Sparring Partners

(1)

It was one of those raw, windy, dreary Monday afternoons in February when gloom settled over the land and seasonal depression was rampant. Court was not in session. The phone wasn’t ringing. Petty criminals and other potential clients were busy elsewhere with no thoughts whatsoever of hiring lawyers. The occasional caller was more likely to be a man or woman still reeling from holiday overspending and seeking advice about unpaid credit card accounts. Those were quickly sent next door, or across the square, or anywhere.

Jake was at his desk upstairs, making little progress with the stack of paperwork he’d been neglecting for weeks, even months. With no court or hearings scheduled for days, it should have been a good time to catch up with the old stuff — the fish files that every lawyer had for some reason said yes to a year ago and now just wanted to go away. The upside of a small-town law practice, especially in your hometown, was that everyone knew your name, and that was what you wanted. It was important to be well thought of and well liked, with a good reputation. When your neighbors got in trouble, you wanted to be the man they called. The downside was that their cases were always mundane and rarely profitable. But, you couldn’t say no. The gossip was fierce and unrelenting, and a lawyer who turned his back on his friends would not last long.

His funk was interrupted when Alicia, his current part-time secretary, chimed in through his desk phone. “Jake, there’s a couple here to see you.”

A couple. Married but wanting to get unmarried. Another cheap divorce. He glanced at his daily planner though he knew there was nothing.

“Do they have an appointment?” he asked, but only to remind Alicia that she shouldn’t be bothering him with the foot traffic.

“No. But they’re very nice and they say it’s really urgent. They’re not going away, said it wouldn’t take but a few minutes.”

Jake loathed being bullied in his own office. On a busier day he would take a stand and get rid of them. “Do they appear to have any money?” The answer was always no.

“Well, they do seem rather affluent.”

Affluent? In Ford County. Somewhat intriguing.

Alicia continued, “They’re from Memphis and just passing through, but, again, they say it’s very important.”

“Any idea what it is?”

“No.”

Well, it wouldn’t be a divorce if they lived in Memphis. He ran through a list of possibilities — Grandma’s will, some old family land, maybe a kid busted for drugs over at Ole Miss. Since he was bored and mildly curious and needed an excuse to avoid the paperwork, he asked, “Did you tell them that I’m tied up in a settlement conference call with a dozen lawyers?”

“No.”

“Did you tell them I’m due in federal court over in Oxford and can only spare a moment or two?”

“No.”

“Did you tell them that I’m slammed with other appointments?”

“No. It’s pretty obvious the place is empty and the phone isn’t ringing.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the kitchen, so I can talk.”

“Okay, okay. Make some fresh coffee and put ’em in the conference room. I’ll be down in ten minutes.”

(2)

The first thing Jake noticed was their tans. They had obviously been somewhere in the sun. No one else in Clanton had a tan in February. The second thing he noticed was the woman’s smart short haircut, with a touch of gray, stylish and obviously expensive. He noticed the handsome sports coat on the gentleman. Both were well dressed and nicely groomed, a departure from the usual walk-ins.

He shook their hands as he got their names. Gene and Kathy Roupp, from Memphis. Late fifties, quite pleasant, with confident smiles showing rows of well-maintained teeth. Jake could easily picture them on a Florida golf course living the good life behind gates and guards.

“What can I do for you folks?” Jake asked.

Gene flashed a smile and went first. “Well, sad to say, but we’re not here as potential clients.”

Jake kept it loose with a fake smile and an aw-shucks shrug, as if to say, What the hell? What lawyer needs to get paid for his time? He’d give them about ten more minutes and one cup before showing them the door.

“We just got back from a month in Costa Rica, one of our favorites. Ever been to Costa Rica?”

“No. I hear it’s great.” He’d heard nothing of the sort but what else could he say? He would never admit that he had left the United States exactly once in his thirty-eight years. Foreign travel was only a dream.

“We love it down there, a real paradise. Beautiful beaches, mountains, rain forests, great food. We have some friends who own houses — real estate is pretty cheap. The people are delightful, educated, almost all speak English.”

Jake loathed the game of travel trivia because he’d never been anywhere. The local doctors were the worst — always bragging about the hottest new resorts.

Kathy was itching to move along the narrative and chimed in with “The golf is incredible, so many fabulous courses.”

Jake didn’t play golf because he was not a member of the Clanton Country Club. Its membership included too many doctors and climbers and families with old money.

He smiled and nodded at her and waited for one of them to continue. From a bag he couldn’t see she whipped out a pound of coffee in a shiny can and said, “Here’s a little gift, San Pedro Select, our favorite. Incredible. We haul it back by the case.”

Jake took it to be polite. In lieu of cash fees, he had been paid with watermelons, fresh venison, firewood, repairs to his cars, and more bartered goods and services than he cared to remember. His best lawyer buddy, Harry Rex Vonner, had once taken a John Deere mower as a fee, though it soon broke down. Another lawyer, one who was no longer practicing, had taken sexual favors from a divorce client. When he lost the case, she filed an ethics complaint alleging “substandard performance.”

Anyway, Jake admired the can and tried to read the Spanish. He noticed they had not touched their coffee, and he was suddenly worried that perhaps they were connoisseurs and his office brew wasn’t quite up to their standards.

Gene resumed with “So, two weeks ago we were at one of our favorite eco-lodges, high in the mountains, deep in the rain forest, a small place with only thirty rooms, incredible views.”

How many times might they use the word “incredible”?

“And we were having breakfast outdoors, watching the spider monkeys and parakeets, when a waiter stopped by our table to pour some more coffee. He was very friendly—”

“People are so friendly down there and they love Americans,” Kathy interjected.

How could they not?

Gene nodded at the interruption and continued, “We chatted him up for a spell, said his name was Jason and that he was from Florida, been living down there for twenty years. We saw him again at lunch and talked to him some more. We saw him around after that and always enjoyed a friendly chat. The day before we were to check out, he asked us to join him for a glass of champagne in a little tree-house bar. He was off-duty and said the drinks were on him. The sunsets over the mountains are incredible, and we were having a good time, when all of a sudden he got serious.”

Gene paused and looked at Kathy, who was ready to pounce with “He said he had something to tell us, something very confidential. Said his name was not really Jason and he wasn’t from Florida. He apologized for not being truthful. Said his name was really Mack Stafford, and that he was from Clanton, Mississippi.”

Jake tried to remain nonchalant but it was impossible. His mouth dropped open and his eyes widened.

The Roupps were watching closely for his reaction. Gene said, “I take it you know Mack Stafford.”

Jake exhaled and wasn’t sure what to say. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“He said you guys were old friends,” Gene added.

Stunned, Jake was still grasping for words. “I’m just glad he’s alive.”

“So you know him well?”

“Oh yes, quite well.”

(3)

Three years earlier, the town was rocked with the scandalous news that Mack Stafford, a well-known lawyer on the square, had cracked up, filed for bankruptcy, divorced his wife, and left his family in the middle of the night. The gossip raged for weeks, with all manner of tales spinning off wildly, and when the dust began to settle it appeared that most of the rumors were actually true, for a change.

Mack practiced street law for seventeen years and Jake knew him well. He was a decent lawyer with a passable reputation. Like most of them, he handled the routine business of those clients who walked through his door, and barely managed to keep his head above water. His wife, Lisa, was an assistant principal at Clanton High School and earned a steady salary. Her father owned the only ready-mix plant in the county, and that placed her family a notch or two above the others, but still a considerable distance below the doctors. Lisa was nice enough but a bit on the snooty side, and for that reason Jake and Carla had never socialized with them.

After Mack disappeared, and it became obvious that he had indeed vanished without a trace, word leaked from somewhere that he had left town with some money that wasn’t exactly his. Lisa got everything in the divorce, though the couple’s liabilities almost equaled their assets. Mack dumped his files and clients and legal troubles on Harry Rex, who whispered to Jake that he had been paid in cash for his troubles, and Mack left some money behind for Lisa and their two daughters. Lisa had no idea where it came from.

The fact that he had so successfully disappeared only fueled the speculation that he had done something wrong, and stealing clients’ money was the most likely scenario. Every lawyer handled his clients’ money, if only for brief periods of time, and the quickest and most common route to disbarment was pilfering a bit here and there. There was no shortage of legendary cases where lawyers succumbed to temptation and looted entire trust funds, guardianship accounts, and settlement pools. They usually tried to hide for a while but all were caught, stripped of their licenses, and sent to prison.

But Mack was never caught, nor was he heard from. As the months passed, Jake asked Harry Rex, always over a beer, if he had heard from Mack. He most certainly had not, and among the local lawyers the legend grew. Mack pulled off the great escape. He left behind an unhappy marriage, a dismal career, and was on a beach somewhere, sipping rum. Or at least that was the fantasy among the lawyers he left behind.

(4)

Kathy said, “We got the impression he did something wrong around here, but he never mentioned it. I mean, you gotta figure a guy like him, living in some exotic place down there, using an alias, and so on, had a pretty colorful past. But, again, he didn’t give us much.”

Gene said, “When we got home we did some digging and found a couple of stories in the local newspapers, but it was pretty general stuff. His divorce, bankruptcy, and the fact that he was gone.”

Kathy asked, “Can we ask you, Mr. Brigance, did Mack do something wrong? Is he on the run?”

Jake wasn’t about to confide in these strangers, two nice people he would probably never see again. The truth was that Jake didn’t know for sure that Mack had committed a crime. He deflected the question with “I don’t think so. It’s no crime to divorce and leave town.”

The answer was completely unsatisfactory. It hung in the air for a few seconds, then Gene leaned in a bit closer and asked, “Did we do anything wrong by talking to him?”

“Of course not.”

“Aiding and abetting, something like that?”

“No way. Not a chance. Relax.”

They took a deep breath.

Jake said, “The bigger question is: Why are you here?”

They exchanged knowing little smiles and Kathy reached into her bag. She withdrew a plain, unmarked, unstamped manila envelope, five-by-eight, and handed it to Jake, who took it with suspicion. The flap had been sealed with glue, tape, and staples.

Gene said, “Mack asked us to stop by and say hello, and tell you that he sends his greetings. And he asked us to deliver this. We have no idea what it is.”

Kathy was nervous again and asked, “This is okay, right? We’re not involved in anything, are we?”

“Of course not. No one will ever know.”

“He said you could be trusted.”

“I can.” Jake wasn’t sure what he was being asked in trust, but he didn’t want to worry them.

Gene handed him a scrap of paper and said, “This is our phone number in Memphis. Mack wants you to call us in a few days and say, simply, yes or no. That’s all. Just yes or no.”

“Okay.” Jake took the scrap of paper and placed it next to the envelope and the pound of coffee. Kathy finally took a sip from her cup and remained expressionless.

They had completed their mission and were ready to go. Jake assured them that everything would be held in the strictest of confidence and that he would tell no one about their meeting. He walked them to the front door and outside onto the sidewalk, and he watched them get into a shiny BMW sedan and drive away.

Then he hustled back to the conference room, closed the door, and opened the envelope.

(5)

The letter was typed on one sheet of plain white paper, tri-folded, with a smaller envelope stuck in the fold.

It read:

The small envelope contained a slick brochure from the Terra Lodge.

(6)

The most dangerous place in downtown Clanton on a Monday was undoubtedly the law office of Harry Rex Vonner. With a well-earned reputation as the nastiest divorce lawyer in the county, he attracted clients with assets worth fighting over. Monday was volatile for various reasons: bad behavior on Saturday night, or too much time in the house arguing over this and that, or even another explosive Sunday lunch with the in-laws. There was no shortage of detonators, and the frazzled and warring spouses rushed to get legal counsel as soon as possible. By noon, the place was a tinderbox as the phones rang nonstop and litigants, both current and brand-new, dropped by with and without appointments. The harried secretaries tried to maintain order as Harry Rex either stomped around, growling at everyone, or hid in his bunker-like office out of the fray. It was not unusual for him, on a Monday, to storm out of his back room and order someone, client or otherwise, to get the hell out.

They always complied because he had a reputation for unpredictability. It, too, was well earned. A few years earlier, a secretary had rushed into his office and said she had just hung up on a husband who was headed into town, with a gun. Harry Rex went to his closet, and from his impressive arsenal chose his favorite, a Browning 12-gauge, pump-action shotgun. When the husband parked his truck near the courthouse and started for the office, Harry Rex emerged onto the sidewalk and fired two shots into the clouds. The husband retreated to his truck and left. The blasts boomed like howitzers over the square. Offices and stores emptied as folks scurried to see what was going on. Someone called the police. By the time Sheriff Ozzie Walls parked in front of the office, a crowd had gathered on the courthouse lawn, a safe distance away. Ozzie went inside and met with Harry Rex. Discharging a firearm in public was a crime all right, but in a culture where the Second Amendment was revered and every vehicle had at least two firearms, the statute was rarely enforced. Harry Rex claimed self-defense and vowed to aim lower next time.

After dark on Monday, Jake eased around the square and, avoiding the chaos in the front, ducked into an alley and entered the office through the rear door. Harry Rex was at his desk, rumpled and wrinkled as always, his tie undone, food stains on his shirt, his hair a mess. He actually smiled and asked, “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

Jake said, “We need to split a beer.”

It was code for: We need to talk, and now, and it’s top secret. Harry Rex closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “What is it?” he asked in a low tone.

“Mack Stafford.”

Another deep breath, then a look of disbelief.

Jake said, “Meet me at the Riviera at eight.”

At home, Jake kissed, hugged, and pestered Carla as she put a chicken in the oven and prepared dinner. He went upstairs and found Hanna busy with her homework. He went to Luke’s room and found him playing quietly under his bed. Back in the kitchen, he asked his wife to have a seat at the breakfast table and handed her the letter. As she read it, she began shaking her head and tapping her teeth with a painted fingernail, an old habit that could mean several things.

“What a creep.”

“I always liked Mack.”

“He left his wife and kids and disappeared. And didn’t he steal some money from his clients?”

“That’s the legend. He vanished three years ago, but he didn’t really leave his wife. They were getting a divorce. Is she sick?”

“Come on, Jake. Lisa’s had breast cancer for a year now. You knew that.”

“I must have forgotten. There’s so much cancer. She was never your favorite, as I recall.”

“No, she wasn’t.” Carla looked at the letter again. “Check those potatoes.”

Jake walked to the stove and stirred a pot of boiling potatoes. He filled a glass with water and returned to the table.

She asked, “Why does he want you? Wasn’t Harry Rex his lawyer?”

“He was, guess he still is. Maybe it’s because Harry Rex is afraid of flying and Mack knew he wouldn’t make the trip. There’s nothing wrong with going down, I mean, nothing illegal.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Why not? An all-expenses-paid week at a fancy resort in the mountains.”

“No.”

“Come on, Carla. We haven’t had a real vacation in years.”

“We’ve never had a real vacation, like, you know, getting on a plane and flying off somewhere.”

“Exactly. This is the chance of a lifetime.”

“No.”

“Why not? The guy needs help. He wants to come home and, I don’t know, maybe make things right with his family. There’s no harm in going down and meeting with him. Mack’s a nice guy.”

“He has two daughters that he left behind.”

“He did, and that’s terrible. But maybe he wants to make amends. Let’s give the guy a break.”

“Is he a fugitive?”

“I’m not sure. I’m meeting with Harry Rex at eight and I have some questions. The rumor was that Mack took a bunch of money and left town, but I don’t recall hearing about an indictment or anything like that. He filed for bankruptcy and divorce and vanished. Most of the lawyers in town were envious. Not me, of course.”

“Of course not. I remember all the gossip. The town talked of nothing else for months.”

Jake slid across the brochure and she took it.

(7)

The Riviera was a small 1950s-style motel at the edge of town. It had two wings of tiny rooms, some rumored to be available by the hour, and a dingy bar where lawyers and bankers and businessmen hid to discuss things that could not be overheard. Jake hadn’t been there in years and got a few looks as he walked in. He smiled at the bartender, ordered two draft beers, and took them to a table near the jukebox. He sipped one for fifteen minutes as he waited. Harry Rex was always late, especially for drinks. Getting him to the bar, though, was the easy part. Getting him out of one was usually a challenge. Things were not going well with his third wife and he preferred to stay away from home.

He lumbered in at 8:20 and spoke to three gentlemen at a table as he passed by. At times, it seemed as though he knew everyone.

He fell into a chair across from Jake, grabbed his mug, and drained half of it. Jake knew it wasn’t his first beer of the evening. He kept a fridge filled with Bud Light in his office and popped a top each evening after the last client left.

“Poachin’ my clients again, huh?” he said.

“Hardly. I doubt if Mack’s looking for a new lawyer.”

“Tell me what you know.”

“He left town, what, three years ago? Any word from him since then?”

“Not a peep. Nothing. The last time I spoke to Mack he was in my office lookin’ at the divorce papers. Gave her everything, includin’ fifty thousand in cash. That’s in the settlement. Nash was her lawyer, told me later that they’d never had fifty thousand in cash, nowhere close to that. He talked to Freda, his old secretary, and she had no idea where the money came from. Said they could barely pay the bills most months.”

“So, where did the money come from?”

“Slow down.” Another gulp. “This beer’s hot. How long’s it been sittin’ here?”

“Well, I bought it when I arrived promptly at eight, the agreed-upon hour. So, yes, it’s not as cold as it was.”

Harry Rex unfolded himself, walked to the bar, and ordered two more drafts. He set them on the table and said, “So, he’s contacted you?”

“Yep.” Jake told the story about Gene and Kathy Roupp and their surprise visit earlier in the day. He handed over the letter and Harry Rex read it slowly. He paused and said, “You know Lisa’s got breast cancer. Nash told me months ago.”

