Ascension Day

11

The first time that Adelay Roche called, Clive Beaton got his secretary to lie and say that he was tied up until late morning, so that he could prepare himself before returning the call.

There were so many worrying no-go paths the conversation could take that he began to doubt the wisdom of talking to Roche at all — but his mounting curiosity finally won the day.

Roche quickly sought to quell Beaton’s worries.

‘I know you’re probably thinking that we shouldn’t be speaking, given the delicacy of things at this juncture. But, you know, we’ve been skirting around each other for eleven years for the very same reason — and now that everything is finally drawing to a close, I felt I should make contact.’ Roche drew a fresh breath. ‘In particular because what I’m calling about has nothing to do with the Durrant case.’

Beaton felt a weight ease from his chest as Roche explained how he’d been watching for the past couple of years the activities of one of the firm’s associates, Ralph Miers, an expert in tax law.

‘Seems to me he’s one of the few guys in the State to also wear a strong hat on environmental issues. I saw what he did for Gulf-West petroleum, and, let me tell you — I was impressed.’

Beaton was happy just listening — it meant that he didn’t have to defend any of the no-go conversation areas he’d run through — as Roche went on to explain that Miers looked like just the man he needed.

‘I’ve been stalling on changes to my refinery at Houma for nigh on four years now — but if I can please the greens and environmentalists and at the same time get the right tax breaks for making the plant environmentally friendly, I’m all for it.’ Roche chuckled, which quickly became a heavy wheeze. ‘That is, assuming I’m correct in my judgement that your man Miers is right for the job and can get the government to pay indirectly for every penny of those changes, and hopefully more.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ Beaton said with a spark of conviction to hopefully lift it beyond stock response, as his thoughts automatically turned to the potential value of such an account.

‘So I thought I should touch base now that the curtain is about to finally come down on the Durrant episode.’

‘And I’m glad you did. I really appreciate it.’ Beaton measured his words carefully: warmth and sincerity to hopefully lure Roche into the fold, but due deference and legal correctness for the firm’s current client, Durrant. ‘But it would probably be incorrect of us — perhaps even tempting fate — to second guess just what Governor Candaret might do with Durrant’s plea for clemency.’

Roche chuckled again. ‘I might have agreed with you — if it wasn’t for the stunt that Durrant just pulled with his attempted prison break.’

‘His wha-?’ Beaton stopped himself sharply. Stock reaction had for a second overridden one of the prime legal commandments: never give away that you don’t know everything about your client.

‘You mean you didn’t know?’ Roche pressed.

‘Of course I knew.’ Beaton recovered quickly, beating back the resurging tide of his nerves and apprehension: he should have realized that Roche wouldn’t have called without a sting in the tail. ‘It’s just that I was caught off guard as to how you knew. Especially since we’re still in the midst of how to handle the situation.’

‘I see.’ Roche had to admit, Beaton was good, his thirty-five years of keen-edged law practice shining through. But the split-second falter had been enough to tell Roche that Beaton hadn’t known. For whatever reason, his rookie lawyer had decided to keep Durrant’s attempted break-out under wraps. He could all but feel the seething anger in Beaton’s undertone: he couldn’t wait to get off the line and get his hands around McElroy’s neck. ‘Well, let’s speak again when you feel the dust has settled enough on the Durrant case for it to be right for us to do so.’

Jac had just returned with a cup of water from the water-cooler when he saw the fresh e-mail on his computer. And as he clicked and saw who it was from, durransave4@hotmail, he jolted sharply, almost spilling it. After six days with no reply, he’d all but given up on another e-mail from his mystery sender.

His hands shook on the keyboard as he opened it.

Sent at 11.16:22. One minute, forty seconds ago. Would they still be sitting there to do something else, or have left immediately?

Jac clicked on the track-back software, its screen overlapping the e-mail so that he couldn’t read it. Jac’s fingers tapped anxiously on his desk as it traced and started displaying. Then he double-clicked IT-number find, and forty seconds later it popped up on screen:

Internet-ional on Peniston Street. An internet cafe. He or she was moving around.

Jac’s heart was beating double-time, his finger tapping almost in time with it as he called 411 and waited to get routed through.

