Runner-up 4

Judge Laurence Greene rolled out of the federal courthouse underground parking lot in his majestic-black Mercedes CLS550, which he could no longer afford, and headed to Dodger Stadium without the slightest idea of what he was going to do.

Greene was driven by fear and anger. Fear of losing everything. Anger at Bonner for getting him into this mess, at Palmieri for rigging the deck, at his wife for talking him into that remodel, and anger at himself for being such an idiot.

This was not a good time to have a gun in the glove box.

Greene had always been a fair jurist on the bench. Now, he thought to himself, there was no justice for him. He knew there would be no reasoning with Palmieri. But his one ace in the hole was that Palmieri stood to gain nothing from exposing his little indiscretion. Palmieri needed a sitting judge.

The problem was going to be this Carmen, whoever she was. And that damn Lopez. He locks on to a story like a pit bull on a baby duck. Greene considered calling in a favor from Russ Stanton over at The Times and having him pull Lopez off the story.

He decided that Stanton probably wouldn’t do it anyway, and it would just pique their interest. Greene would need a better plan.

As Ernesto and his new best friend Charlie Bonner rolled into the stadium parking lot, Bonner was falling apart. “There’s no way I can pull this off. Palmieri’s gonna smell a rat.”

“First of all, you are a rat. But now you’re my rat,” Ernesto reminded him. “Look, just stick to the script and you’ll be all right. Ask him if he thinks the Marenco cartel will pay more for the flash drive. Any answer that verifies they’re behind the extortion will nail ‘em.”

“What happens if Carmen shows up?” Charlie whined.

“Assuming she’s not dead already, we’ll stop her at the gate. Oh crap, that reminds me, Lopez is on the way too.”

Steve Lopez was hurrying to Dodger Stadium, for once glad that Dodger fans typically arrived late. He’d still beat most of the crowd. His cell buzzed.

“Mr. Lopez, this is Marilee . . . at The Times. I’ve got an Agent Ernesto Valadez on the line, who says he’s with DEA. Should I patch him through?”

“Go ahead.”

“Mr. Lopez, this is Ernesto Valadez -- “

“With DEA. Yes, I know. Could this wait?”

“Not if you’re on your way to meet Carmen Ventura and Vincent Palmieri at the Stadium Club.”

Lopez thought to himself, this is getting better by the minute. “What does DEA have to do with this?”

“Well, I can’t exactly tell you right now. But if you don’t want to end up on the front page of your own paper, you should probably stay on the sidelines.”

Lopez would have preferred a baseball metaphor like “stay in the dugout” or “remain in the bullpen.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Now Lopez was torn between the reporter’s commandment, “Thou shalt not become part of the story,” and the lure of “If it bleeds it leads.” He punched the call off and, allowing his weakness for Dodger dogs to be the tie-breaker, continued on.

Palmieri was looking out onto the field from the glassed-in Stadium Club, listening to the crack of the bats as the Dodgers finished their batting practice. The Jumbotron was flashing stats for the starting lineups as he turned back to see if Carmen had arrived.

Nick Boone, a retired FBI agent, is a screenwriter who tutors math in an after-school program and a square dancer at the challenge level.