“Yes.”

Jake rarely bothered to chase gossip. He had Harry Rex to rely on.

He finished reading and took a drink. “Wonder why he didn’t offer me a nice vacation.”

“Could be the airplane thing.”

“That, plus I can’t imagine goin’ anywhere with Millie for a week. You takin’ the deal?”

“Carla says no, but she’ll come around. There’s no harm, right?”

“I don’t see a problem. He ain’t exactly a fugitive.”

“But I recall something about the grand jury poking around.”

“That’s right. I thought things might get hairy when the DA was askin’ questions. Hell, even the FBI stopped by to see me a couple of times.”

“You never told me that.”

“Jake, my friend, there are a lot of things you don’t know.”

“So, where’d the money come from?”

“I have no idea, really. Mack was always desperate to make some money because his law practice was a dead end and his wife had bigger dreams.”

“And he paid you?”

“Jake, son, I always get paid. Yes, Mack paid me five grand in cash. I didn’t ask questions.”

“And he’s been discharged in bankruptcy?”

“Correct. I handled that too. Not much in the way of assets and certainly no cash. Hell, the boy didn’t have a pot to piss in, at least nothin’ above the table. And she got everything. The bank foreclosed on his office. About a month after he left, the FBI came snoopin’ around but they were chasin’ their tails.”

“What did they want?”

“They didn’t know. They had nothin’, nobody was complainin’. Somehow they’d heard the rumors that Mack had flown the coop with stolen money, but there were no witnesses. Got the impression they were just goin’ through the motions.”

“So there was no indictment, no outstanding warrants? No one is looking for Mack?”

“Not to my knowledge, which, as we know, is vast. Now, that’s not to say he’s off the hook. I wouldn’t worry about the divorce. Hell, the poor girl is probably dyin’, from what I hear. If he hid money, then bankruptcy fraud might be a problem. He could still be investigated for that.”

“Who would investigate him?”

“Exactly. Who cares? He’s been discharged. I can’t believe he wants to come back. Your turn.”

Jake walked to the bar and returned with two more drafts. He took a drink and started laughing. “Be honest, Harry Rex, how many times have you thought of Mack and secretly dreamed of chucking it all and heading for the beach?”

“At least a thousand. I thought about him last week.”

“I guess we’ve all had that dream, though I can never see myself leaving Carla and the kids.”

“Well, you got yourself a good girl. Me, that’s another story.”

“So, why does he want to come back?”

“That’s where you come in, Jake. You gotta go see him. Take the dream vacation, get the hell out of this place for a week. Go have some fun.”

“And you see no risk in doing so?”

“Hell no. Nobody’s gonna be watchin’ you. Take his cash, buy the round-trip tickets, get Carla off to the mountains of Costa Rica. I wish I could go.”

“I’ll send you a postcard.”

(8)

Postcards could never do justice to the Terra Lodge. It was tucked into the side of a mountain a thousand feet above the Pacific Ocean, and from their poolside lounge chairs Jake and Carla sat mesmerized, drinks in hand, as they tried to absorb the view. Without a single cloud above them, the sun beat down and soothed their frigid bones. It had been sleeting when they took off from Memphis. For the first time, Jake wondered why anyone would want to leave this paradise.

At check-in, they had been escorted to their bungalow, one of only thirty at the lodge. It was a private three-room suite with a thatched roof, outdoor shower, wading pool, plenty of air-conditioning that wasn’t needed, all set in the midst of lush tropical gardens. Ricardo, their new best friend, was only seconds away. A rate chart on the door of the bathroom listed the villa at $600 a night.

Jake said, “I don’t know how much clout Mack has around here, but it must be substantial.”

“This place is unbelievable,” Carla replied as she examined a deep tub that could hold three people. Her reluctance in taking the free trip had finally dissipated the moment she saw the ocean.

Ricardo took them to the pool, brought their drinks, and explained that dinner would be served at seven, at a private table, with a view of the sunset they would never forget. After the first drink, Jake jumped into the infinity pool, rested his arms on the ledge, soaked in the warm salt water, and gawked in amazement at the shimmering blue Pacific.

Their honeymoon had been a low-budget trip to the Caribbean eleven years earlier, Jake’s first and only trip abroad. Carla’s parents were more affluent and she had spent a month in Europe with a group of students. Nothing, though, could ever compare to this.

Late in the day, the other guests, all adults, gathered by the pool and watched a glorious sunset. Dinner was nearby on a patio — fresh-baked lobster with fresh organic vegetables, grown right down the road on the lodge’s own little farm. Afterward, they retired to the Sky Lounge, a hideaway flooded with stars, and danced to the beat of a local band.

They slept late the following morning and almost missed the whale boat, a large converted pontoon that also served breakfast, lunch, and drinks. The day was spent in the sun, searching for whales. The captain apologized when they saw nothing but dolphins.

Late that night, as they lay in bed, exhausted, Carla finally broached the obvious subject. “So, no sign of Mack?”

“No. Not yet. But I get the impression he’s close by.”

Day Three was spent on horses, not Jake’s favorite way to travel, but the group was enthusiastic and the guide was a comedian. He talked nonstop as he pointed out exotic birds, spider monkeys, and flowers that could not be found anywhere else in the world. They stopped at hot springs, waterfalls, and enjoyed a full three-course lunch, with wine, at the edge of a volcano. Three thousand feet up, and the views of the Pacific were even more spectacular.

Day Four was a whitewater rafting trip in the morning and a knee-buckling zip line adventure in the afternoon, interrupted by a delicious riverside brunch of tropical fruit and rum punch. Late in the day, as they showered and prepared for the rigors of dinner, the phone rang. Jake limped to it, his crotch still unsettled from six hours in the saddle the day before, and said hello.

It was Mack, finally. They had almost forgotten about him. “Hello, Jake, good to hear your voice.”

“And good to hear yours.” Jake nodded at Carla who smiled and returned to the bathroom.

“I trust you guys are having fun.”

“Indeed we are. Thanks for the hospitality. Not a bad place to spend a week.”

“No, not at all. Look, I figure y’all might need some downtime tomorrow, so I’ve arranged a day at the spa, with all the works. Carla will love it. Could you meet me for lunch?”

“I can probably work you into my schedule.”

“Good. How’s the food so far?”

“Unbelievable. I haven’t eaten this well since I had catfish at Claude’s last week.”

“I remember Claude. How’s he doing these days?”

“The same. Not much has changed, Mack.”

“I’m sure. At the front of the lodge you’ll see a dirt path next to a sign for the Barillo Trail. You’ll walk about half a mile through the rain forest and see another sign for the Kura Grille. All of the tables are outside, nice views and such. I have one reserved for one o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.”

“And let’s keep Carla out of our conversations, okay? She won’t mind, will she?”

“No, not at all.”

“She’ll have a busy day at the spa with lunch by the pool.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

“Good. Can’t wait to see you, Jake.”

“Same here.”

(9)

Mack forgot to mention that the Barillo Trail curved upward, always upward, and after a few minutes Jake felt like he was climbing a mountain, which indeed he was. The half-mile trek seemed more like two miles and he stopped twice to catch his breath. He was winded and frustrated that, at the age of only thirty-eight, he was in such bad shape. Long gone were the endless wind sprints of high school football.

There were no vehicles to be seen at the café — only a few bikes. He was sweating when he walked by the bar and onto the deck. Mack was waiting at a table under a large colorful umbrella. They shook hands and settled in.

“You’re looking good,” Mack said, his words a bit crisper, the drawl having been flattened out of his speech.

“And so are you.” Jake wasn’t sure he would have recognized him on the street. Mack was now forty-five and his salt-and-pepper hair was much longer. His neat beard was more gray than dark brown. He wore round tortoiseshell glasses and could have passed for a handsome college professor. He was also leaner than Jake remembered.

Jake said, “Thanks for the trip and the hospitality. This place is incredible.”

“First trip to Costa Rica?”

“Yes it is. Hope it’s not the last.”

“You’re welcome back anytime, Jake, as my guest.”

“You must know the owner.”

“I am the owner. One of three. Eco-tourism has become a big deal down here and I bought in a year ago.”

“So you live around here?”

“Here and there.” His first evasive answer, the first of many. Jake didn’t pursue it.

“How’s the family?” Mack asked.

“Couldn’t be better. Carla is still teaching, Hanna is in the third grade, growing up fast. Luke’s a year old.”

“Never heard of Luke.”

“We adopted him. A long story.”

“I have some of those.”

“I’m sure.”

“I miss my girls.” A waiter appeared and asked about drinks. Jake was open to anything but was relieved when Mack said, “Just water.” Jake nodded his agreement.

When the waiter left, Jake asked, “What’s your name around here? I’m sure no one calls you Mack.”

He smiled and took a sip. “Well, I have several names, but here it’s Marco.”

Jake took a sip and waited for an explanation. “Okay, Marco, what’s your story?”

“Brazilian, of German extraction. That’s why I don’t look like a native. I’m from southern Brazil, lots of Germans down there. A businessman with several interests in Central America. I move around a lot.”

“What’s the name on your passport?”

“Which one?”

Jake smiled and took another sip. “Look, I’m not going to dig, and I presume I’m supposed to know only what you’re willing to tell me. Right?”

“Right. A lot has happened in the past three years and most of it is irrelevant as far as you’re concerned.”

“Fair enough.”

“You’ve talked to Harry Rex?”

“Of course. I showed him your letter. He’s in the loop.”

“How’s that fat slob doing?”

“The same. Though I think he’s getting meaner.”

“Didn’t think that was possible. Let’s talk about him later.”

The waiter was back and Mack ordered shrimp salads. When he left, Mack leaned on his elbows and said, “I left in the middle of the night, as you know, and fled the country. First stop was Belize, where I lived for about a year. I liked it there, spent the first three months drinking too much, chasing girls, roasting on the beach. But that got old. I did a lot of bone fishing, also permit and tarpon. I got a job as a fishing guide and really liked that. I was always careful, always watching for tourists, guests at the lodge, fishermen, somebody from home. It’s amazing what you can hear when you listen hard enough. A Southern drawl, and my radar was up. I checked the books at the lodge to see who was coming in, and steered clear of anybody from Mississippi. They were few and far between. Most of my fishermen were from the Northeast. I assumed nothing, but I figured I was safe. I grew a beard, got a dark tan, lost twenty pounds, always wore a cap or a hat.”

“Your accent has changed.”

“Yes, and it wasn’t easy. I talk to myself a lot, for many reasons, and I’m always practicing. Anyway, I had a scare and decided to leave Belize.”

“What happened?”

“One night there was a table of men, older guys, having dinner at the lodge. They were staying next door, fishing, and having a great time. All from the South. I recognized one, a circuit judge from Biloxi. The Honorable Harold Massey. Ever meet him?”

“No, but I’ve heard the name. It’s a small state.”

“It is. Too small. I was at the bar, hitting on a girl, not far from the dining patio. We made eye contact and he gave me a look. I’ve always figured that most of the lawyers and judges in the state knew my story. He eventually left the table for the restroom and walked by me. I thought he stared a bit too long. I kept my cool but I really freaked. So, I eased out of town, left Belize, and made my way to Panama, stayed there a few months. I gotta tell you, Jake, life on the run is not that great.”

“How do you know Lisa is sick?”

Mack smiled and shrugged and sat back in his chair. “I have a mole back there, an old friend from high school who married a girl from Clanton. You know how the gossip gets around.”

“Harry Rex swears he’s had no contact.”

“True. I figured the people who wanted to find me might watch my lawyer. There’s been no contact with anyone who might make a mistake. No contact until now.”

“Who might be looking for you?”

“That’s why you’re here, Jake. I want to go home, but I can’t risk any danger of getting caught.”

The salads arrived, large bamboo plates with shrimp salad on beds of leafy greens. They ate for a moment. Jake asked, “So why did you contact me?”

“Because I trust you. Can’t say that for most of the old bar. How many lawyers in Clanton now?”

“I don’t know. Thirty, forty, maybe more. They come and go. Unlike most towns in the state, Clanton is not dying. Not exactly thriving, but hanging on.”

“There were close to fifty when I left, far too many for any of us to make a decent living. And I didn’t trust the ones I knew, only you and Harry Rex.”

“The cream of the crop, no doubt.”

“Is Lucien still alive?”

“Oh yes. I see him all the time.”

“I couldn’t stand the old bastard.”

“You’re in the clear majority.”

They had a laugh at Lucien’s expense as the waiter refilled their glasses. Jake asked, “And what, exactly, is my mission?”

“There is none. I want you and Harry Rex to make sure no one is waiting on me back there. I heard rumors of an indictment of some variety.”

“Harry Rex and I have talked at length since I got your letter. He thinks the grand jury met and your case, if you can call it that, was kicked around, but nothing came of it. The FBI showed up a month later and poked around, talked to Harry Rex, but they went away. Not another word in over two years.”

Mack frowned and put down his fork. “The FBI?”

“They went through the divorce file and looked at your records, such as they were. The fifty thousand in cash to Lisa raised some eyebrows. No one seemed to know where the money came from. According to the rumors, you took some money and fled town.”

Jake paused and took a bite. This was the perfect moment for Mack to fill in the rather substantial gaps in the story, but he chose not to. Instead, he asked, “Harry Rex thinks the FBI is gone?”

“Yes, sure looks like it. I wouldn’t say he’s worried about anything, but the bankruptcy fraud might be a problem. Apparently, you got some money from somewhere and failed to report it with your other assets.”

Mack seemed to have lost his appetite. “And the divorce?”

“It’s been final for a long time, and he doubts Lisa has any interest in going back to war. Not in her present condition anyway. But, yes, if you hid assets from her, then that could be a problem. I’m doing all the talking here, Marco.”

“And I’m listening real hard, Jake. I’m absorbing and digesting every word. Since I left, I’ve spent hours every day wondering what I left behind, trying to visualize every scenario in which somebody might be looking for me.”

“Harry Rex is convinced there’s no one.”

“And you? What’s your opinion?”

“I get paid to give opinions, Mack, and I’m not your lawyer. I’m not getting involved, but it would be helpful to know the facts. I’ll relay them to Harry Rex, in the strictest confidence, of course.”

Mack shoved his plate a few inches away and folded his hands on the table in front of him. He glanced around, casually, without a hint of suspicion. In a lower voice, he began, “I had four cases, four clients, all pulpwood cutters who were injured by the same model of chain saw. One guy lost an eye, one his left hand, one some fingers, the fourth guy just had a big scar on his forehead. At first I thought the safety guard was defective. The lawsuits looked promising but they eventually petered out. I tried to bluff the company into a settlement but got nowhere. I lost interest and the files collected dust. You know what it’s like. Months and years passed. Then one glorious day I got the magic phone call from New York, big firm, Durban & Lang. Their client, a Swiss outfit, wanted a quick, confidential settlement to get the things off their books. A hundred thousand per case, with that much thrown in for litigation expenses. Half a mil, Jake, just like that. A dream come true. Since I never filed suit, there were no records anywhere except in my office and in New York. The temptation was right there, and it was beautiful. Our marriage was over, had been for a long time, and everything fell into place. It looked like the perfect time for the perfect crime. I could grab the money while getting the divorce and walk out of the law office for the last time. Leave behind a life that was unhappy, to put it mildly.”

Jake had finished half his salad and pushed the rest of it away. The waiter appeared and cleared the table. Mack said, “I need a drink. You want a beer?”

“Sure.”

“Have you had an Imperial, the national beer?”

“Oh yes. I’ll take another.”

Mack ordered two drafts and stared at the ocean far below them. Jake waited for the beers to arrive. He took a sip, wiped the foam off his upper lip, and asked, “What about the four clients?”

Mack snapped out of his daydream and addressed his beer. After a drink he said, “One was dead, one was missing. The two I found were more than happy to take twenty-five thousand in cash and not tell anyone. I signed the papers and I handed over the money.”

“I’m sure their signatures had to be notarized.”

“So I notarized them. Remember Freda, my old secretary?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I had fired her, and I forged her name and seal on the documents. For the two clients I couldn’t find, I forged their signatures as well. No one knew it. The lawyers in New York didn’t care. They were just happy to get the paperwork and close the cases.”

“You’re not worried about the forgeries?”

“Jake, I’ve worried about everything. When you’ve done something wrong and you’re on the run, you’re always looking over your shoulder, wondering who’s back there.”

“I’m sure. The haul was around four hundred thousand.”

“Yep.”

“That’s impressive.”

“What’s the biggest fee you’ve ever earned, Jake?”

“Well, I got a thousand bucks for Carl Lee Hailey.”

“Your finest moment.”

“Did you ever know a man named Seth Hubbard?”

“I knew of him. Big timber operator.”

“That’s him. He died and there was a massive will contest. I represented his estate, billed about a hundred grand over two years.”

“In seventeen years on the treadmill my biggest fee was twenty thousand from a nice car wreck. Suddenly, I had twenty times that just lying there before me, like a pot of gold. I couldn’t resist the temptation.”

“Any regrets?”

“Plenty. Only cowards run away, Jake. It was wrong, all of it. I should’ve stayed in Clanton, worked through the divorce, and kept some level of presence in the lives of my daughters. And I left my mother, too. I haven’t seen her in three years.”

“So, what are your plans?”

