He carried his glass of red wine down the polished granite stairs, holding on to the curved bannister made of the finest polished wood over an intricate filigree of silver. He took his time, enjoying every step. No one else had ever made that journey with him. This beautiful place of solace he’d created was his alone and he never hurried. He didn’t ever take a cell phone, nor did he have a landline in the room. He wanted no interruptions when he sat and listened to his opera and looked at his beloved paintings.
He pulled open the door to the room, a door that had once graced Teatro alla Scala in Milan. He had traveled to Milan on numerous occasions to sit in the world-famous opera house to listen to the best of the best perform. This room not only was temperature controlled for his artwork, but the acoustics were perfect for his operas.
He continued the slow, steady pace to his wide, comfortable chair that faced his most precious paintings but allowed him to tip his head back and look up at the ceilings, where more of his collection was displayed. He could close his eyes to savor the glory of the music, or simply study the beautiful lines and strokes of the visions on canvas.
Calloway filled the room with the extraordinary Italian voices rising in songs of hope and joy, of sorrow and compassion. The beauty made him want to weep. After the ugliness of listening to what humans did to one another day after day in his courtroom, the extraordinary beauty of the gifts these singers and musicians had, what the composers and visionaries had given to the world, never failed to move him. Coupled with the masterpieces surrounding him, the opera transcended him, taking him from the muck and mire he’d been in for so long.
“Hello, Judge Calloway.”
Although the voice was very soft and musical, it jarred him out of the world he was used to floating in. He knew that voice. It haunted his nights. He turned his head slowly, reluctantly, uncertain if he was hearing things or hallucinating. She sat in the chair that had always been empty beside him, looking every inch a queen with her vibrant red hair and her vivid green, all-too-intelligent eyes.
“Scarlet.”
“This music is incredible.”
“It’s my favorite.”
“I can understand why. I learned Italian very early, and just hearing the way they sing the words makes me want to weep.”
“Me too,” he agreed. Of course she would know Italian. She was brilliant. He’d known that just looking at her those days in court. Hearing her speak. Looking at her records. She was a teen, but she hadn’t been shaken by the prosecuting attorney or even her own double-crossing attorney. Not the testifying doctor or the friends who had deserted her.
It should have been Robert Jr. who had gone to prison, not this intelligent girl. She looked around the room with appreciation. Holden’s boy would never have appreciated the masterpieces there, let alone the opera.
“Which one of these paintings did you purchase with my incarceration?”
She asked the question so mildly that he didn’t even bristle. Her tone was just curious. Almost admiring. She looked at him from under the veil of her long lashes and then transferred her attention to the many paintings he had up on his walls and ceilings.
“The Picasso. Who gets the chance to get a masterpiece such as that one?”
She studied the painting. “Le pigeon aux petits pois. Amazing. This was stolen in 2010? Correct? I have to agree, it would be difficult to resist. A private collector offered it?”
He nodded. “Yes, but still, Robert Jr. was a worm of the lowest intellect. I knew after I acquired this painting that I had to curb my addiction. I’d gone too far. I let it get out of hand.”
She sighed. “Yes, Judge, I’m afraid you did, and it cost me my entire family. You may as well have participated in the rape and murder of my sister and my parents right along with Robert, Beau and Arnold. They gang-raped a young teen. She was a virgin. Did you know that? She was like a little fairy princess. I loved her more than life.”
She fell silent for a moment and continued to look at the masterpiece painted in 1911 by Pablo Picasso and taken from the world by a single thief in 2010.
“I had nothing to do with that, Scarlet. I just took the money. It was wrong, but it was only the money.”
She sent him a little half smile. “You know better. You’re no better than Robert and his friends. His father got him off over and over, allowing him to continue to do worse and worse things to women, and all of you saw it happening but were too greedy to stop him. That makes you accessories. You know that law. I know the law. I had thought to burn the painting as part of your punishment.”