Please still be there… please…

Jac became aware of Langfranc looking at him through his office glass-screen, Langfranc’s expression weighted with concern as he spoke on his own phone. Jac yanked his attention back as a girl answered.

‘Internet-ional. May I help you?’

Jac introduced himself and explained what he wanted. ‘Computer number fourteen. Message sent just over three minutes ago. Are they still there?’ Jac held his breath in anticipation.

‘I’m not sure. One minute…’ Her voice trailed off and Jac heard her speaking with a colleague.

Jac looked again towards Langfranc, but this time Langfranc looked slightly away as Jac met his eye, as if he felt suddenly awkward or embarrassed. Jac closed the track-back screen so that he could see all of the e-mail.

The girl’s voice returned: ‘Yeah… computer number fourteen. Looks like he’s still there.’

Jac leapt up. ‘Okay… okay!’ He hooked his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘I’m heading down to you right now! Should be with you in no more than ten or twelve.’

The e-mail was now displaying, random phrases leaping out at him… I’d have incriminated myself… know what I saw… Larry Durrant didn’t kill Jessica Roche…

Langfranc, seeing Jac about to leave in a rush, suddenly seemed equally panicked, ending his call abruptly and swinging his door open as Jac was only two paces away from his desk.

‘Jac. Jac! That was Beaton just then — going on about something you’ve held back from him about the Durrant case. He wants to see you in his office right now.’

‘I can’t… I can’t deal with this now.’ Jac took a step further away, eyes shifting frantically. ‘Something’s broken on the Durrant case that just won’t wait. I’ve got to sort it out now!’

‘Beaton sounded pissed as hell — you’re taking your life in your hands fobbing him off like this, Jac.’ Langfranc’s face flushed as he forced a tight-lipped grimace. ‘But, okay, it’s your neck. How long?’

‘Thirty, forty minutes. Hour tops.’ Jac took another couple of steps away, all that filled his mind at that second an image of Durrant’s mystery e-mailer leaving his internet cafe computer.

‘Okay, I’ll tell him. But your story had better be good when you get back, Jac — otherwise it’s probably kiss-your-ass-goodbye-time here. I’ve hardly ever heard Beaton that angry.’

Jac’s stomach dipped at the possibility. He returned Langfranc’s grimace and held one hand up, thanks, hold my job for me till I get back, if you can, and sprinted out, a silent prayer on his breath that he’d make it in time.

Jac ran to the corner of Thalia and Chestnut Street so that he had the benefit of cabs from both directions, and hailed one in less than a minute.

He said that he was late for a meeting, and the driver, seeing in his mirror the anxiety on Jac’s face and the sweat on his brow, put his foot down. ‘Might be able shave off a minute or so, if we’re lucky.’

The air-rush through the half-open taxi window buffeted Jac’s face as they picked up speed along Magazine Street, older two-storey antebellum buildings with quaint railed-terraces giving way to taller, newer, flat-fronted shops and offices; the transition from old to new as New Orleans became less Colonial-French and more like any other American city.

‘Internet-ional on Peniston, you say?’ The taxi driver confirmed over one shoulder.

‘Yeah.’ Though as he said it, Jac was suddenly hit with something he should have covered while he’d been on the phone to them before.

Jac took out his cell-phone and punched in Internet-ional’s number. But as he pressed to dial, another voice was suddenly there, crashing in. His heart leapt for a second, fearful that it was Beaton deciding to give him a roasting over the phone, or fire him — but it was Morvaun Jaspar, the forger he’d got cleared a couple of months back.

‘Jac! Got a problem. Big problem!’

‘I can’t do this now, Morvaun. I’ve got someone I’ve got to call right now. Urgently!’

‘This too, Jac. This too! The local blues have just pulled me in, and it’s bullshit… absolute bullshit. They’re tryin’ to nail me for everyone they find with a forged document — or looks like one. And no doubt all ‘cause we pulled the rug out from ‘em last time. It’s a complete sham shake-down, and I ain’t about to — ’

‘Morvaun — I can’t handle this now!’ Jac could imagine his mystery e-mailer getting up from his seat and leaving as they spoke; and if he didn’t get back to the people at Internet-ional before that happened, he might not even get a description. ‘I really have got someone I’ve got to call. Right now! Let’s talk again later.’