“Well, I would like to see Lisa and apologize. Probably won’t happen, but I’ll try. I’d like to at least attempt to reconnect with Margot and Helen. They’re seventeen and sixteen now, probably about to be orphaned. My plans include you and Harry Rex. I’m not asking you to get involved, just keep your ears and eyes open. If there’s no indictment on the books and none pending, and if there are no warrants for my arrest, then I’ll ease back into the country. I’m not going to stay in Clanton, that’s an ugly thought. I’ll probably hide in Memphis, across the state line. If there’s a hint of trouble, I’ll vanish again. I’m not going to prison, Jake, I can promise you that.”

“You can’t keep it quiet, Mack. If you show up anywhere in Ford County, everyone will know it overnight.”

“True, but they won’t see me. I’ll come and go in the night. The two clients who got the twenty-five thousand in cash were Odell Grove and Jerrol Baker. Ask Harry Rex to check on them. Baker was stoned on meth when he signed the settlement agreement, so he could be dead, or in prison again. I don’t expect any trouble out of them.”

“And the other two?”

“Doug Jumper is in fact dead. Travis Johnson left the area years ago.”

Jake finished his beer and sat back in his seat. “What’s your schedule?”

“I don’t have one. You and Harry Rex poke around for a few weeks. If all is clear, I’ll show up eventually. I’ll call your office one day.”

“And if we get wind of trouble?”

“Send an overnight letter here to the lodge, addressed to Marco Larman.”

“That’s getting close to aiding and abetting.”

“But not close enough. Look, Jake, don’t do anything that you’re not sure of. I promise you’ll never be compromised.”

“I believe you.”

“How many people know about this little vacation of yours?”

“Harry Rex and my parents. They’re keeping Hanna and Luke. We told no one else, said we were just getting out of town for a few days.”

“Great. Stick with that story. I really appreciate this, Jake.”

“Thanks for the trip. We’ll never forget it.”

“Anytime, and it’s always on me.”

(10)

After a day of being massaged and pampered, Carla was ready for the trails. They left the lodge early, on bikes and without a guide, and wound their way through the jungle on well-trodden paths. They stopped for photos at scenic overlooks, usually with the ocean shimmering on the horizon, and they sipped mango juice while sitting in the mouth of a cave. After two hours, they were winded and looking for a place to rest when they happened upon the Swedes. Olga and Luther were staying at the lodge but were rarely around, primarily because they were either hiking or biking up another mountain or off kayaking a raging river. They were at least thirty years older than Jake and Carla, lean and wiry and in superb physical condition. They ate only fruits and vegetables, drank no alcohol, and had slept two nights in a hut at the top of a very tall tree that one had to shinny up with backpacks filled with bedding, food, and water. They claimed to be world-class eco-tourists and had been everywhere. Jake and Carla were quietly envious of people who had seen the world, not to mention the fact that, at the age of seventy, they were fit enough to live thirty more years.

After they sped away, Jake said, “I need a beer. Those people make me want to drink.” He was sprawled across a thatched picnic table at the edge of a stream.

“Sip your mango juice. Did we finish the conversation about Mack and his plans?”

“I think so. His plans are vague. He misses home and wants to see his mother and his girls.”

“Yes, we covered that.”

“You think Lisa will allow it?”

“I can’t predict. If she were healthy, she might be tougher to deal with. I can’t imagine what he wants to say to Margot and Helen.”

“Hey girls, I’m back? Miss me?”

“That might be a tough meeting. Let’s go cowboy. How’s your crotch?”

“The saddle on this bike is more uncomfortable than the one on the horse.”

“Oh, man up.”

They reached a peak, or some point up in the clouds where Jake finally quit, and they turned around and coasted down the trails, arriving at the lodge in time for a late lunch. It was followed by a long afternoon, their last, by the pool, with Ricardo keeping their drinks fresh.

Their last dinner was just like the others — outdoors on the veranda, with the pool nearby, a magnificent sunset, and the other guests in fine form.

Their week in paradise was over, and they fell asleep to the sounds of wicker ceiling fans and macaws squawking in the distance.

Ricardo woke them at six, the appointed time, and brought them food for the trip. He loaded their luggage onto his cart and they hustled down to the front reception where a van was waiting.

Jake said, “I’ll go check out.”

Ricardo said, “No, Mr. Jake, it’s taken care of.”

“But the food and drinks.”

“Everything is covered, Mr. Jake.”

Which was exactly what Jake was expecting, though he felt obliged to make an effort anyway. He tipped Ricardo generously, and they headed for San José.

(11)

Two months passed without a word. Harry Rex located Odell Grove, and, not surprisingly, found that little had changed in his world. He and his two sons ran a logging business in the western edge of Ford County and stayed to themselves. He owned five acres of scrub forest and lived in a trailer with his wife. His sons had their own trailers just down the road. Jerrol Baker was serving a ten-year sentence for cooking meth. Under the ruse of seeking information in an embezzlement case, Harry Rex contacted the FBI and was told that the agent he’d met after Mack vanished had been transferred to Pittsburgh. He cajoled another agent into checking around the office, and was eventually informed that there was no open file on anybody named J. McKinley Stafford, of Clanton.

Jake had lunch with Sheriff Ozzie Walls, at Claude’s, and managed to work Mack Stafford into the conversation. Ozzie said nobody had heard a word and his office had no open file. For some reason, he believed the rumors about Mack stealing a pile of money were not true.

Carla taught third grade at the elementary school, and her principal was friendly with Lisa Stafford. For the past ten years, Lisa had worked as an assistant principal at the high school. She was now on leave, for health reasons, and her condition was not improving. On the last day of classes in late May, her colleagues threw a small party in her honor in the faculty lounge. She was described as gaunt and pale, and she wore a pretty scarf over her bald head. They did not expect to see her back in the fall.

As the weeks passed, Jake and Harry Rex talked less and less about Mack. They did not correspond with him because there was nothing to report. And they agreed in private that it would be best if he stayed away. His presence back in Mississippi would only complicate their lives, not to mention his. They were convinced no one was looking for Mack, but a return might possibly set in motion events that neither he nor they could control.

The complications began around noon on a Thursday with a phone call to Jake’s office. Alicia took it and buzzed Jake upstairs. “It’s a Mr. Marco Larman, says you’re expecting a call. Never heard of him.”

“I’ll take it.”

Jake swallowed hard and stared at the blinking button on his phone. Then he smiled and said to himself, “What the hell. This might be fun.” He punched the button and said, “Jake Brigance.”

“Mr. Brigance, I’m Marco Larman,” Mack began stiffly, as if someone else might be listening.

“Hello, Marco. What can I do for you?”

“Could you and Mr. Vonner meet me for a drink tomorrow afternoon in Oxford?”

That would be Friday afternoon, and Jake didn’t bother to look at his schedule because he knew there was nothing on it. Friday afternoons in warm weather meant the legal business in Clanton would be shut down. Harry Rex would not be in court because there would not be a judge within fifty miles of the courthouse. And, if he had appointments, he would cancel them for the adventure.

“Sure. When and where?”

“Around five p.m. The bar at the Ramada Inn.”

“Okay. So you’re stateside?”

“Let’s talk tomorrow.” The line went dead.

(12)

Jake insisted on driving for two reasons. The first was that Harry Rex behind the wheel was as dangerous as Harry Rex in the courtroom. He drove either too fast or too slow, ignored the basic rules of the road, and exploded with rage at the slightest infraction by another driver. The second was that it was Friday afternoon and he was already hitting the Bud Light. Jake declined a beverage and happily drove.

Just past the Clanton city limits, he said, “To be honest, this is kinda fun. Not your everyday client meeting.”

Harry Rex chewed on an unlit black cigar in the corner of his mouth. “I think the boy’s stupid. He made a clean break, nobody in the world knows where he was, and now he wants to come back to nothin’ but trouble. What kinda work’s he gonna do? Open up a law office?”

“I don’t think he plans to live here. He mentioned Memphis, someplace out of state.”

“Brilliant. As if the state line’ll stop trouble.”

“He’s not expecting trouble.”

“I get that, but the truth is he doesn’t know what to expect. I know things are quiet but her family could cause a ruckus.”

“They’re good folks. They’re more concerned with Lisa’s health than any bad memories of Mack Stafford.”

“That might be easy to assume, but no one can predict what’ll happen.”

“What can they do to Mack?”

“I doubt they have any love for the guy, right? They’re starin’ at the reality of raisin’ two teenage girls, something they weren’t plannin’ on in their golden years. All because their shifty ex-son-in-law took the money and ran away. I’d be pissed all right, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“Stop up there at Skidmore’s. I need a cold one.”

“You already have one.”

“It’s not cold.”

“How many have you had today?”

“You sound like my wife.”

“Just stop, ass.”

They bickered for an hour until Oxford came into view. On the west side of town, Jake pulled in to the parking lot of the Ramada Inn at five minutes before five. He knew the bar from his college days but had not seen it in years. The students were gone and it was empty. They got beers and found a table in a corner. Fifteen minutes passed and there was no sign of Mack.

“Must be livin’ on island time,” Harry Rex mumbled, as if he were a real stickler for punctuality. He lit another cigar and blew smoke at the ceiling. Mack finally appeared, from nowhere, and shook hands with his old buddies. He wanted to sit where he could see the door. Harry Rex rolled his eyes at Jake but said nothing. They huddled over their beers and swapped insults about weight gains and losses, different hairstyles, beards, attire. Harry Rex was impressed with Mack’s altered looks — the deep tan, the beard, the longer hair, the funky eyeglasses, which were different from the ones Jake had seen two months earlier. Mack was not surprised at Harry Rex’s appearance. Little had changed and nothing had improved. They enjoyed a few laughs and worked on their beers.

Jake got serious with “How’d you enter the country?”

“Legally, with a passport.”

Harry Rex said, “Jake tells me you’re Brazilian now.”

“That’s right. Brazilian, and also Panamanian, though my Spanish is not that good. And I still have my American passport, which I assume works. Didn’t want to risk it though.”

“So you can buy citizenship?” Jake asked with no small measure of disbelief. He had never thought about it. “Is it that easy?”

“Depends on the country, and the cash. It’s not that difficult.”

They mulled this over for a moment. There were so many questions, so much ground to cover, but only Mack knew where they were going.

Harry Rex asked, “How safe do you feel right now, back in Mississippi?”

“I entered our dear state two days ago, drove to Greenwood to see my mom. Then I left.” And went where? He let them hang for a few seconds. They wanted to know where he was staying, or living, but evidently he wasn’t saying yet.

“So you feel safe?”

“I’m not worried. Should I be? I mean, there’s no active investigation. No one is looking for me, right?”

Harry Rex blew some smoke and said, “Well, we ain’t makin’ no guarantees, you understand? But it appears as if the bloodhounds are still locked up.”

Jake added, “Nothing has changed in the two months since I saw you in the jungle, but nothing is for certain.”

“I get it. I know there’s some risk involved.”

Harry Rex asked, “What, exactly, do you want, Mack?”

“I need to see my girls. I doubt Lisa will have anything to do with me, and that’s okay. The feelings are mutual. But she’s very close to the girls, and if she dies they’ll be in for a rough time. I should never have left them.”

“You want custody?” Jake asked with raised eyebrows.

“Not as long as she’s alive. Who knows, maybe there’ll be a miracle and she’ll survive. But, if she doesn’t, then what? I’m not sure the girls want to live with their grandparents. God help them.”

“What makes you think they want to live with you?” Harry Rex asked.

Jake chuckled and asked, “Or for that matter, what makes you think you want to raise two teenage girls?”

“Let’s take it one step at a time, fellas. First, I’ll try to meet with Lisa, just to say hello. Then, I’ll try to meet with the girls, sort of reintroduce myself. Sure, it’ll be painful and awkward and probably just dreadful, but we have to start somewhere. There’s a financial angle here that needs to be addressed. College is just around the corner.”

They took a break as Harry Rex relit his cigar and blasted another cloud toward the ceiling. Jake sipped his beer, uncertain where the conversation was going. Finally, Mack said, “Jake, I’d like for you to contact the family and tell them that I’m back and would like to see Lisa.”

“Why me?”

“Because it’s either you or Harry Rex and you have a better understanding of how to handle delicate matters.”

Harry Rex nodded his agreement. He had no desire to deal with Lisa and her family.

Jake said, “Go on.”

“The best way to do it is to call Dr. Pettigrew, Lisa’s brother-in-law. Dean’s not my favorite person, never was, a lot of in-law baggage, but maybe that’s all water under the bridge now.”

“You hope,” Harry Rex grunted.

“Yes, I hope. Dean is fairly levelheaded, not a bad guy, really, and I’d like for you to call him to break the news that I’m back in the area and would like to see Lisa.”

Harry Rex frowned and asked, “What comes after ‘hello’? I’d hate to be in that room.”

“Well, you won’t be so butt out. Let me worry about it.”

Harry Rex gulped his beer and wiped a thick mustache of foam from his upper lip.

Mack continued, “You’re not my lawyer, Jake, just a friend, and the Bunning clan will not despise you the way they loathe me and despise Harry Rex.”

Harry Rex shrugged it off. He could not care less. It went with the territory.

Jake asked, “And where might this meeting with Lisa take place?”

“I don’t know. Her doctors may have some restrictions about where she goes and who she sees. Dean will know all that stuff. Just make the first call and hopefully it will lead to the second and third. Nothing about this will be easy, fellas.”

“Got that right.”

Jake said, “The family will have some questions. Like, how long are you staying? Is it permanent? Where are you living? Why’d you leave? How much money did you take? Things like that. You can’t just drop in from the moon and say, ‘Here I am.’ ”

Mack nodded and took a sip. He watched the door, a habit now, but there was no traffic. “I’m living out of a suitcase, hotels and such. No fixed address for the near future. I will not be staying in Ford County so they can relax, and I will not make an effort to see Lisa and the girls without the family’s permission. Promise them that, Jake.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Word’ll leak like crazy and the gossip’ll go nuts, you know that, don’t you?” Harry Rex said.

“Yes. I know Clanton. There’s a ton of gossip when absolutely nothing is happening. I’m sure the place was buzzing when I flew the coop.”

Jake and Harry Rex smiled at the memories. Then Jake laughed and said, “We were in chancery court one morning with Judge Atlee, docket call day, a bunch of lawyers going through the usual dog and pony show. Old Stanley Renfrow from down in Smithfield stood up and said, ‘Judge, I got this divorce case with Mr. Stafford on the other side but he won’t return my phone calls. Rumor is he left town. Anybody seen him?’ Several of us looked at each other and smiled. Judge Atlee said, ‘Well, Mr. Renfrow, I don’t think his telephones work anymore. Seems like Mr. Stafford turned off the lights and walked away. He hasn’t been seen in several weeks.’

“ ‘What about my divorce case?’

“ ‘I think Mr. Vonner has his old files.’

“ ‘Okay. Say, Judge, how do you just walk out of your law office?’

“ ‘I don’t know. Never seen it before.’

“ ‘Well, I wish to hell someone had told me how to do it thirty years ago.’

“We had a big laugh, then we whispered about where you might be. No one had a clue.”

“Stuttering Stanley Renfrow,” Mack said. “I knew him well and can honestly say I haven’t missed him one bit.”

“Who have you missed?” Jake asked.

“The two of you. That’s it.”

Harry Rex said, “Hell, Mack, it took ten lawyers just to pick up the slack after you left.”

“Nice try, big guy, but I know better. I may have been missed by a few friends and some family, but I can promise you my clients didn’t care.”

Jake laughed and said, “The rumors went on and on. They died down, then there would be a sighting and the whole town would fire up again.”

“A sighting?” Mack asked. “Never happened. At least not to my knowledge. I spent the first year in Belize and I’m almost positive I was never sighted. Had a close call one time, but nobody from around here.”

“Where’d you go after that?” Harry Rex asked.

Mack smiled and sipped his beer and studied the dark room. After a long pause he said, “A lot of places. I’ll tell you guys all about it sometime, but not now.”

(13)

Dr. Dean Pettigrew was one of three orthopedic surgeons in Clanton. Twenty years earlier he had married Stephanie Bunning, a pretty coed he met at Ole Miss. She was from a prominent family in town and wanted to live there. He was from Tupelo, an hour away, and that was close enough to his family. He worked hard and prospered, and he and Stephanie and their two sons lived among the upper crust in a fine modern home on the fourteenth fairway of the country club. Virtually all the doctors lived close by, behind gates.

After playing eighteen holes on Saturday morning, Dean returned home in his golf cart and was told by Stephanie that Jake Brigance had called. To their recollection, Jake had never called the house. They knew Jake and Carla but didn’t socialize with them. Being a doctor, his first thought was that Jake, a lawyer, wanted to discuss a potential claim for medical malpractice. It was a knee-jerk reaction and he dismissed it quickly. Jake was well liked and didn’t sue doctors, or local ones anyway. But with lawyers one could never be certain.

Dean settled into his leather chair in the den and picked up the phone. After a quick round of awkward chitchat, Jake said, “So look, Dean, I’ll get right to the point. I met with Mack Stafford yesterday. He’s back in the area.”

Dean almost dropped the phone and for a second or two could not respond. He finally said, “Okay. We were hoping he was gone for good.”

“Yes, it surprised me too. I’m not his lawyer, you understand, just a friend. I wouldn’t be making this call if he hadn’t asked me to.”

“Obviously. What’s up?”

“Well, Mack would like to meet with Lisa.”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“I’m serious. Again, I’m only the messenger.”

Stephanie was listening. She eased into the den and sat near her husband, who frowned at her and shook his head. Dean said, “I can’t imagine Lisa wanting to ever see him again, Jake.”

“I understand.”

“Does he know she’s sick?”

“Yes. Don’t ask me how.”

“Where’s he been?”

