorian times.”

“It’s pretty,” Marty said, running his fingernail down the column of numbers, some going in, others going out. “She gets donations from people who want to help her, and she fuels both parties so she’s got the inside track on an appointment down the road.”

“Why would she do this? Report it all?” Jake asked, still studying them, hungry for the names of the contributors, thinking of an entire investigative series and the tie-ins with the broader sentiment of public distrust.

“Who looks?” Marty asked.

“Us.”

“It’s not illegal,” Marty said. “Technically, it’s not even unethical. That’s why you report it. No one should ever find this, and if they did, they wouldn’t care.”

Jake felt his spirits sink. “No?”

“No, but it’s wrong. That’s the thing. She’s not going to jail for this. She could probably keep her job. The Commission on Judicial Conduct might make a ruling. They might issue a reprimand and tell her to stop, but they can’t do anything because she isn’t breaking any rules. If she didn’t report it and they found out, then she’d be screwed. I know that sounds crazy, but that’s the way these laws work.”

“Wow, great system,” Jake said, still absorbing the numbers, his eyes scrolling down to the bottom of the column, where he pointed. “What’s this?”

Marty squinted his eyes and leaned closer to the screen. “That’s a… that’s a contribution from a PAC that she… she… she gave it back.”

“Which is something people do?”

Marty furrowed his brow and looked up at Jake. “Which is something they never do. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless it’s from someone they don’t want to be associated with,” Marty said, “someone who could embarrass them and put their appointment in jeopardy.”

“What’s CJD, Citizens for a Just Democracy?” Jake asked, reading the PAC’s name.

Marty’s fingers went to work. The screen flashed and rebuilt itself as he changed Web pages. Jake saw an official banner that announced the New York State Registry of Political Action Committees. He watched as Marty moved the cursor across the page, clicking on a subsection, then the portal to CJD.

“This campaign finance shit is thick,” Jake said.

“Imagine without computers.”

“Is that all the information? No names? No people? All this leads to nowhere?” Jake asked. “Christ. Campaign finance reform is, like, number twenty on voters’ issues. This is nuts.”

Marty struck a final key with his index finger as if he were conducting a philharmonic. “It ain’t over till it’s over.”

Jake put a hand on Marty’s shoulder, feeling the protruding bones. On the screen was a list of names. A third of them bore the last name of Magaddino. Jake felt his stomach clench when he saw the name Massimo D’Costa. His head went light at the sight of GF Incorporated.

“What’s that?” Jake asked, stabbing his finger at the name of the corporate contributor and its five-thousand-dollar maximum contribution to the PAC.

Marty’s fingers did another dance. Together they waited while the screen went temporarily blank, then rebuilt itself with a dark blue background, Greek columns, pyramids, and the somber face of Robert Graham.

“Graham Funding Incorporated,” Marty said. “Oh, shit. Why did he give her money?”

“I’ve got a better question,” Jake said. “If she’s keeping it from everyone else, why did she give his back?”