Jack couldn't be blamed for overthinking things. The FBI was no longer the monolithic institution it had been during the Hoover era. Instead, it was riddled with internal factions, each representing different interests.
For instance, the Bureau's Office of General Counsel was rumored to house a secret group opposed to the current president. Their actions had caused major controversy during the last election, ultimately leading to a deputy director being fired just 26 hours before his planned retirement—stripping him of his pension, benefits, and privileges accumulated over his career.
It wasn't just Jack who was cautious. Even Jubal, after making several phone calls, remained uneasy. The reason the higher-ups tolerated the Fugitive Task Force's aggressive methods was twofold: one, their direct supervisor in New York protected them; two, their aggressiveness was exclusively aimed at violent criminals.
A sharp blade was only useful as long as it cut outward. The moment it nicked its wielder—regardless of whose fault it was—it would be deemed dangerous and discarded.
"No matter what, let's figure out why this judge did what he did," Jubal finally decided.
An hour later, on the second floor of the courthouse, in Judge Howard Roark's office, JJ knocked on the door before stepping inside.
Jack and Jubal were sitting across from each other at the judge's desk, staring at a pile of documents with unimpressed expressions.
"The sheriff couldn't reach Howard Roark. The state police have issued a statewide APB for his Chevy Tahoe. Have you found anything useful in his records?"
"Nothing. As far as judges go, Roark's career is ordinary—borderline unimpressive," Jubal sighed.
"He was born in Forrest City, graduated from Georgetown Law in '96, then worked at the Baltimore District Attorney's Office for over a decade. In 2010, he returned to Forrest and became a judge.
He spent a few years in civil court before running against another judge for a criminal court seat. He won and has been serving as a criminal court judge ever since."
Georgetown Law wasn't exactly second-rate. While it wasn't Stanford or Yale, its prime location in downtown Washington, D.C.—just a stone's throw from the Supreme Court and Capitol Hill—made it highly influential.
For a Georgetown graduate to still be a local judge at nearly 60? That was underwhelming.
Jack smirked. "Seems like his midlife crisis hit really late. He spent decades as a 'respected' judge, then suddenly decided to become a serial killer."
"So, he killed all the prosecutors who had ever brought cases to his court. But why?" Hanna asked, stepping away from the window. Roark's office had a direct view of the courthouse lawn and sculpture garden below.
"I think I found our answer."
Alice, who had been quietly working on her laptop from the sofa, finally spoke up.
"You previously suspected that Katherine Sloan was the primary target, right?"
"Yeah. But what kind of conflict could a rookie prosecutor have with a criminal court judge?" Aubrey appeared beside Alice in an instant, while the rest of the team gathered behind her, looking at her laptop screen.
Alice clicked on a video and started explaining.
"Six months ago, Katherine Sloan prosecuted a case in Roark's courtroom. The defendant was accused of two counts of sexual assault."
"She won, didn't she?" Jack recalled Katherine's father saying that she had never lost a case.
"She did. But sentencing wasn't up to her. Sloan pushed for a minimum ten-year sentence. Roark gave the guy two years. Then this happened…"
Alice hit play. The video was a news clip. The headline was impossible to miss:
Assistant Prosecutor Questions Judge's Sentencing
In the footage, Katherine Sloan stood before a cluster of microphones, visibly emotional.
"Judge Roark's absurd sentencing is an understatement. In our conservative Southern state, sexual assault victims already endure enough trauma just by coming forward. They should not have to suffer the added indignity of being dismissed by a judge—"
Jubal let out a low whistle. "Ambitious and passionate. In her first year on the job, she was already using a criminal court judge as a stepping stone."
"But that can't be all of it," he continued. "If judges started killing every young prosecutor who criticized them, we'd be drowning in cases."
Jack nodded. "This happened six months ago. We need to find what pushed him over the edge.
How about we pay a visit to his wife? If anyone knows Howard Roark best, it's her."
If Arkansas had any place more famous than Little Rock, it was Hot Springs.
Commercialized as a tourist destination since the 19th century, the town boasted the smallest national park in the U.S.—just 22 square kilometers, completely surrounded by the town itself.
Its streets were lined with opulent bathhouses modeled after Europe's finest thermal spas.
At the heart of the park stood a small extinct volcano, Hot Springs Mountain. Water from the peak—heated to a scorching 62 degrees Celsius—was channeled into the bathhouses via underground pipes.
Jack and JJ hadn't found Roark's wife at his Forrest City home. After some inquiries, they learned that **his real home—his marital home—**was here, over 200 kilometers away in Hot Springs.
After a three-hour drive down Interstate 40, they finally arrived at a luxurious estate in the town's residential area.
The woman who greeted them—Mrs. Roark—looked both composed and exhausted.
"Just call me Cynthia," she said as she led them through the house.
Bad news traveled faster than car wheels.
Unlike many high-profile spouses who reacted defensively when the FBI showed up, Cynthia Roark was remarkably accommodating. She guided them into the backyard, where an outdoor seating area had already been prepared with tea and pastries.
A county judge's salary could never afford a place like this.
One look at Cynthia's slender, well-maintained figure—despite being well past fifty—told Jack everything he needed to know.
Roark had married up.
"I don't want anything to do with that man anymore," Cynthia said, her voice controlled but firm.
"My lawyer is handling everything."
(End of Chapter)
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