“South of here. That’s all I know.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Stephanie was shaking her head in disbelief.

After a long gap, Jake asked, “Is it okay if I ask how she’s doing?”

Dean exhaled and said, “Not good, Jake. The last round of chemo didn’t work. There’s not much else to do. This will not help in any way.”

“I’m sure it won’t. Look, Dean, I’ve made the call. The rest is up to Lisa.”

“And what might Mack want to talk about?”

“I don’t know. He wants to meet with Lisa and then maybe with the girls.”

“This is nothing but trouble, Jake.”

“I know.”

“I can’t imagine Lisa wanting to see him and I’m sure she’ll keep the girls away.”

“I can’t blame her for that.”

Another pause, then Dean said, “She and the girls are coming over for dinner. I’ll have to tell the family about this.”

“Sure. I’m sorry to be involved, Dean.”

“Thanks, Jake.”

Later in the afternoon, Lisa arrived with the two girls, Margot and Helen. She was weak and fragile and had stopped driving. Margot, at seventeen, was more than happy to be the chauffeur. She and Helen quickly changed into bikinis and jumped in the pool. Their two cousins, the Pettigrew boys, were in Oxford at an Ole Miss baseball game.

Lisa preferred to sit on the veranda, in the cool shade, with a heavy ceiling fan rotating slowly above her. Stephanie served lemonade and sat beside her sister. Dean took a seat and they watched the girls bounce off the diving board. Though Margot was only a year older than Helen, the difference was striking. Margot was mature and fully developed and could pass for a young lady of twenty. Her bikini was mostly strings, rather skimpy in Dean’s judgment, and it would not be liked by her grandparents, who were due in an hour or so. Dean knew that Margot could not care less what they thought and had spent the last year finding ways to disappoint them. Helen was the quieter of the two, even timid at times, and still had the skinny body of a twelve-year-old. They, along with their mother, had been humiliated by Mack’s grand adventure, his sudden disappearance, his abandonment. The whole family had been humiliated.

Over the past year, as one treatment after another failed to stop a very aggressive cancer, the family had whispered about what to do with the girls. There were only two options, neither attractive. They would live with their grandparents, or they would move into the Pettigrews’ spacious home. No one really wanted them, especially Margot. Regardless, though, they would land in a warm place, surrounded by loving relatives.

Was there now a third option? Did Mack come back to rescue the girls after their mother died? Dean had serious doubts about this. Mack had abandoned them, and it seemed inconceivable that he would settle down in Clanton and try to be a father.

Dean said, “Let’s get this out of the way before your parents get here. Lisa, I got a phone call from Jake Brigance earlier this afternoon. He’s in contact with Mack, who’s now back in the area.”

As frail as she was, Lisa managed a quick and nasty “That son of a bitch.”

“Or worse. He wants to meet with you and he wants to see the girls.”

Stunned, her mouth fell open and her sad eyes doubled in size. “He what?”

“You heard me.”

“When did he get back?”

“I don’t know and I don’t think he’s in town, but he’s around. Details are sketchy.”

“Can’t they arrest him?”

“We didn’t talk about that, didn’t get that far.”

She sat her lemonade on a side table, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. She was a pitiful sight, and Dean and Stephanie ached for her. She knew she was dying, and now this. The past ten years had been hell. The crumbling marriage to a man who had worked hard but never earned much. His bouts with the bottle. His scandalous disappearance. The endless rumors of him absconding with a pile of money that belonged to his clients. The months and years of no contact. The realization that the scoundrel was really gone and not coming back. She blamed him for her failing health. The stress of the humiliation and the pressure to raise two teenagers as a single mother had taken an ugly toll. She was so tired of crying and tried to control her emotions, but a tear leaked out and she wiped her face. She sniffled, bit her lip, and allowed no more tears.

She opened her eyes and smiled at her sister. She looked at Dean and said, “I take it you’re supposed to call Jake back with an answer.”

“Yes.”

“Well, the answer is no. We have nothing to talk about. The divorce was practically over when he skipped town. Mercifully, it’s been final since then. I do not want to see his face or hear his voice. He has nothing to say and we have nothing to discuss. And if he contacts the girls or tries in any way to see them, I’ll call the police and take him to court if necessary.”

Dean smiled and said, “Clear enough.”

(14)

Early Monday morning, at precisely 5:00 a.m., the appointed hour, Jake rolled out of bed, eased from the bedroom, went to the kitchen, and punched brew on the coffee pot. He went to a spare bedroom downstairs where he showered and dressed. He fetched the Memphis, Tupelo, and Jackson newspapers from the end of his driveway and sat down at the breakfast table with his first cup and the morning’s news. At 5:45, he returned to his bedroom, popped Carla on the rump, kissed her on the cheek, told her he loved her, and left. She buried deeper under the covers, convinced, as always, that he was crazy to be up so early. He peeked in on Hanna and Luke, then left the house. He drove seven minutes to the Clanton square, parked in front of his office, and at 6:00 a.m. entered the Coffee Shop where Dell was laughing with a table of farmers and insulting a table of factory workers. No one else was wearing a coat and tie. He found his usual chair at a table where Andy Furr, a mechanic at the Chevrolet place, was waiting. Dell patted his head, bumped him with her ample rear end, and poured coffee. Marshall Prather, a deputy, said, “Say, Jake, you heard that Mack Stafford is back in town?”

The lightning speed of the town’s gossip never ceased to amaze him. He decided to play along and see what “they were telling.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, don’t think so. Rumor is he’s been seen and wants to hook up with his ex-wife.”

A farmer asked, “Weren’t you his lawyer, Jake?”

“No sir. Last I heard, Harry Rex handled his affairs. Who saw him?”

Prather said, “Don’t know. Heard it made the rounds at the Baptist church yesterday.”

“Well, then, it’s gotta be true.”

“Ain’t he wanted by the law?” Andy Furr asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Marshall, you know anything about that?”

“I don’t, but I’ll find out.”

“Didn’t he take a bunch of money and run?”

Jake said, “That was always the rumor.”

From the counter, Dell said, “We don’t do rumors around here. All of our gossip is the real stuff.”

That got a few laughs. The Coffee Shop was a notorious place for starting rumors, often to see how fast they could race around the square before returning in a greatly altered version. Jake was amused by the fact that no one had actually seen Mack. Evidently, the Bunning clan had spread the word at the First Baptist Church, where they were lifelong stalwarts, that Mack had made contact. This had no doubt electrified the congregation and sent hot rumors like bolts of lightning throughout the Sunday school and worship hour. Jake could only imagine the hundreds of phone calls that were made after church. As the irresistible story gained momentum, someone, a person who would never be identified, added the spicy twist that Mack had actually been seen.

There was no doubt that by noon Monday, after the town had absorbed and embellished the story, someone would have actually chatted with Mack.

One farmer had been sued by Mack years earlier and he still carried a grudge. That took the conversation to the subject of lawsuits, and frivolous ones at that, and the need for more tort reform. Jake ate his breakfast and said nothing.

Before long they were back on the weather and Mack was forgotten, for the moment anyway.

(15)

Promptly at 10:00 a.m., Herman Bunning walked into the law offices of Sullivan & Sullivan and announced to the receptionist that he had an appointment. He was offered a seat but politely said no. He was not planning to wait. He called his lawyer the night before and they had agreed on the hour. If he could be on time, then so could the lawyer. He stepped to the large window and looked at the courthouse. He tried to remember the last time he had sought legal advice from Walter Sullivan. At $200 an hour, he was hoping for a brief visit.

His company, Clanton Redi-Mix, had been in the family for over fifty years. Since the demand for concrete was not that great in such a small town, his company had few serious legal problems. He had never sued anyone, nor had he been sued, other than the occasional accident involving one of his trucks. Walter drafted tight contracts and kept his thumb on the legal matters. Most of the successful businessmen in town relied on Walter, along with the bankers, insurance companies, railroads, big farmers, folks with some money.

That was why Jake and the other lawyers in town loathed the Sullivan firm. It had clients who could pay.

A secretary fetched him and he followed her back to the big office. He said yes to coffee, with one sugar, and sat facing Walter with a massive desk between them.

Walter said, “I can’t find anything. Ozzie says there’s no outstanding warrant. The grand jury met a couple of times back then but there was no real proof.” He lifted a pile of papers and continued, “I have copies of the divorce filings and decree, along with his bankruptcy petition. Not much there.”

“Tell me about it,” Herman grunted. “The boy never made any money. They lived hand-to-mouth, can’t count the number of times I had to bail ’em out.”

“How is Lisa?”

“Same as last night when you asked about her.”

Walter nodded and remembered Herman’s penchant for bluntness.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. Look, Walter, isn’t it pretty well known among you lawyers that Mack got his hands on some money that wasn’t his and then left town? I mean, doesn’t that make sense? How could he run away if he didn’t have any money? And why would he? Lisa got the house and cars and bank accounts and such, everything was hocked to the max anyway, but he also kicked in fifty grand in cash. The boy never had that kind of money. So you gotta figure that if he suddenly had cash to give her, then he probably had a lot more that he was hiding. You follow?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And if he looted his trust accounts or whatever to get the money, he certainly didn’t include it with his assets when he filed for divorce.”

“Nor bankruptcy. That’s the more serious charge. Bankruptcy fraud.”

“Great. So how do you prove it?” The secretary eased in and handed both men cups of coffee. She left and closed the door. Herman took a swig and smacked his lips.

“So, let me get this straight, Herman. You want to go after Mack.”

“Damned right I do, pardon my language. He abandoned my daughter and granddaughters and ran off with some money. He was a lousy husband, Walter, I’ve told you about him. Drank too much. Never made a dime. Wasn’t lazy but just couldn’t figure out the law.”

“I knew Mack well, Herman, and I liked him.”

“I liked him at first, but you could see the marriage unravel. He’s one of those Delta boys, Walter, you know how they are. They’re just different.”

“I know, I know.”

“Anyway, how can we prove he committed fraud?”

“Why bother with it, Herman?”

That irritated the client and he seethed for a moment. He sipped his coffee and let it pass. Then he smiled and said, “Because he’s a crook, Walter, and a bad person. Because my daughter probably won’t make it to the end of the year, probably the summer, and she’ll leave behind two teenage girls that Honey and I will have to raise. And we’re up to it, we’re ready, but we certainly weren’t planning on it. They’ll be expensive, and a handful, and, well, we were already thinking about retirement. That can wait. If Mack has some money, then he owes it to Lisa and the girls.”

“How much are you willing to spend to find out?”

“How much will it cost?”

“I’ll have to pay a private investigator to start digging. I’m not sure about the legal work but there will be some hours involved.”

“How much, from soup to nuts?”

“Ten thousand.”

Herman grimaced as if stricken by irritable bowels, shifted his weight, gritted his teeth, and said, “I was thinking more like five thousand?”

Walter didn’t mind negotiating because he was also thinking about more potential clients. If Mack had shafted others, then they too might have claims. If Walter found the pot of gold, he might well be in charge of it. He scribbled some notes as he frowned and couldn’t get the math to work. “Look, Herman, this is not really my cup of tea, you know? I can get this done but it’s a pain, right? Let’s agree on seventy-five hundred.”

“That’s still too much but I don’t want to bicker.”

“Okay, then, write me the check.”

“I’ll mail it tomorrow.” Herman glanced at his watch. So far the meeting had lasted less than fifteen minutes. That was $50, right? He would pounce on Walter’s monthly bill when it arrived, to verify the time and the cost.

He thanked him for the coffee and hustled out of the office.

Across the square, Jake was loafing at his desk when the call came. A familiar voice said, “Good morning, Jake, it’s Walter Sullivan.”

At that moment, there was not a single file in Jake’s office that could remotely interest anyone at the Sullivan firm. He was somewhat suspicious, but then calls from nowhere were not unusual. “Good morning, Walter. To what do I owe the honor?”

“We’ve represented Herman Bunning and his company forever.”

Of course you have, Walter. You get all the corporate work in town.

“And he just left the office. As you might guess, the family is pretty rattled right now. What can you tell me about Mack?”

“I’m not his lawyer, Walter. You need to chat with Harry Rex.”

“And what might he tell me?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I figured. No idea where Mack is.”

“None. Why do you care where Mack is, Walter?”

“I don’t. I’m just passing along the warning that he should stay away from Lisa and the girls.”

“Well, great. I got that warning from Dr. Pettigrew, loud and clear. I passed it along to Mack. He heard it. I seriously doubt there’s anything to worry about, Walter. Mack has no plans to stir up trouble.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“The message has been delivered, Walter. Relax.”

“See you around.”

After the call, Jake thought about it for a long time. The notion that Mack Stafford would somehow deliberately harm his daughters was ludicrous. It was a bully call, typical Sullivan. They had the money and power and didn’t mind using it.

He remembered when, not too long ago, Harry Rex threw one of his pig roasts at his hunting cabin in the woods south of town. He invited every lawyer and judge, even the ones he despised, and he invited Ozzie and his deputies and the local police from Clanton. Most of the courthouse gang was there, along with an assortment of investigators, runners, process servers, and even tow truck operators. There were kegs of cold beer and plenty of barbecue. A bluegrass band played on the porch. Harry Rex’s timing was perfect — there was nothing else happening in the county that day — and the crowd was huge. He wanted a full-blown redneck party and that’s what he got. Jake and Carla bumped into Mack and Lisa and tried to have a friendly chat. It was obvious that she was uncomfortable mixing with a lower-class crowd. The country club was far away. Later, Jake saw her sitting alone on the rear porch, sipping a diet soda and looking thoroughly out of place. He later heard the rumor that she left without telling Mack. He hitched a ride home with a friend.

It was common knowledge around town that the marriage was unhappy, primarily because Lisa had dreams bigger than anything Mack could deliver. As Stephanie and Dr. Pettigrew prospered and traded one home for one even larger, they left the Staffords behind in the dust.

His daydreaming was interrupted by the next unexpected phone call. It was Dumas Lee, the nosy and persistent chief reporter for The Ford County Times.

“What a surprise, Dumas,” Jake said.

“I hear Mack is back,” Dumas sang, as if on to something big. “What can you tell me?”

“Mack who?”

“Right. Look, a source tells me you’ve met with Mack, seen him live and in person.”

Dumas always claimed to have a source, whether one existed or not. “No comment.”

“Come on, Jake, you can do better than that.”

“No comment.”

“Okay, I’m going to ask you a simple question, one that requires a yes or no answer, and if you say ‘no comment,’ then it will be obvious that the answer is yes. Have you seen Mack Stafford in person in the past month?”

“No comment.”

“In other words, you have.”

“Whatever, Dumas. I’m not playing your game. What’s the big deal anyway? Mack is free to come and go. He’s not a wanted man.”

“Not a wanted man. I like that. Can I use it?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks, Jake.”

“Anytime.”

(16)

Mack’s fateful decision to take the money and run, to file for divorce, then for bankruptcy, to close his office, sign everything over to Lisa, say goodbye to her and the girls, and disappear, had been precipitated by a single phone call. A New York lawyer named Marty Rosenberg called during lunch one day and was willing to offer quick cash to settle some dusty old cases Mack had almost forgotten about. Mack answered the phone because Freda, his secretary, was not in. Had she been there, and had she known of the settlement talk, Mack’s life would not have taken such a dramatic twist. For five years Freda had handled the phones, typing, clients, books, everything that a secretary does in a small-town office.

Mack fired her that day and she left in a huff. He’d had a few beers and returned to the office nicely buzzed. She snapped at him because he had missed two appointments that afternoon. He didn’t care. They argued, said too much, and he fired her on the spot, gave her thirty minutes to clean out her desk and disappear. After dark, he left the office and went to a bar. When he finally went home, Lisa was waiting on the front porch in full combat mode. He slipped on some ice in the driveway, busted his head, and spent two days in the hospital. While he was laid up, Freda returned to the office and went through the books and files. She expected to find little and she was not disappointed. She knew his business better than he did. Mack, like most lawyers in town, often hustled clients in city and county courts for cash, fees that were conveniently kept off the books. One reason for going through his files was to make sure there were no unofficial records of fees paid in cash. That, plus she wanted to know if he had a bank account or two that perhaps Lisa knew nothing about, but there were no records of hidden money. Freda had always kept a ledger of his current files and she made a copy for herself. It was not an impressive lineup of pending cases. When Mack fled, she heard rumors that he had bilked some clients and embezzled funds. At the time, he was representing three guardianships, with a grand total of $22,000 in his trust account. His real estate escrow account had a balance of $350. These monies were untouched when Mack disappeared.

The only possible sources of any substantial fees were four old product liability cases Mack had signed up and then neglected for years. The chain saw cases, once a potential bonanza, at least in his opinion. She had almost forgotten about them, though she did remember typing his blustery letters to the manufacturer a long time ago. When he lost his enthusiasm, the cases got shoved to the bottom of the pile.

While he was in the hospital, Freda obtained his phone records and saw the mysterious calls to and from a law firm in New York City. She made notes and filed them away. About a month after Mack left, two FBI agents paid her a visit and asked some random questions, but it was obvious they were going through the motions. Though she was still angry over the firing, she had no loyalty at all to the FBI and gave them nothing.

She left Clanton and eventually settled in Tupelo where she worked as a real estate paralegal in a prosperous law firm. She was at her desk Tuesday afternoon when a private investigator appeared. Tight sports coat, thickly knotted tie, pointed-toe boots, gun on hip. His line of work was obvious. She had seen a hundred of them in her career as a legal secretary and could spot one on the other side of the street.

He introduced himself as Buddy Hockner and handed her a business card. He said he was doing some investigative work for a lawyer over in Clanton.