‘I can’t call back later, Jac. This is my one allowed call. You gotta get down here — otherwise I’m here for the duration.’

‘Okay… okay. Where are you now?’

‘Fifth District station-house.’

‘I’ll get there as soon as I can. About — ’ Jac cradled his forehead as he remembered that he was meant to be back, sharp, to see Beaton. But he couldn’t just leave Morvaun hanging for what might be almost two hours. He’d have to get Langfranc to tell Beaton that his out-of-office meeting got more involved, was going to take longer. Jac sighed heavily. ‘About forty minutes or so.’

‘Your office is only fifteen minutes from here, Jac, can’t you — ’

‘I’m halfway across town right now, Morvaun — trying to sort something else out. But I promise I’ll get there as soon as. Hold on!’

‘Yeah, okay… hear you loud ‘n clear Jac. Not much else f’me to do.’

Instantly Morvaun rang off, Jac re-dialled Internet-ional.

‘Jac McElroy again. I called a couple of minutes back. Is he still there — computer number fourteen?’ Jac’s breath froze in his throat in the two-second wait for the girl to look and answer.

‘Yeah. I can still see him.’

‘Okay… okay.’ Jac exhaled heavily. ‘Can you try and get a good look at him?’

‘I… I can’t see him that well from here. He’s turned away from me, looking at his computer.’

‘Right. What’s your name, by the way?’ Personalize to get closer, Jac thought.

‘Uuuh… Tracy.’ Hesitant, as if worried what he might do with the information.

‘Okay, Tracy, I don’t know how easy it is because I’m not there — but if you could shift more to a side-view… without, that is, being too obvious, making him suspicious. Just in case he leaves before I get down there myself to see him.’ Jac looked up as they crossed Washington Avenue. Only a dozen or so blocks now to Peniston: four or five minutes at most. Hold on. Hold on.

‘Oh… okay.’ But Tracy still sounded uncertain.

‘And if he does start to leave before I get there — maybe try and hold him up a bit, if you can. Keep him there.’

Only the sound of Tracy’s breath falling for a second. ‘That might be more difficult.’

‘I know. I know. But maybe tell him that there’s a free coffee today for customers… I’ll cover for it when I get there.’

‘I… I suppose I could… oh… oh…’

Hearing her sudden intake of breath, Jac asked sharply, ‘What is it?’

‘He… he’s looking round, starting to get up.’

Jac felt his stomach tighten; but then he’d suspected all along that he wouldn’t hang around long. His voice lowered, a conspiratorial hush. ‘Okay, Tracy… try what I suggested.’

‘I’ll try. I’ll do my…’ Jac could hear her breath falling shorter, sharper as she broke off for a second. Then, a faint tremor in her undertone — or perhaps it was just Jac picking up on it because he knew she was nervous: ‘Sir… there’s a free coffee for customers today I forgot to tell you about earlier.’

Aline Street flashed by. Only four blocks to go now.

At Internet-ional, the man, African-American, late-thirties, in a maroon Hilfiger jacket, paused for a second, looked tempted. But some noise from the street outside reached him then, strains of a brass band playing a block or so away, and he glanced distractedly over his shoulder for a second. And as he turned back, Tracy saw something shift in his eyes, flicking between her and the phone. Picked up a bad vibe, or just acknowledgment that he was interrupting her?

‘Thanks for the offer.’ He pushed a terse smile. ‘But I gotta rush. Someone to see.’

Tracy watched helplessly as he scurried out; though maybe, like he said, he was in a rush. She let out a long sigh as she brought the receiver back.

‘I’m sorry… tried my best. But he’s gone.’

‘I know. I know.’ Jac had heard it all his end, closing his eyes as the sinking in his stomach spread, made every part of him feel empty, cruelly cheated. Though as he opened them again and saw the next cross street flash by, a spark of hope resurged. ‘But you got a good look at him?’

‘Yeah, sure did.’ Tracy’s tone brightened; one thing to have gone right.

Only two blocks away now, if Jac got a good description maybe he’d still be able to pick him out as they turned into the street — but at that moment the taxi slowed, then braked sharply. Jac looked ahead: four cars backed up at the next intersection as a procession of sixty or seventy people, some with banners, marched and sashayed by in rhythm to a small brass band leading.