“Which one?” she asked. In the recent past she had known all of them.

“Walter Sullivan.”

So this was not a messy divorce or a garden-variety car wreck. If the Sullivan firm was involved, the stakes were probably higher. She could not think of any reason Walter Sullivan needed something from her.

“I remember him,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

Without asking, Buddy plopped down in the only chair on the other side of her desk.

“Have a seat,” she said.

“Have you had any contact with your old boss, Mack Stafford, recently?”

“Why would I tell you if I did?”

“I come in peace.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Mack is back. Any word from him?”

This amused her and she offered a smile, the first. “No, I’ve heard nothing from Mack since the day he fired me. Almost three years ago. Look, I’m pretty busy and I’d rather not discuss this on the job.”

“Got it. Can I buy you a drink after work?”

“One drink. I’m not much of a talker.”

They met two hours later in a downtown bar. They found a dark corner and ordered drinks. Buddy laid everything on the table and promised her he had nothing to hide. From time to time he worked for Mr. Sullivan, who, on behalf of Lisa’s family, had been hired to poke through Mack’s dirty laundry. They strongly suspected some money had been taken and kept away from the divorce and bankruptcy proceedings.

Freda was saddened to hear about Lisa’s health. The two had never been close but they had managed to get along, no small feat in Mack’s world.

She said, “Mack never had any money. There was nothing to steal.”

Buddy reached into a pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed it to her. It was a copy of a certified check for $50,000, drawn on a bank in Memphis, and made payable to Lisa. He said, “This was part of the divorce settlement, about the only thing of value she got.”

Freda shook her head and said, “Mack never had this kind of money. He kept about five thousand dollars in the law firm checking account, but even that ran low at times. He paid me thirty thousand a year, I never got a raise, and there were a couple of years when I made almost as much as he did.”

“Did he have an account with a Memphis bank?”

“Not to my knowledge. He banked in Clanton, though he hated to. Hated the fact that somebody at the bank knew how broke he really was.”

“So, where did the money come from?”

Freda had always resented the way Mack had simply vanished, the way he abandoned his wife and two daughters. After he disappeared, she, too, had been implicated by the local gossip. There were rumors that she was involved in his shenanigans and so on. That was one reason she left town. She owed him nothing. Hell, he’d fired her on the spot and watched as she cleaned out her desk.

She took a sip of her vodka soda and said, “I got his phone records, don’t ask me how. The day he fired me, he took a call from a New York law firm, came at twelve-ten when I was at lunch, and then he evidently left the office and had a few beers. When he returned around five p.m. we had our fight. He’d missed two appointments, something he never did because he needed the clients. I never saw him again, don’t want to see him now.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out her own sheet of paper. “This is a copy of his client ledger, all of his open cases. I’ve highlighted four of them, the chain saw cases. At the top you see the name of Marty Rosenberg, with his phone number. He’s the lawyer in New York, the one I assume who called when I wasn’t there. Whatever they talked about I don’t know, but it was enough to push Mack over the edge. I’m not sure, but I’m guessing Mr. Rosenberg knows the rest of the story.”

(17)

It was a slow news week in Clanton. When The Ford County Times hit the streets before dawn on Wednesday, there was a front-page story beneath the fold with the headline “Is Mack Stafford Back in Town?” With Dumas Lee reporting, the story said that several “unnamed sources” had confirmed that ex-lawyer Mack Stafford had reappeared. No one had actually seen him, or at least no one who would go on the record. The bulk of the story was Mack’s past: his seventeen years in private practice, his divorce and bankruptcy, and his mysterious disappearance. Sheriff Walls was quoted as saying, “I am not aware of any ongoing investigation.” When asked if it was true that a grand jury had investigated the bizarre case, Ozzie had no comment. There were two black-and-white photos, one of Mack in a coat and tie, taken from the bar directory. The other was of Jake Brigance, in a dark suit leaving the courthouse. Under Jake’s photo was the bold quote: “He is not a wanted man.”

Jake read it with his morning coffee and cursed himself for even speaking to Dumas. It was stupid to give the guy anything remotely quotable. The implication was clear: that Jake was involved and was probably Mack’s lawyer.

He did not look forward to the Coffee Shop. Skipping it, though, was not an option. As he had learned, skipping out only made the gossip worse.

(18)

Later Wednesday morning, Walter Sullivan called the New York office of Durban & Lang, a mega-firm with thousands of lawyers scattered around the world. He asked for Mr. Marty Rosenberg, and was informed by one of his secretaries that the great man was unavailable, which was exactly what Walter expected. He said that he would fax over a letter that explained his reason for calling and would appreciate a few minutes on the phone. After he hung up, he sent the letter. It read:

Wednesday passed with no word from New York. At nine the following morning, Walter’s secretary buzzed his desk with the call. Marty began with a friendly “Good morning, Mr. Sullivan, how are things down south?”

“Couldn’t be better, Mr. Rosenberg. Thanks for the call.”

“You betcha. I married a girl from Atlanta and we get down there occasionally.”

“Great city,” Walter replied. In many ways, Atlanta was closer to New York than to Clanton.

“Anyway, I got your letter and one of my paralegals found the file.” Walter could visualize the great lawyer with teams of paralegals lined up outside his door. “What can I do for you?” Marty asked.

“Well, it looks like our pal Mr. Stafford negotiated a settlement of some sort, then skipped town. Is it possible for you to confirm that there was indeed a settlement?”

“Oh boy,” he said as he exhaled, as if they were entering a touchy area. “Look, we still represent the Swiss company, Littleman, and yes they gobbled up Tinzo a few years back. At the time there were some of these product claims on Tinzo’s books but nothing in the way of litigation had materialized. The Swiss wanted a clean slate. They don’t like our tort system, can’t blame them for that, and so they told us to get rid of the claims, such as they were. They were dumped on my desk with instructions to make offers. I’m afraid that’s about all I can say. The settlements were confidential, as you might guess, and my client admitted no liability at all.”

“I see. Is it possible to get copies of the settlement agreements?”

“Oh no. The Swiss are as tight-mouthed as anyone. They would never agree to release any of the details. Not sure why, after so long, and it was a drop in the bucket anyway. Littleman did fourteen billion in sales last year so this was chicken feed. But, that’s the way they operate. We’re not talking anything criminal, are we?”

“Certainly not on your part. Your client has done nothing wrong.”

“Of course not. Who do you represent?”

“Mr. Stafford’s ex-wife. They were going through a divorce and, though we certainly don’t know for sure, it appears likely that he hid some money.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Marty said with a laugh, and Walter felt compelled to laugh along too. When the humor passed, Walter pressed with “So, there’s no way to see the settlement agreements?”

“Only with a subpoena, Mr. Sullivan. Only with a subpoena.”

“Got it. We’ll get to work on it. I really appreciate your time, sir.”

“My pleasure. Good day, sir.” And Marty was gone, no doubt engulfed quickly by staff.

(19)

Jake was drafting another simple will, yet another one for an elderly couple with almost nothing to leave behind. They were members of his church and Jake had known the family for years. His secretary buzzed in with “Jake, there’s a young woman on the phone with no name, says it’s urgent.”

His first thought was: Tell her I’m busy. Every small-town lawyer was a target for similar calls, and they were always trouble. However, years earlier, when he was fresh from law school, he had declined such a call and found out later that the woman was hiding from an abusive husband. The guy found her and beat her and went to prison. Jake had felt guilty for a long time.

“Okay,” he said, and picked up the receiver.

A soft voice said, “Mr. Brigance, my name is Margot Stafford. I’m Mack’s oldest daughter.”

“Hello, Margot.” He had never met her, but a few years back he and Carla had watched a junior high girls’ basketball game with some friends whose daughter was on the team. Margot was playing, and playing well, and someone pointed her out as Mack’s daughter. “What can I do for you?”

“Is this conversation private?”

“It is, yes.”

“Good. I’d like to know if you’ve seen Mack.”

Not “my father” but “Mack.”

“Yes, I have.”

“So, he’s really back in the country?”

“He is.”

After a long pause, she said, “Would it be possible for me to meet with him, somewhere in private? My mother has no idea I’m calling you.”

“I’m sure Mack would love to see you, Margot. I think I can arrange a meeting, if that’s what you want.”

“Thank you. Uh, where could we meet?”

Jake racked his brain with this unusual request and could not think of a secret place. “How about my office, here on the square?”

“Don’t know about that. Would anybody see us?”

“No. There’s a back door.” Behind the small kitchen was a rear door that Jake had used many times to avoid troublesome clients. It opened into the alley behind his office, and the alley led to a maze of narrow passages where he sometimes bumped into other lawyers fleeing their work or their ill-tempered secretaries.

He gave instructions to Margot and they agreed on 2:00 p.m. Friday.

(20)

The U.S. Attorney for the Northern District of Mississippi had an entire floor of offices in the federal courthouse in Oxford. His senior prosecutor was Judd Morrissette, the younger brother of Walter Sullivan’s best friend from law school. On Thursday morning, Walter rode to Oxford in his fine Cadillac, driven by Harriet, his secretary and chauffeur. Outside of Clanton, and while on the job, Walter preferred to be driven. He said it gave him more time to work — to read thick documents, to make important calls, to ponder legal strategies — but the truth was that as the miles clicked by and the radio played soft country, Walter was usually napping.

He had known Judd Morrissette for years, and they spent the first fifteen minutes catching up with each other and talking about old friends. When they finally got around to Mack, Judd surprised Walter with a story about an old case in which he, Judd, prosecuted a bookie from Greenwood. His defense lawyer was Mack Stafford, who grew up in that town. So, Judd had met Mack years earlier and, along with every other lawyer in the state, had heard the story of his disappearance.

Walter explained that he had been hired by “the family” to explore the mysteries of how and why Mack left town. Mack’s ex-father-in-law, Herman Bunning, was a longtime client, and he was convinced Mack hid some money from his daughter in the divorce. And if he did, then he certainly hid the money in his bankruptcy.

In lower voices, they took a moment to divert the conversation to the latest on Lisa’s health. She was not doing well and not expected to improve.

Out of courtesy and respect, Judd listened and took some notes, but he initially had little interest in the case. Bankruptcy fraud was just not that exciting. The case, if there was one, was now three years old. The real victim was dying. It was a family mess that Judd preferred to avoid.

Walter was saying, “We found one of the four plaintiffs, a man named Odell Grove. Poor guy lost an eye in the chain saw accident. He wouldn’t talk to my investigator, but he might talk to the FBI.”

“And your theory is?”

“Stafford settled the cases quickly, kept most of the money, or far more than his share, kept it away from the divorce and bankruptcy, and skipped out.”

“How much?”

“Don’t know yet. I talked to a lawyer in New York who handled the settlements for the manufacturer, some Swiss outfit, but he wouldn’t say much. Send in the FBI and he’ll be a regular windbag.”

Judd laughed and said, “Yes, they do have a way of loosening tongues, don’t they?”

“Once we get the settlement agreements, everything will fall into place. We’ll know how much money was on the table and how much Mack kept for himself.”

Judd was warming to the idea. “Could be a pretty simple matter, really, you know? Find the plaintiffs and see what kind of deal they had with Mack. At the same time, get the paperwork from New York. Let me have a chat with the FBI.”

(21)

The one lunch spot in the county where Jake knew for an absolute certainty that no lawyer, disbarred or otherwise, would ever be recognized was a country store called Sawdust. It was a rustic joint favored by loggers and farmers, all white because blacks had stayed away forever. Jake had been there only once, with Harry Rex who had been looking for a witness in a violent divorce case. Mack Stafford had never been there and could not remember the last time he’d even driven by the place.

They met in the gravel parking lot at 11:30, early to avoid the noon rush, and stopped to look at the two black bears in a cage by the front porch. A confederate battle flag flopped in the breeze from a leaning flagpole.

Jake looked at Mack’s car, a boxy Volvo DL with plenty of miles on it, and said, “Nice wheels.”

“From Rent-A-Wreck. Six-month lease, all cash, insurance included.”

“Under the radar, huh?”

“Completely.”

“Tennessee tags.”

“I’m staying in Memphis these days, in a very small apartment that no one can find. Another cash deal.”

The front door opened into a cramped country store, with creaking planks for flooring, smoked meats hanging above the cash register, low ceilings, half a dozen battered rocking chairs situated around a potbellied stove that was not being used. They nodded to the cashier behind the counter and stepped into the dining room, a large add-on with a linoleum floor that was evidently sinking slowly toward the rear. The walls were covered with football schedules for Ole Miss, Mississippi State, and Southern Miss, as well as junior colleges and high schools. They took a small table in the corner and a waitress followed them to it.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, how are we doin’ today?” she chirped.

“Just great. We’re starving.”

“Special is beef stew and jalapeño cornbread. Can’t beat it.”

Jake nodded. “Ice tea, no sugar.”

“Same,” Mack said. She left them without writing down a word.

Mack preferred to sit with his back to the wall, face to the door. He wore a cap with the bill pulled low and a different pair of glasses. His chances of being recognized in the dining room of the Sawdust were about the same as being recognized in the rain forests of Costa Rica.

“How long you been back?” Jake asked.

“This is my eleventh day.”

“How’s the reentry, so far?”

“Pretty rocky, I’d say. It’s great seeing my mom. I drive down to Greenwood occasionally and sit with her. She’s almost eighty, still in decent shape, still drives. She hasn’t seen Helen and Margot since I left, so that’s another strike against me. They’re adding up. It was a lousy thing to do, Jake. Run away like that. I mean, at the time I was desperate to get out, to get away from Lisa and the practice of law and all that, but you can’t run away from people you love. I should’ve divorced her, closed the office, moved to Memphis or Jackson, got a job selling real estate or new Chevrolets, something, anything to support myself. I would have survived, hell, I would’ve made more money cutting grass.”

Two large plastic glasses of tea hit the table. “Lemon’s over there,” the waitress nodded.

Jake said, “It’s not too late to try again. You’re not exactly a geezer.”

“We’ll see. I’m trying to adjust these days. It’s overwhelming at times. Plus, there’s still the fear of the knock on the door.”

“That doesn’t look likely.”

Mack took a sip and said, “I can’t believe Margot called you like that. I wonder what she wants.”

“Maybe she wants to see her father. Her mother is dying. Her world is upside down. Were you guys close?”

“It seemed like a typical father-daughter relationship. Nothing really special. The girls always preferred to spend time with their mother, and that was fine with everyone. To be honest, Jake, I stayed away from home as much as possible. The marriage was crap from day one. To save it, we decided to have a couple of kids, which is not an uncommon mistake. How many times have you heard that with divorce clients?”

“At least a hundred.”

“That didn’t work. Nothing worked.”

“This is a horrible thing to say, Mack, but things might get easier for you after Lisa is gone. Don’t you think?”

“They can’t get much worse. The girls will be a mess. When I was in the picture the girls were close to their mother, but the teenage years were only beginning. Who knows what’s happened since then.”

“Will you try to get custody?”

“It’s too early. I don’t want to cause trouble right now. Besides, the girls are old enough to choose where they want to live. With me, or with their grandparents. I suspect Herman will put up a big fight to keep the girls. I’m not exactly a sympathetic father, you know? If they stay with the Bunnings, I’ll be somewhere close by and try to rebuild some trust. It’ll be a long process, but I have to start somewhere.”

Jake sipped his tea and had no response. Some farmers in overalls made a noisy entrance and assumed a table they seemed to own.

“Recognize anybody?” Mack whispered.

“Not a soul. I’m constantly amazed at the number of people I don’t know in this county of thirty thousand people.”

It took the same waitress about fifteen seconds to fire up the farmers, and they were soon complaining about the service. She retreated to the kitchen. Someone mentioned last night’s Cardinals game and baseball became the topic.

Mack listened and smiled and said, “You know, Jake, at times it’s hard to believe I’m back. For the first year or two down there I never thought about coming back. I tried to erase the past, but the longer I was away the more homesick I became. I was in a fishing camp one time, in Belize, and I saw a guy wearing an Auburn cap. It was in October, I suddenly missed the football games at Ole Miss. The tailgating in the Grove. The parties before and after the games. I missed my friends from those days, and I really missed my mother. We began writing letters. I was careful and routed them through Panama. It was so good to hear from home. The more I read her letters, the more I knew I had to come back.”

“How’d you find out Lisa was sick?”

“Someone told Mom. There’s a family friend from Greenwood with a connection to Clanton. Some of the news filtered through.”

The waitress placed two large platters in front of them. Steaming bowls, each with enough stew for a small family, and thick wedges of cornbread slathered with butter. They forgot about any conversation and began eating. The table next to them filled with some locals, one of whom took a long look at Mack, then lost interest.

When they finished lunch, they paid at the front counter. Mack left his Volvo at the Sawdust. Jake drove fifteen minutes to Clanton, and as they approached the square he asked, “So, what are your thoughts right now? Nostalgia? Relief? Any excitement at being back?”

“None of the above. Certainly no fond memories. I was unhappy here, left at the age of forty-two because I couldn’t stomach the thought of living the same life until I was sixty or seventy.”

“I’ve had those thoughts.”

“Of course you have. Everyone does. And there’s no end in sight because you can’t retire, can’t afford to.”

“You want to see your old office?”

“No. What is it now?”

“A yogurt shop. Frozen yogurt. Not bad.”

“I’d rather avoid that end of the square.”

Jake parked on a side street. They ducked into an alley and within seconds opened the rear door that entered into his kitchen. The front door of the office was locked, per Jake’s orders. Alicia stood and smiled but did not introduce herself. Again, at Jake’s orders. She was not to mention the name of Mack Stafford. She nodded to the closed door of the small downstairs conference room.

Mack walked to it and took a deep breath.

(22)

Margot was standing at the window, looking through the blinds. She did not turn around when he entered. She seemed not to hear him at all.

Mack closed the door, walked toward her, and stopped a few feet away. He was prepared for an awkward hug, then an hour of even more awkward conversation. He was prepared for tears and apologies and he was hoping for a little forgiveness.

She was much taller and had long dark hair that fell to her shoulders. She was still lean. Lisa had always refused to gain a pound and was a stickler for what the girls ate. The discipline was paying off because Margot, at least from a side view, looked older than seventeen.

He had programmed himself to fight off the emotions, the memories, the cherished photos of little girls in pigtails and pretty Easter dresses and dance costumes. The bedtime stories, the first day of kindergarten, the broken arm, the new family puppy. He had tucked those images away for so long he was convinced he could bury them forever, but when he saw her his knees quivered and his throat closed. He swallowed hard and clenched his jaw and willed himself to get tough, to power through it. A lot depended on her.

She finally turned and looked at him. Her eyes were already moist. “Why are you back?”

“I was hoping for a hug.”

She shook her head slightly and without a hint of emotion said, “No hugs, Mack. Not yet anyway.”

He was startled to be called “Mack” by his daughter, but then he had tried to prepare himself for a lot of surprises.

She stared at him coldly and her moist eyes seemed to clear. She pointed to a chair at the table, on his side, and said, “Why don’t you sit there and I’ll sit over here?”

Without a word Mack sat down and she did too, with the table between them. He studied her face and adored what he saw. She studied his and wasn’t so sure. She had Lisa’s soft brown eyes, full lips, and perfect skin. She had his high cheekbones and rounded chin. Since she had yet to smile he wasn’t sure about the teeth, though, as he recalled with horror, the orthodontist had cost a bundle when she was about twelve. The teeth better be perfect.

“What’s with the beard?” she asked in a tone that left little doubt she wasn’t a fan.

“I got tired of the face.”

“Part of the disguise?”

“Sure, along with the glasses.”

“You look a lot older than I remember.”

“Thanks. So do you. How’s your mother?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I was once married to her and I am concerned.”

She scoffed at this and looked away. “She’s very sick, down to eighty pounds. I find it hard to believe you’re really interested.”

He nodded gamely and admired her pluck. He deserved anything she could hurl across the table. He asked, “And Helen? How’s she holding up?”

“Do you really care about us, Mack?”

“You know, I think ‘Dad’ sounds better than ‘Mack,’ so can we go with it?”

“Why? Are you trying to be a father again? You gave up the father thing when you abandoned us. You don’t have the right to consider yourself my father.”

“That’s pretty tough. I am still your father, at least biologically. You can argue otherwise.”

“Emotionally you’re not. You gave that up when you left us. Now you’re back, Mack, so what’s your game? What are you after?”

“Nothing. I’m back because I got tired of running, because it was wrong to run and I want you to hear me say that I was wrong. I made a mistake, Margot, a terrible mistake, and I apologize. I can’t make up for the past three years but at least I can be around for the next three, the next five, the next ten. I’m back because I heard that Lisa is sick and I’m worried about you and Helen. I don’t expect you to welcome me with hugs and open arms, but give me some time and I’ll prove myself.”

Her stiff lip began to quiver and her cold eyes were moist again. She gave it a moment and it passed. “You’re moving back?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing right now, but, no, I’m not coming back to Clanton.”

“So when Mom dies where do we go? Foster care? Wards of the state? How about a nice orphanage?”

Mack adored this kid. She was quick and tough and had probably been through hell and back because of him. Instead of an emotional reunion, she had Mack pinned to the ropes and was flailing away.

“What about the Bunnings?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes in mock disbelief and shook her head. “Oh, I suppose that’s in the grand plan. As you remember, Hermie has the world under his thumb and is the supreme ruler. Since we have no place else to go, it’s a given that we’ll move into the big house and play by his rules.”

“Hermie?”

“That’s what I call him, behind his back, of course. Helen won’t do it. She’s still the perfect one and coos ‘Papa’ at him.”

There was a long pause as Mack savored the nickname “Hermie” and wished he’d had the guts to have been more disrespectful to his ex-father-in-law.

“I asked you about Helen,” he said.

“Oh, she’s okay. She’s sixteen and about as mature as a ten-year-old. She starts each day with a good cry because her mother is sick and then spends most of her time wallowing in the misery. You speak differently.”

“I ironed out the accent, part of the disguise.”

“Sounds phony.”

“Thanks.”

She reached for her purse and said, “Mind if I smoke?” It wasn’t a question. She deftly flicked out a cigarette, one of those long liberated ones, and lit it with a lighter in a motion so smooth that Mack knew she’d had plenty of practice.

“When did you start smoking?”

“A year or so ago. When did you start smoking?”

“When I was fifteen. Quit after law school.”

“I’ll quit someday, but right now it’s the bomb. Only a pack a day, though.”

“Your mother is dying of cancer and you’ve taken up cigarettes.”

“Is that a question? It’s breast cancer, not lung. And I like beer, too.”

“Anything else?”

“Wanna talk about sex?”

“Let’s change the subject.”

She smiled and knew perfectly well he was on his heels. She took a long pull, blew a cloud, and asked, “Do you have any idea how awful it is to be a fourteen-year-old girl and abandoned by your father, a man you loved and admired, a man you thought was really somebody because he was a big lawyer in a small town? A man who was a part of your life, usually there, at home, church, school, family, everywhere a father was supposed to be. Everywhere the other fathers still are, except mine. Any idea what that’s like, Mack?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“I know you’re sorry. You’re worse than sorry, Mack. I can think of a lot of colorful descriptions.”

“Unload. I’m not arguing. You want me to leave?”

“Go ahead. That’s what you do. Flee. Things get sticky, hit the road.” She was forceful and strong, but she wiped a tear. She puffed away for a moment as she collected herself.

As the adult, he bit his tongue and kept his voice calm and low. “I’m not leaving again, Margot, unless I’m forced to. I said I’m sorry, that’s all I can do. I’m thrilled to see you now and I’d like to see you again. Helen too.”

“Got a question, Mack. When you left here in the middle of the night, did you plan to ever see us again?”

He took a deep breath and gazed at the window. She waited, the slim cigarette delicately resting between two fingers, ready for the next puff. Her eyes were glaring a hole in him.

“I don’t know what I was thinking. You remember the night I came home drunk, slipped on the ice in the driveway, busted my head, and ended up in the hospital?”

“How could I forget? We were so proud.”

What a little smart-ass, but he let it go. It was actually funny but he didn’t smile. “Your mother had you brainwashed into believing that I was some terrible alcoholic and thus a terrible father.”

“I don’t remember it that way.”

“Well thank you. In the Bunning family, two bottles of beer and you’re ready for rehab. She was looking for support and she made sure you and Helen knew I was drinking. She told her family and friends, too.”

“Yes she did. She was pretty horrible about it.”

Thank you, dear. “To answer your question, when I left town my only thought was to just get away. I was sure I would see you again, but that was not in my plans. Not then, anyway. I just wanted to go somewhere far from here and put my life back together. I didn’t have a real plan, except to get away from Lisa.”

“Did you ever love her?”

It was a question he was not expecting. He gazed at the window again. “I thought I did, at one point, early on, but the romance wore off quickly and there was nothing left. As you know, we were really unhappy.”

“Why were you unhappy?”

“There are at least two sides, Margot. I’m sure you’ve heard the other one, loud and clear. Lisa became discontented with me and my career. I was trying to establish a law practice, which, as I learned, is hard to do in a small town like this. Look around the square, there are so many lawyers. Lisa wanted a lot more. She was raised with money and she was spoiled by her parents. Stephanie married a doctor and before long they were in a bigger house. Lisa watched everything they bought, talked about every trip they took, and so on. Her parents obviously favored Stephanie and Dean and often made comparisons, especially her mother. I never measured up, was never good enough. As you are acutely aware, they’re hardcore Baptists and expected me to be in church at least three times a week.”

“That hasn’t changed.”

“I’m sure. It was too much for me. I got sick of their hypocrisy, their materialism, their racism, all in the name of God. I tried to avoid them, and Lisa and I drifted apart. We chose not to fight in front of you and Helen, so we settled into a routine of faking it and trying to ignore one another. We were both pretty miserable. There you have it. My side of the story. The marriage was over and both of us wanted out. I saw an opportunity and ran away.”

She cocked her head and took a long drag, much like a beautiful actress in a crime movie, a sexy move she had down pat. She extended her bottom lip and exhaled a stream of smoke that rose to the ceiling. She had yet to offer anything close to a smile. She said, “Helen, of course, was oblivious, but I knew from the age of ten that things weren’t right. You can only hide so much from kids.”

“I’m sure I’ve caused you a lot of embarrassment.”

She rolled her eyes as if to say, If you only knew, then placed the cigarette in the ashtray and said, “Yes, you have, but it’s not all bad, Mack. It has really opened my eyes and it has taught me a lot about people. The rich kids, my old gang, have enjoyed the gossip behind my back, the put-downs, the snide comments, the stuff they’ve heard at home. The middle-class kids want to hang with the rich ones so they’ve piled on too. The poor kids have enough of their own problems. The black kids actually think it’s cool that my father beat the system and got away. They know what it’s like to be judged, so they don’t judge. They’re a lot more fun. I’ve learned a lot about people and most of it’s not good. In some weird way, I should say thanks, Mack.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Always the smart-ass, right?”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I get that from you. Mom has always said that I’m a natural smart-ass, just like my father.”

“That’s the nicest thing she’s said about me in years.”

“See.” And she finally smiled. The expensive teeth were dazzling.

Neither spoke for a long time. There was so much to say, but then they had already covered a lot of ground.

She took her purse and said, “I need to be going. I told Mom I was running some errands. She wants us to stay close.”

“And she has no idea we’re meeting?”

“No, no way. She would be furious if she knew. We’ve been lectured by her, and by Hermie too, that we are to report any effort by you to contact us.”

“I’m not surprised.” Mack had worried that the meeting was a ruse by the family to confirm the rumors that he was indeed back in the area. Now that he had been spotted, they could make their next move, whatever it might be. But those concerns were over. His beautiful daughter was blunt and honest, and could be trusted.

He said, “I’ll be thinking of you and Helen, and Lisa too. The next few weeks will be difficult.”

“Thanks, I guess. I gotta tell you, Mack, I’m tired of crying. I love my mother and I’ll die when she dies, but at some point I’ll wake up and get on with life. And it won’t be around here.”

“Got someplace in mind?”

She shook her head as if she’d had enough. “Not really. Look, let’s talk about it next time.”

“So we can meet again?”

“Sure.” She stood and walked to the door, where she stopped and looked at him. “Maybe next time, Mack, I’ll be ready for a hug.”

“I love you, Margot.”

Without a reply, she opened the door and left.

(23)

Of the four Special Agents assigned to the Oxford office of the FBI, the one with the least seniority was a rookie named Nick Lenzini. He was a cocky sort from Long Island, and when he left training at Quantico the last place he wanted to go was Mississippi. But, as he knew well, that was the way the Bureau operated. He would do his five years and transfer to a bigger assignment as soon as possible. The file landed on his desk when the other three agents quickly passed on it. They were too busy fighting terror, hate groups, cybercrime, and drug cartels. Bankruptcy fraud was not a priority.

Lenzini reviewed the Stafford bankruptcy case, and he slipped into Clanton and got a copy of the divorce file in the chancery clerk’s office. At the city library, he went through the archives of The Ford County Times and found three articles about Stafford’s disappearance. He was careful, dressed casually, and told no one he was with the FBI. He assumed, correctly, that any word of his presence would stir up the rumors and send the wrong signal to Mack, wherever he happened to be hiding.

Lenzini was delighted when his boss okayed a trip to New York. He could see his family, but, more important, he could rub elbows with veteran agents from the Manhattan office.

Two of them accompanied him as they entered a tall building in the financial district in downtown Manhattan. They rode an elevator to the seventy-first floor and stepped into the gilded world of Durban & Lang, at that moment the third-largest law firm in the entire world. A paralegal was waiting for them in the plush reception suite, and they followed him to a conference room with a stunning view of New York Harbor. Marty Rosenberg greeted them warmly and a secretary offered them coffee.

When they were seated, Marty took charge and was all charm. He began with “Sorry to be a pain about this, fellas, but I have my orders from my client, Littleman AG. A fine company with nothing to hide, you know. This is a simple matter involving the settlement of some rather dubious product liability cases from years back. I’ve reviewed the subpoena and all the paperwork is right here.”

He waved to a pile in the center of the table.

“We’ve made copies for you. I’m sure you have questions.”

Lenzini cleared his throat and said, “Thank you, Mr. Rosenberg. Perhaps you could hit the high points before we plow through the paperwork.”

“Certainly. We paid one hundred thousand dollars per claim, four of them, and we threw in another hundred thousand for litigation expenses. Total of half a mil. I handled it directly with Mr. Stafford and it was quite easy. He seemed eager to get the money.”

“And you wired it to him?”

“Yes, to a bank in Memphis. I sent down these settlement agreements and he got them signed, ostensibly by his four clients. Signatures are right there on the agreements, notarized and all, and he sent them back, quite promptly I might add. I reviewed them and released the money. Not a peep about anything until now.”

“And there’s a copy of the wire transfer?”

“Yes. You now have copies of everything in our files, including the initial demand letters sent from Mr. Stafford way back when. It’s all there.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rosenberg. We’ll take these and have a look.”

“My pleasure, gentlemen. Always happy to assist the FBI.”

The coffee arrived and they chatted for a few moments. Marty said, “Off the record, it looks like Mr. Stafford left town in a hurry not long after the settlements, right?”

All three agents stiffened at the question. Mr. Rosenberg was not in a position to know much about the investigation.

Lenzini cautiously said, “That appears to be the case. Did you have any reason to be suspicious?”

“None whatsoever. These settlements were mere formalities for my client, just a rather generous way of closing some old files. Littleman didn’t have to offer a dime to these plaintiffs, and Mr. Stafford certainly showed no interest in pursuing the claims.”

“Were there other complaints about the product?” Lenzini asked, biding time. It seemed a shame to leave such splendid surroundings so quickly.

Marty tapped his fingertips together and tried to recall. “Yes, seems like there were a few dozen around the country. Look, it’s a chain saw, right? A dangerous product when handled by experts. Come to think of it, we did go to trial in someplace like Indiana. Poor guy lost a hand, wanted a couple mil. The jury was sympathetic but found in favor of Littleman anyway. When you use a chain saw you assume the risk.”

It seemed odd to be sitting high above Wall Street, sipping coffee from designer china, and talking about... chain saws!

Marty glanced at his watch and was suddenly needed elsewhere. The agents took the hint, thanked him, gathered the paperwork, and were led back to the elevators.

(24)

Out of boredom, Mack found a job tending bar for cash wages, no paperwork, five bucks an hour plus tips. It was a college dive called the Varsity Bar & Grill, near Memphis State, and, typically, the students were not big tippers. Nor were they curious about who might be mixing their drinks. They were at least twenty-five years younger than Mack, couldn’t care less about where he was from or who he was, and none of them had ever been to Clanton, Mississippi.

He figured his chances of being recognized were nil. He used the name Marco with the owner and the other bartenders.

Within days, Marco was quietly taking over the bar, primarily because he would actually show up on time, work hard when things were busy, stay late if needed, and didn’t steal from the cash register. He worked circles around the other bartenders, mostly students, and enjoyed the friendly banter with the customers. Marco had learned to mix everything working in a beach bar in Costa Rica. With the owner’s permission, he added some colorful tropical drinks laced with cheap rum and the coeds went crazy over them. He expanded happy hours, found calypso and reggae bands for the weekends, jazzed up the menu with spicy finger foods, and the Varsity became an even more popular hangout.

Mack moved into a two-room apartment above a garage that was attached to an old house in central Memphis. The owner of the Varsity knew of the place and referred Mack there. It was a dump, but at $200 a month, with utilities, he expected little. It was temporary and there were no records anywhere.

His routine was to rise early, in spite of the late nights, and most mornings drive south ninety minutes through the Delta to Greenwood and have breakfast with his mother. They still had ground to cover but they were catching up nicely. After an hour or so with her, he enjoyed little excursions deeper into the state as he dropped in on old pals from his law school and lawyering days. He never called ahead. If they were busy, he left without leaving a name. If he caught them at the right time, then he drank their coffee and answered their questions. All were delighted to see him and all confessed they at times had found themselves jealous of his getaway. After a few laughs and as much conversation as their schedules allowed, he left with promises to keep in touch.

By noon, he was back at the Varsity, ordering beer and booze, restocking the coolers, premixing the fruit juices, prepping the bar, and taking inventory of mugs, glasses, and stemware. Several were broken every night. After two weeks on the job, the owner gave Marco the green light to overhaul the menu.

The current chef was on his way out the door, though he didn’t know it yet. Marco had him in his sights. The chef was stealing food out the back door, and when Marco had enough proof he would have a chat with the owner.

(25)

Freda was not too keen on having another drink with Buddy Hockner. She had not really enjoyed the first one, and besides, she had told him everything she could remember about Mack’s final days.

But on the phone Buddy was persistent, and the deal was closed when he informed her that the FBI wanted to have a chat. Most citizens, especially law-abiding ones, are startled to hear such ominous news and immediately resist. Buddy went on to explain that either the FBI could barge into the law firm where she worked and disrupt things, or they could meet secretly someplace where no one would know.