Jac exhaled heavily, feeling his stomach dip again. He wouldn’t make it now.

‘That’s okay,’ he said resignedly. ‘I’ll be there in just a couple of minutes. Give me all the details then.’

Mr Mystery-e-mailer would be long gone by the time he got there; and if he’d now been spooked, that would probably be the end of any more contact.

Jac looked up towards the procession as it finally passed and the taxi crossed the junction. In his few years in New Orleans he’d discovered that bands were broken out for anything and everything — weddings, funerals, gay marches, dog’s birthday — though from the banners this looked like a save some bay or other environmental protest.

Jac suddenly became aware of a man in the crowd looking back at him, smiling and waving. Probably just somebody random, catching Jac’s eye as he’d looked towards them. But in that moment it became Jac’s mystery e-mailer, teasing, taunting: You won’t find me. You won’t find me.

‘Black guy, broad. Bit of bulk on… but not fat.’

‘And height?’

‘Five-ten, maybe six foot.’

‘Age?’

‘Mid to late thirties, maybe forty.’

‘Anything that stood out? Beard? Moustache? Prominent scar or birth-mark?’

‘No, clean shaven. But, oh… he had this gap between his front teeth when he smiled.’

‘And what he was he wearing?’

‘Hilfiger jacket, sort of dark-red, and jeans. And a baseball cap, dark-blue or black.’

Jac paused at that point, looking back at his notes for anything he might have missed. At the outset he’d ascertained from Tracy, an early-twenties short-cropped-blonde-with-a-lime-green-stripe and more nose rings than a Krishna, that it had been paid cash, as he’d suspected: no trace back. Now the description wasn’t giving him that much either. Could fit twenty to thirty percent of African-American males in that age band. But as Jac puckered his mouth, Tracy commented, ‘But, hey, you can check all that for yourself.’ She eased a sly smile as she looked up above the entrance. ‘We should have him on video.’

Jac followed her eyes towards the camera there and, uncertainly, as if taking a second to believe his luck, mirrored her smile.

The atmosphere in the interview room was laden, tense.

Morvaun Jaspar looked tired, worn-down by the questioning and psychological games the two policeman had rained down on him over the two hours he’d been held. Pretty much the same Mutt and Jeff, black and white game as before. Jac knew the black officer, Jim Holbrook, from last time — the supposedly friendly voice in Morvaun’s ear: ‘Hey, come on bro’, make it easy on yourself.’ But the white lieutenant, Pyrford, Jac hadn’t seen before. Rakish with heavily receding red-brown hair, a toothpick that he seemed reluctant to take out the corner of his mouth, and a look of disdain down his nose at Morvaun that spoke volumes. Jac could imagine that ten years ago he’d have been addressing Morvaun, and probably his partner too, as ‘boy’.

Jac had no doubt looked troubled and on edge as soon as he walked into the interview room, which had set the mood for what followed. He’d watched only a few seconds of the video with Tracy, just to make sure maroon-Hilfiger-jacket was there and it was the right segment, then had taken a copy to look at in more detail later. No time right then. He’d phoned Langfranc on his way over to Morvaun to tell him he’d be delayed, Langfranc warning that it could be one delay too many ‘…the one that might just tip the balance on Beaton preparing your dismissal letter,’ but Jac had become equally concerned about something else, asking Langfranc if there was any indication as to just what he was meant to have held back on?

‘No, no clue at all.’

‘Or perhaps where Beaton might have got his information from?’

‘No clue there either, I’m afraid, Jac. All I know is he’s madder than hell, and says he wants it all straight from the hip from you — right now in his office.’

What had suddenly hit Jac, started to panic him, was that he had no idea just which of his withheld secrets Beaton knew about: the alleged prison-break attempt or Durrant’s death-wish? He was facing a firestorm back at the office with Beaton, but with no idea from which direction the fire was coming. And if he picked the wrong one, Beaton would then know about both: full house!

Morvaun had acknowledged him with a numb smile as he walked in. He was wearing a bright crimson jacket with a silvery wave trim on each cuff. Quite conservative by his standards.