Nick Lenzini had wisely decided to use Buddy Hockner to facilitate the meeting. He spoke the local language and he had met Freda. If Nick had gone in flashing his badge and talking the way they do on Long Island, Freda would have reacted badly.

And so they met at a hotel bar on the outskirts of Tupelo. Buddy and Freda ordered drinks with alcohol. Lenzini abstained because he was on duty. He was all charm as he thanked her and assured her the FBI had no interest in her as a suspect.

Buddy listened wide-eyed, enthralled to be working with an FBI agent and in the middle of the case.

Nick was saying, “So I went to New York last week and met with the lawyers, big firm, and pressed them with a subpoena. They came around and gave us copies of all the paperwork.” He tapped a neat stack of documents about an inch thick. “Care to take a look?”

Freda shrugged, took a drink. Buddy smiled at her.

Nick lifted the first settlement agreement and said, “This is for Odell Grove, plaintiff number one. He was supposed to receive sixty thousand dollars. Back here on the last page is his signature and your notarization. Please take a look.”

Before she looked at anything, Freda said, “Well, I can assure you I never notarized a signature for Odell Grove. Never met the man.”

They went through all four settlement agreements. Freda admitted that whoever signed her name, and they were assuming it was Mack Stafford simply because there was no other suspect even remotely connected to the matter, had done a passable job of forgery. All four notarizations were done with an outdated stamp and seal, and certified with Freda’s forged signature.

She said, “When I left I took my current stamp and seal, still have it. I had a couple of old ones in a drawer in the file room. Looks like Mack just used one of them and nobody in New York caught it.”

Nick said, “I had to use a magnifying glass to read the seal.”

“No one ever looks that close. As you know, when you get something notarized, you’re standing in front of the notary herself. It’s all very routine.”

Buddy asked, “What’s the penalty for forging a notarization?”

“Up to five years,” Nick said. “Times four, plus he may have forged the plaintiffs’ signatures as well. We don’t know yet.”

“Who’ll prosecute him?” Freda asked, suddenly concerned.

Nick put the settlement agreement away and said, “Don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see where the investigation leads. I’ll ask you to sign a statement that covers everything we just discussed.”

She hesitated and said, “Okay, but I really don’t want to go to court, you know? I don’t want to testify against Mack. Will they really put him in jail?”

Nick frowned and looked around. She was asking questions he couldn’t answer. “Don’t know. Again, we’ll have to finish the investigation first. I’ll ask you to keep this conversation private, okay? If Mack is back in the country, he might skip out again if he catches wind of our involvement.”

Freda nodded grimly and was tempted to explain to this young man from Long Island how fast the gossip flew around Clanton, but she let it pass.

He asked, “And you never met any of the four plaintiffs?”

“No. I don’t think these guys came to town very often. I remember typing the original letters to the manufacturer years ago.”

“I have the letters right here. All four are dated April 17, 1984.”

“Seven years ago,” she replied. “Seems longer than that.”

“Nothing much happened after the first letters. Do you remember why Mack lost his enthusiasm for the cases?”

“Not really. Mack didn’t handle product cases like this. I seem to recall that he tried to shop them around to bigger law firms, but nothing happened. He forgot about them. So did I.”

“And you knew nothing of the settlements?”

“No, nothing at all. As I said, he fired me and I left the office immediately.”

Nick zipped his briefcase and held it in his lap. The meeting was over.

(26)

The FBI had little business in Ford County and rarely ventured there. The call from Special Agent Lenzini was taken by a secretary and routed to Sheriff Ozzie Walls. It was a call Lenzini made with great hesitation since it was his first official contact with anyone in Clanton. He explained to the sheriff that he was pursuing a routine investigation, but one that was nonetheless quite sensitive. Discretion was needed, and so on.

Ozzie was intrigued and eager to help. Any involvement with the Feds was an exciting change of pace. When he asked the nature of the investigation, Lenzini deflected him with “Might be some drug activity. I’ll explain it all tomorrow.”

The following day, Ozzie and Marshall Prather, his chief deputy, drove to the small town of Karaway, the only other incorporated municipality in the county. They met Lenzini at a coffee shop on Main Street midmorning and huddled in a booth, as far away from prying ears as possible. Most of the old gentlemen drinking coffee and talking politics had hearing problems anyway.

Lenzini briefed them on his investigation into Mack Stafford and asked for their help. He had verified the fact that Jerrol Baker, one of the four plaintiffs, was in prison. There was no sign of Travis Johnson, nor of Doug Jumper.

“He’s dead,” Prather said. “Boy got killed in a truck wreck a few years back, over near Tupelo. My cousin knows his family.”

Lenzini made a note of this and said, “That leaves Odell Grove. Any idea where he might be?”

“Yep, he lives not far from here,” Prather said. “Still cuttin’ pulpwood with his sons.”

They decided the wisest course would be for Prather to pay a visit to Odell late in the afternoon when he was probably at home. An FBI agent in a dark suit might not be as welcome. In his two elections for sheriff, Ozzie had done well in the precincts around Karaway, but still he was black and always cautious when knocking on doors deep in the woods.

In the car driving back to Clanton, Ozzie said, “You know, Jake was asking about Mack Stafford. Wanted to know if the case was still open. I told him no. He asked me to let him know if I heard anything.”

“You gonna tell him?” Prather asked.

“Hell no. It’s a criminal investigation. He has no business knowing about it. Plus, he ain’t even Mack’s lawyer.”

“Has anybody seen Mack?”

“Not that I know of. Lots of gossip and such, but you can’t believe everything you hear.”

“Well, he’s up shit creek now, what with the FBI on his trail.”

“You got that right,” Ozzie said. “I guess the rumors were true about Mack. He took some money that wasn’t his and disappeared. I never believed it.”

“I always thought the guy was shifty, like most lawyers around here.”

“That, and he hired Harry Rex. That’s always a bad sign.”

“Someone needs to indict that big ass.”

They enjoyed a good laugh at Harry Rex’s expense.

Late in the afternoon, Deputy Prather parked at the edge of a gravel road and walked the dirt driveway to a mobile home that had seen better days. From a chain-link pen beside it, four or five beagles yelped and warned everyone for miles, though the nearest house could not be seen. Years ago, a rickety porch had been attached to the trailer, and by the time Prather approached the front door, Odell was waiting for him. Like most men who spent their days cutting down trees and wrestling logs, he was thick in the shoulders and chest, with huge hairy arms that bulged from under a clean white T-shirt. He wore a patch over his left eye, courtesy of Tinzo. He stepped onto the porch and said, “Afternoon.”

“Odell, I’m Marshall Prather, deputy sheriff.”

“I know who you are, Prather.” He whistled sharply at the dogs and they stopped barking.

Odell stepped down and they shook hands. Marshall held some papers in his left hand.

“What brings you out here?” Odell asked, unconcerned.

“Mack Stafford. Remember him? The lawyer.”

“Rings a bell. What’s he done now?”

“Not sure. Did he settle a case for you a few years back?”

Odell pointed to the patch over his left eye and smiled. “He was my lawyer, said he was gonna sue the chain saw company for big bucks. Nothin’ much happened.”

“Was there a settlement? Did he get you any money?”

“A few bucks, said it was all confidential. How do you know about it?”

Marshall held up the papers, four sheets stapled together. He flipped to the back page and pointed at a signature. “Did you sign this?”

Odell took it carefully and studied the signature. “That’s mine all right.”

“Did you sign in front of a notary public?”

“A what?”

“Down there under your signature is a stamp and a seal, and under them is the signature of a notary public. A woman. Was she around when you signed it?”

“No sir. Just me and Mack. Met him outside the truck stop. Nobody was with him.”

“How much money did you get?”

“I ain’t done nothin’ wrong, have I?”

“Nope, but there’s a chance Mack did.”

“So, I don’t have to talk about this, do I?”

“Nope, not now. But if you don’t, then the FBI will be here in a few days to ask questions. They may want you to go to Clanton for an interrogation.”

Odell stuck a toothpick in his mouth and began working on it as he studied the situation. Prather took the papers back, flipped to the second page, and said, “This is your settlement agreement. Did you read it?”

He shook his head, chewed on the toothpick.

“Says you agreed to settle the case for a hundred thousand dollars. How much did Mack give you?”

“You swear I ain’t done nothin’ wrong?”

“I swear. The FBI figures Mack gave you some cash and kept most of the money for himself.”

“That thievin’ son of a bitch.”

“Sure looks that way. He had four of these cases.”

“I sent him another. Boy named Jerrol Baker lost a hand.”

“That’s right. Jerrol is at Parchman. Drugs.”

“So I heard.” Odell shook his head and mumbled, “That son of a bitch.”

“How much did you get?”

Odell took a deep breath and said, “Twenty-five thousand, all cash. Said nobody would ever know. Said it was a quick settlement, had to be done right then, no chance of any more money. Told me to keep everything quiet. Son of a bitch.”

Prather handed back the papers and said, “This is your copy. In paragraph four, second page, you’ll see the amount of one hundred thousand.”

“Where’s the rest of it?”

“Only Mack knows. You may want to hire a lawyer to check on it.”

“I don’t need a lawyer. I keep a baseball bat under the seat.”

“I wouldn’t advise that, Odell. That would only lead to a lot of trouble you don’t need.”

“Where is he?”

“Don’t know right now, but there’s a rumor he’s back in town.”

“Y’all gonna put him in jail?”

“Don’t know yet. Right now it’s just the FBI.”

“All right, Prather. Let me know what’s goin’ on.”

“Will do.”

They shook hands and Marshall walked back to his car.

(27)

The second meeting also took place in Jake’s small conference room downstairs, and it, too, began without hugs. Mack was waiting when she entered the room, ten minutes late. They gave each other a smile and not much else. This time her dark hair was pulled tight into a ponytail and she wore stylish designer frames that made her look even prettier. They sat on opposite sides of the table, and she broke the ice with “Mind if I smoke?”

“What if I said yes?”

She considered this for a second or two before saying, “Well, I’d probably smoke anyway.”

“That’s what I figured. Go ahead. They’re your lungs.”

She whipped out a pack of skinny cigarettes and lit one.

“May I ask how your mother is doing?”

“Sure, you can ask anything, and so can I. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Well, she’s certainly not improving. She’s not telling us everything the doctors are saying, but I hear a lot. They’ve decided against another round of chemo. She’s too weak.”

“How are you holding up?”

She took a puff and wiped an eye. Her voice quivered as she said, “I’m okay, Mack. I have to be the strong one because Helen is not. She sits with Mom all day in her room, reading to her, praying, crying. Me, I have to get out. I’m so tired of that house.”

“So was I.”

“Ha, ha. But I don’t have the option of running away from my problems. That was really a shitty thing to do, Mack.”

“I agree and I thought I apologized.”

“You did and I accept your apology, but a few sincere words here and there can’t erase what you did.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to sit there and take it while I pound away. Makes me feel better.”

“Fair enough.”

She blew a cloud at the ceiling. He noticed her hands trembling, her eyes watering. He felt so sorry for her and so lousy for himself. She sniffed and suddenly her voice was stronger. “Did you ever get along with Hermie?”

“Hermie. I had no idea that was his nickname. We got along okay, but only because we had to. Early in my career I was driven by the desire to make more money than Herman. You know how much status means to them.”

“Tell me about it. They still talk about people with bigger houses. Last week Honey got bothered because a friend’s husband bought her a new Mercedes. Wanna know a secret, Mack?”

He chuckled and said, “Forgive me, but it’s kinda funny to hear my daughter call me Mack. Sure, tell me a secret.”

“The money isn’t there.”

Mack couldn’t suppress a smile and said, “Oh really. What’s the dirt?”

“Two years ago a company out of Tupelo tried to buy out Hermie, and for a good price. Of course he said no, said he would buy them. You know how arrogant he is. But he couldn’t swing it. The company from Tupelo put in a ready-mix plant on the south side of town, the first competition Hermie has ever faced.”

“They had a monopoly for decades.”

“Well, no longer. The new company came in with lower concrete prices and the two companies have been cutting each other’s throats ever since. Hermie thinks they’re trying to run him out of business so they can pick up the pieces when he’s gone. It might be happening. There are signs that they’re tightening their belts. Hermie sold his hunting lodge on the lake and they’re talking about selling their beach house in Destin. He seems a lot more stressed these days. Poor guy’s about to lose his daughter, and his business empire is on the rocks.”

“You do hear a lot.”

“You know what Sunday lunch is like around there. They talk a lot, and they think us kids are too stupid to listen and understand. Plus, with Mom sick I spend more time over there than I’d like. I love Honey and we get along well, but Hermie’s around a lot more and when he talks on the phone he forgets anyone in the house is listening.”

“Heard anything else?”

“Aren’t we the gossip? We had a big fight a couple of days ago. I’m sure you’d like to hear about it.”

“Do tell.”

“We were having another one of those horrible conversations about life after Lisa. Mom was there, in the den, and she said she wanted them to sell the house and put the money in trust for our college. I said I wanted to stay in the house. Helen and I can manage on our own, I think, and, anyway, I really don’t want to live with Hermie. Of course the adults freaked out at the idea of two teenage girls living alone, in Clanton. What would the rest of the town think? Got nowhere. As usual, everybody got beat up and nothing good happened. But it was firmly established that the house will be sold.”

“I can’t really fault the decision. If I had a vote, I wouldn’t want you two living alone.”

“Why not? I’ll be off to college next year, on my own, and I’m damned sure not coming back here.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. I’ll find a summer internship somewhere so I can avoid this place. Not sure about college. Hermie has let it be known that he’ll pay for State or Ole Miss, but nothing more. Gotta be in-state. We won’t know how much the house will net until it’s sold, but it won’t be a bonanza. There’s a mortgage and the place needs some work. Any recollection here, Mack?”

“I remember it well. It was always too small for Lisa and I didn’t want to spend money on it. Didn’t have the money. And I wasn’t much of a handyman.”

“I want to get away, Mack. Away from here. Away from Mississippi. Away from the South.”

She stubbed out what was left of the cigarette in the ashtray.

“Got a place in mind?” he asked.

“Out west. California, maybe Colorado. I want to go to a little art school somewhere out there, far away. After Mom dies and after I’m forced to live with Hermie and Honey for a while, I’ll be ready to sprint out of Ford County and never come back. Poor Helen will get left behind, but then she’s not ready to run. I am.”

“Art school?”

“Yeah, art school. Something different, Mack, something really crazy. All the girls I know, and I don’t call them friends anymore, can’t wait to join the sororities and look for husbands. Then they can move back to Clanton or Tupelo, have some kids, hang out at the country club and live like their mothers. Not me, Mack. I’m outta here.”

Mack was moved by her rebellious attitude and couldn’t hide a smile. “I’ll make a deal. You pick an art school out west, get yourself admitted, and I’ll help with the tuition.”

She put her hands to her mouth and closed her eyes, as if she couldn’t believe that a dream might come true. When she opened them she spoke softly, “You would do that?”

“It’s the least I can do, Margot.”

She seemed to agree with this. “I’ve never seen the mountains.”

Another sad reminder, but how true. When the girls were little the family vacation was always a week in the family condo in Florida. Lisa dreamed of seeing the world like her sister, but the credit cards would never stretch that far.

At that moment, Mack vowed to show his girls the world.

He said, “Here’s a plan. Squeeze as much as you can out of Hermie. Take what you can from the sale of the house, and I’ll cover the gap to make it happen.”

“What if Hermie puts his foot down and says not a dime?”

“Margot, I said I’ll make it happen.”

The chip on her shoulder lifted a bit as she relaxed and smiled. It was beginning to dawn on her that ole Mack here might just be her ticket out of Clanton.

“I don’t know what to say,” she said.

“You don’t have to say anything. You’re my daughter and I owe you big-time.”

She flicked out another cigarette and looked at him as she lit it.

Mack said, “I have an idea. It’s summer and you’re supposed to be looking at colleges, right?”

“Yes.”

“So next Saturday, tell Lisa that you’re taking a day trip to Memphis to visit Rhodes College. It’s a beautiful little private school in the city. I’m staying not too far away. We’ll hang out and have lunch.”

“They’ll freak at the idea of me driving to Memphis alone.”

“You’re seventeen years old, Margot, almost a senior in high school. I was driving to Memphis when I was fifteen. Put your foot down and don’t take no for an answer.”

“I like it, but Hermie’ll go nuts at the mention of private tuition.”

“It’s just a ploy to get out of town. Who knows? You might like Rhodes.”

“It’s too close. I’m talking serious distance, Mack.”

“So it’s a lunch date?”

“I’ll try.” She glanced at her watch and reached for her purse. “Need to go. I’m running errands for Mom.”

“Is she suspicious?”

“I don’t think so. For a few days you were breaking news as they panicked, but things have died down. No one has seen you around here, Mack.”

“That’s good. And I’m tired of meeting here. This town gives me the creeps.”

“Makes two of us.”

(28)

The new district attorney for the Twenty-Second Judicial District was Lowell Dyer, of the small town of Gretna, in Tyler County. If the FBI had little interest in Ford County, it had even less in Tyler, and Dyer was rather excited to welcome the Feds into his office in the county courthouse. On the phone, Special Agent Nick Lenzini gave no clue as to the reason for his visit. He came alone and was welcomed in the conference room with pastries and coffee. Dyer and his assistant, D. R. Musgrove, were at his complete disposal.

Lenzini began by announcing that he was investigating the disappearance of Mack Stafford, and wanted to know how much Dyer knew about the case. They were surprised to learn that someone was looking for Mack. They had known him back in the day and assumed that he was gone for good. As far as they knew, there had never been an investigation. So, they had nothing.