Morvaun liked to think of himself as a tough cookie, but he was no longer young, and beneath the veneer of bluff and bravado he’d built up over the years, Jac could clearly see — as he had done halfway through their first case together — his fear and frailty; fear that if he got anything more than a four or five-year term, he might not make it through.

‘I hope you two had the good sense not to ask my client any more questions after he informed you he had counsel on his way,’ Jac said as he put down his briefcase. Stamp his authority on the meeting early.

‘Of course, goes without saying,’ Pyrford said with a dry smile, jiggling the toothpick in the corner of his mouth. ‘We just kept it conversational after that. Mild weather for the time of year, and what a fine head of hair he still has for a man of his age.’

Holbrook looked down at the floor, and Jac swore he could almost hear a groan riding on his sigh.

‘Never let it be said that you’d indulge in pointless questions or comments,’ Jac said, peering sharply at Pyrford’s shiny, wisp-haired crown. ‘Let’s get to the bottom line, shall we?’ Jac continued curtly. ‘Is my client being charged? And, if so, what’s the evidence against him?’

‘Not yet.’ Pyrford was put off stride by the directness, flushing slightly; he injected more authority into his voice. ‘But we got a women in custody, Alvira Jardine, a Haitian national with forged papers — passport and driver’s licence — and they’ve got your client’s trademark all over them.’

‘Has Ms Jardine named Mr Jaspar as having forged them for her?’

‘No, she hasn’t, though we — ’ Pyrford fought to regain his step, the control he’d had over the meeting only minutes ago, but Jac rolled straight on.

‘And apart from my client’s “trademark” — what other evidence is there that might link him to this?’ Jac’s tone was acid and impatient; he had no intention of making it easy on them. One look at Morvaun told him how much he’d been railroaded over the past two hours.

‘Well, we…’ Increasingly flustered, Pyrford looked back towards Holbrook for support; but Holbrook did a wide-eyed, “don’t include me on where you might be heading”. ‘We’ve done our own comparisons with Mr Jaspar’s past work, and from that alone had more than good reason to bring him in now. But I’m not at liberty to discuss that, or the other evidence we have, until we’ve got the full analysis back from the lab. I’m confident, though, that will back up our findings to date — and then, believe me, your client’s really going to feel our breath down his neck.’

‘Not to put too fine a point on it,’ Jac said cuttingly, ‘wouldn’t that have been the best time to haul my client in — when you’ve got your lab conclusions. Rather than bringing him in on this fine afternoon just to comment on what a good head of hair he has for a man of his age.’ He smiled wanly.

Pyrford’s jaw tightened. He glared at Jac for a second before answering. ‘Don’t worry — he’ll be the first to know.’

‘When?’

‘Couple of days, tops.’

‘Fine.’ Jac picked up his briefcase and nodded to Morvaun. ‘Look forward to it.’

‘Me too, Counsellor,’ Pyrford said, his stare icy. ‘Me too.’

‘Thanks, Jac,’ Morvaun said as they headed down the corridor. He gave a lopsided smile. ‘But less of the two white-boys ego-posturing next time, if you could. If things turn sour, it’s my po’ black ass they take it out on.’

‘I’ll try,’ Jac said, returning the smile. They went through the station-house doors and out onto the street. ‘But if there’s no connection with you on this one, Morvaun, stop worrying. They’re not going to be able to pin it on you. I’ll make sure of that.’ The confident tone of a lawyer who, having cleared his client for a crime he did commit, thought one he didn’t should be a walkover.

‘Like I said, Jac, I’m clean on this one. Never even heard o’ Mrs Jardine before. They’re just tryin’ for a fix — most likely ‘cause they couldn’t nail me last time.’

‘And they won’t this time, either.’ Jac smiled tightly and laid one hand reassuringly on Morvaun’s shoulder as they parted. ‘Don’t worry.’

Watching Morvaun Jaspar head off along North Claiborne Avenue, shoulders slightly sunken, Jac wondered whether it was simply the gait of an old man worn down by the two hours of questioning, or if there was something Morvaun wasn’t telling him.

Though as Jac turned and looked out for a cab, he probably appeared little different: the spark of fresh hope from the video in his briefcase not enough to lift his spirits from the nightmare showdown he was facing back at the office with Beaton.