Lenzini accepted this with an exaggerated smugness, as if they had sat idly by and missed obvious criminal wrongdoing. Now it was up to the FBI to ride in and get to the bottom of things. He began his narrative about the Tinzo chain saws, the four cases signed up by Mack, his pitiful neglect of them, and so on. He made much of the fact that he had flown to New York City and met with the FBI there, and together they had tracked down the source of the settlements and the paperwork. He began pulling files from his briefcase.

The first was the settlement agreement signed by Odell Grove. The signature was legit, the notarization was forged. The contract for legal services signed by Odell gave Mack 40 percent of any recovery. Instead of receiving $25,000, Odell was due $60,000.

The second was Jerrol Baker, now serving time in prison. Lenzini had visited him there and taken his statement. The signature was his — such as it was, because he was missing most of his left hand and couldn’t write that well, thanks to the chain saw — but, again, the notarization by Freda Wilson was forged. Jerrol got $25,000 in cash, not $60,000.

The third was Travis Johnson, whereabouts unknown. Forged signature, forged notarization. The fourth was Doug Jumper, deceased. An FBI handwriting analyst studied the signatures and was certain that Mack Stafford had forged all the signatures on the Johnson and Jumper settlement agreements. There was little doubt he had kept the entire $200,000.

All in all, it appeared as though Mack’s haul from his fraudulent scheme totaled $400,000, not the $200,000 he was entitled to — 40 percent of the half a million dollars wired down by Mr. Marty Rosenberg.

Lenzini said, “Call it what you want — embezzlement, larceny, or grand theft, not to mention the forgeries. It’s a two-hundred-thousand-dollar crime. And it’s state, not federal. In other words, guys, it’s all yours.”

“What’s your game?” Dyer asked.

“Bankruptcy fraud is federal. The documents speak for themselves, gentlemen. The cases are open-and-shut, no way he can wiggle out. He forged the sigs, paid off Odell Grove and Jerrol Baker, and kept the rest for himself.”

Dyer studied some papers and Musgrove asked, “And you think he’s back in the country?”

“Well, we haven’t seen him. You got any sources around town?”

“Not really, just the local gossip. I know Jake Brigance pretty well, bumped into him in court last week, but he’s not talking.”

Lenzini lifted another sheet of paper and frowned at it. “We’ve checked with the airlines, and no one of that name has entered the country in the past month. I’m sure he’s using another name.” He laid down the papers, took a sip of coffee, and said, gravely, “Gentlemen, I don’t have to tell you how delicate this is. When you convene your grand jury—”

“You mean ‘if’ we convene,” Dyer interrupted.

“Well, surely—”

“I’m in charge of our grand jury, Mr. Lenzini. I decide if and when it’s called, without direction from the FBI. I’m sure the U.S. Attorney in Oxford would not want me meddling with his grand jury.”

“Of course not, Mr. Dyer, but these crimes are serious and they’re open-and-shut.”

“Sure looks that way, doesn’t it? However, we’ll do our investigation and decide. I’m sure we’ll indict, but we’ll do it our way.”

“Very well. As I was saying, this is a touchy situation because we’re dealing with a man who knows how to disappear.”

“Got it,” Dyer snapped.

“We have to be very careful who we talk to about Stafford.”

“Got it,” Dyer snapped, even quicker.

After he left, Dyer and Musgrove reviewed the paperwork for half an hour, and what was obvious became even more so. Both had known Mack for years, though they were not close friends, and they were reluctant to get involved in a case that would send a fellow lawyer to jail. It was apparent that the victims, the clients who were bilked, had no knowledge of Mack’s wrongdoing until the FBI told them about it.

But the more they talked, the more they liked the case. It was a nice change of pace from their daily docket of meth cookers, drug dealers, car thieves, and wife beaters. Rarely were they presented a case involving white-collar crime, and never had they seen one so blatant. Mack had chosen to steal from his clients, and it was their duty as representatives of the State to solve the crime and bring about justice.

Keeping it quiet would be the challenge.

(29)

On a sweltering Saturday, Mack was busy at the Varsity Bar & Grill, and as he puttered around and served the handful of customers, he kept one eye on the parking lot. At precisely 1:00 p.m., he saw a familiar car turn off Highland and park in the front.

It was a 1983 Mercury Cougar he had purchased used about two years before he left town. Lisa, of course, got the car in the divorce, along with everything else, and evidently it had now been handed down to his daughter. Margot bounced out of it and looked almost giddy at the thought of entering a college bar. She was dressed for college, in skin-tight jeans, sandals, and a plunging blouse that was almost indecent. He told himself not to say a word about her appearance.

He met her at the door and they retreated to the back of the restaurant. Mack flagged over a waiter, one he didn’t like and who leered a bit too long at his daughter, and they ordered cheeseburgers and ice tea.

“I can’t get a beer?” she asked, her first attempt to provoke him.

“You’re seventeen years old, young lady. The law says twenty-one, plus you’re driving today.”

“I have an ID, says I’m twenty-four. Wanna see it?”

“No. I spend half my time checking fake IDs. Where’d you get it?”

“I’ll never tell.”

“Figures.”

“Everybody has one, Mack.”

“I’m still Mack.”

“I like Mack better. You were never much for the Dad thing.”

“May I ask the latest on your mother?”

The smile vanished and her eyes watered. The tea arrived in tall glasses and she took a sip. She gazed out a window and said, “Nothing has really changed, except that she’s not eating much. She’s weak and frail and, well, just pitiful, really.” Her lip quivered and she closed her eyes and put a hand over her mouth. Mack patted her arm and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

The moment passed, and Margot stiffened her spine, smiled, and gritted her teeth. A tough kid, whom Mack was proud of.

She said, “Of course, I’m not making it any easier for her. Yesterday I asked if I could make this trip to Memphis by myself, told her I had an appointment with an admissions dude at Rhodes, and so on. Which is true. She didn’t like the idea, said no, I couldn’t come alone. We had dinner last night in the big house and she told Hermie and Honey about me coming to Memphis alone. They freaked, as usual. You’d have thought I wanted to walk naked through a ghetto. It turned into a pretty good fight. I reminded them that I’ve had my license for two years and have driven to Tupelo, with friends, several times. Hermie was growling and hissing and said I didn’t know how to find Rhodes College. So I asked him where in the big city it’s located. He guessed, got it wrong, then I laid it out perfectly: take Highway 78 into Memphis, fifty-four miles from here, stay on 78 after it becomes Lamar Avenue, then turn right on South Parkway, follow it north past Union, past Poplar, turn left and go west on Summer Avenue for about a block, the zoo’s on the left and Rhodes is on the right. I nailed it. Helen even laughed. Mom smiled. Needless to say, I didn’t mention the little detour here to the Varsity — left on Park, north on Highland, two blocks east on Southern — where I planned to meet you. That would’ve really upset them.”

“So my name is still mud?”

“Worse than that. Anyway, Hermie was not impressed with my navigational skills. He said no, I couldn’t go to Memphis alone. I decided to fight him because he’s got to respect me. Before long, Helen and I will be living under his thumb and I can’t stand the thought. He is not my father and he is not going to be my boss.”

Mack had to smile. Atta girl.

“So we had a brawl.”

“Who won?”

“Nobody wins a family brawl, you should know that. Everybody loses. I got up this morning and left the house. I stopped at the square, called Mom, told her I was on the way to Memphis. She told me to be careful and we swapped I love yous.”

“So your grandparents don’t know?”

“Well, I’m sure they know by now. Don’t get me wrong, Mack. I love my grandparents but I cannot imagine living with them. I pray every day that Mom can hang on for just a few more months. I know it’s a selfish prayer, but then most of them are, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.”

Two large platters of cheeseburgers and fries landed in front of them and they spent a few moments fiddling with the condiments. The waiter was quite attentive and eager to flirt with Margot. Mack glared at him and was ready to bark.

After the waiter disappeared, Mack asked, “You’re certain no one knows we’re meeting, right?”

“Well, I’ve told no one. Can’t speak for you.”

“No suspicions?”

“None. I mean, a month ago you were hot news, but that sort of blew over. I heard Hermie tell Honey the other night that as far as he knew no one in Clanton has laid eyes on you.” She ate half a fry, chewed like a teenager. “So you’re living in Memphis, huh?”

“For the moment.”

“What are your plans, Mack?”

“Don’t know that I have any. I’ll hang around for a while, make sure things are safe.”

“Safe? How so?”

“I want to make sure no one is looking for me. There are some skeletons in the closet and I’d like to keep them there.”

“That’s what I figured. You stole a bunch of money and disappeared, right?”

“That’s fairly accurate. I’m not proud of it.”

“But you’ve kept the money, right? Why don’t you just give the money back to the people you stole it from?”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Nothing is easy with you, Mack. Everything is so complicated.”

To avoid a response, Mack took a large bite of his burger and looked around the restaurant. Two college boys at the bar were gawking at his daughter. After he swallowed, he said, “Yes, Margot, I’ve done a fine job of making my life extremely complicated. I’d rather skip the past and talk about your life, college, stuff like that. It’s far more exciting.”

“When will you ever tell me the truth?”

“Yes, when you turn twenty-one, I’ll visit you in college and we’ll have a long dinner, with drinks, and I’ll tell you all the bad stuff I’ve done. Fair enough?”

“I suppose. I probably won’t care by then.”

“Let’s hope not. Have you picked a college?”

“I’m looking. Rhodes might be fun, but it’s too close to home. When Hermie was snarling last night he made it clear that ‘the family,’ as he likes to call it now, like he’s in charge and making all the big decisions for us since Mom is on her deathbed — anyway, he said ‘the family’ will not pay private school tuition. He says it’s ridiculous when there are so many good publics in Mississippi. I think the real reason is that he can’t afford private tuition.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“I’m telling you, Mack, money is tight and getting tighter. Things are tense around there. And I get it. Their daughter is dying. They’re about to inherit two teenage girls nobody really wants. Hermie’s got competition with his business. Instead of planning a nice retirement, they’re looking at the next few years and don’t like what they see.”

“Wasn’t there talk about living with the Pettigrews?”

She rolled her eyes and said, “Oh give me a break. I’d rather stay in a homeless shelter. Those people are impossible.” She bit into another fry and Mack noticed her eyes were wet again. The poor child was an emotional mess.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Just swell, Mack. It’s such a great feeling to know that you’re not wanted. When Mom dies we’ll be forced to leave the only home we’ve ever known and go stay in someone else’s house where we don’t belong. And you share some of the blame, Mack.”

“Yes, I do, and we’ve addressed that.”

She took a deep breath, gritted her teeth, wiped her cheek, and said, “Yes, we have. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I don’t suppose you could move back and rescue us, could you?”

“No, not now anyway. I can’t live in Clanton and I’m not completely sure things are safe around there. Plus, Hermie would hire every lawyer in town to keep me away.”

“Did you ever like Hermie?”

“Not really.”

She had only nibbled around the edges of her burger and chewed on some fries, but she was finished. She shoved her platter a few inches toward the center of the table and glanced around. In a lower voice, she said, “I need to tell you something, Mack. Mom likes to go over there and sit on the patio under the fans. It’s not nearly as depressing as sitting around our house, so we’ve been over there a lot. I drive her over, she and Helen sit on the porch with Honey, and everybody whittles away the hours as the clock ticks. Hermie is hanging around too, and twice in the past week I’ve overheard him mention the FBI. I have no idea why.”

Mack swallowed hard and glanced around. “Who was he talking to?”

“Don’t know. He was on the phone and didn’t know I was in the house. Kinda weird, right?”

“Something to ponder, I guess.”

“I’ll keep my ears open.”

Any mention of the FBI bothered Mack. He appeared indifferent, but his appetite had vanished too.

Margot glanced at her watch and said, “I guess I should be going. I have a one p.m. appointment.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“You mean like a real dad. Father and daughter, off to visit college campuses?”

“Something like that.”

She smiled and said, “Sure, Pop, I’d be honored.”

“You drive. I want to see you in city traffic.”

“I can handle it better than you.”

“We’ll see.”

(30)

Seven hours after she left home, Margot returned, and it seemed like days. She could not believe a simple, unhurried drive to Memphis and back could be so exhilarating, so liberating. When she crossed into Ford County, she actually slowed to fifty miles an hour and ignored the traffic behind her. In town, she circled through a fast-food hangout looking for a friend, but saw no one.

She had been locked down on death duty for months and the ordeal was not over. The last thing she wanted that Saturday afternoon was to sit in their gloomy little house and wait for the inevitable. The family had finally accepted the reality that Lisa was not going to improve, that the doctors had done everything and were finally giving up. The waiting was brutal; the uncertainty of when it would be over; the watching as she grew thinner and paler each day; the horror of seeing your mother inch closer and closer to the grave; the utter fear of life without her. Measurements came in strange ways: just last month she was still driving; just last week she was puttering around the kitchen baking cookies; yesterday she could barely get out of bed. Soon they would send for the nurse, an old babysitter who would care for her in the last days. It had all been arranged by the Bunnings. Margot and Helen were supposed to make the call and inform their grandparents when the moment was at hand.

Helen was in the den watching a movie. In a hushed tone she said, “She’s resting. It’s been a quiet day.”

Margot sat on the sofa next to her sister and asked, “Is she upset with me?”

“No. She’s had a good day. We spent most of it at Honey’s, on the patio, but that exhausted her.”

“Are they pissed?”

“They were at first, but Mom settled them down, told them to knock it off, said you can take care of yourself. How was Rhodes?”

“Beautiful, a really lovely place. Nice people. Very small, though.”

“I can’t believe you’re going to college next year.”

“I can’t either.”

“Can I go with you?”

They chuckled, then froze when they heard Lisa’s voice. They went to her room and found her sitting up in bed with a big smile. Margot hugged her gently. She patted the pillows on both sides and the girls joined her in bed. She wanted to know all about Rhodes College and the trip to Memphis, and Margot spared no details, except, of course, the rather significant detour to the Varsity and lunch with Mack. She pulled out colorful brochures from the college and went on about a conversation she had with a real professor. Rhodes was definitely on her short list. Lisa said they would worry about the money later.

On the one hand it was a relief to see her so excited about her oldest going off to college, but on the other hand it was heartbreaking to know that she would not be around to share in the experience. Margot mentioned a few other colleges she might visit in the coming weeks, schools that were further away from home. Lisa encouraged this. She was certain her parents would step up and make sure the girls were properly educated, whatever the cost. Margot had Mack’s promise, the ace up her sleeve she could not discuss.

Lisa dozed off again and the girls eased out of the room. Helen began crying and said, “She’s hardly eaten a bite in the past five days.”

They debated whether to call their grandparents and decided to wait. It was a long night as Lisa grew irritable and complained of pain. The girls rarely left her side and napped fitfully whenever she was awake. At dawn, Margot called Honey with an update. The nurse arrived two hours later and cranked up the morphine. The Bunnings stopped by on the way to church and had a chat with Lisa, who happened to be awake and lucid. They never missed church and wouldn’t think of it now, even as their daughter drifted away.

Of course, they asked for prayer during the service and passed along the grim news that Lisa’s condition was deteriorating. Few things aroused a bunch of Baptists like the rituals of a final passing, and by 3:00 p.m. Sunday afternoon the caravan of casseroles was underway. Most of the friends were thoughtful enough to stop at the porch and hand over the dishes and settle for tearful hugs, but some of the pushier ones breached the perimeter and got inside where they loitered in the cramped kitchen and balanced paper plates while straining for a look down the hall at the bedrooms. Several of the older gossips, true veterans of the glories of funerals, even asked Honey if they could have a word with Lisa. Honey knew damned well that all they wanted was the visual so they could hurry off and talk about how gaunt Lisa looked. Honey declined and even posted herself in the passageway to ward off any trespassers.

Helen retreated to the bedroom and kept a vigil at her mother’s side. Margot, weary of that room, took charge of the front and welcomed each visitor with a big, sad smile that was completely phony, but only she knew it. She became quite the lady of the house, and Hermie, who only the day before wanted to reprimand her for her trip to Memphis, beamed with pride as his often wayward granddaughter charmed the crowd. The day dragged on as the food piled up in the kitchen, but the crowd began to thin as 6:00 p.m. approached and their friends headed back to church.

The nurse moved into Helen’s room for the duration. The girls slept in Margot’s bed and took turns throughout the night checking on Lisa and whispering to the nurse. By Monday morning, she was not responsive and her breathing was even slower.

(31)

Nick Lenzini was leaving the FBI office in Oxford Tuesday morning for a quick trip to Clanton when he got word that Lisa Stafford had passed. Two hours later, he parked near the courthouse and slipped into the law offices of the Sullivan firm. His meeting with Walter was at eleven thirty.

Once coffee was served, Nick began solemnly, “Very sorry about Mrs. Stafford. I know she was a friend.”

“Thank you,” Walter said gravely. “A lovely girl. I’ve known her all her life. This firm has represented her family for thirty years. Great people.”

“What will happen to the girls?”

“Oh, the family will circle the wagons, make the best of it.”

“No sign of Mack?”

Walter grunted and took a sip. “I was planning to ask you the same thing. What’s the latest?”

“Have you talked to Judd Morrissette?”

“Not in the past two weeks.”

“Well, he’s ready to go to the grand jury. Our investigation is basically done. Looks like an open-and-shut case. Problem is, we can’t seem to find Mack. That’s one reason I’m here. I don’t suppose you have any ideas where he might be.”

“That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“It is, of course. And we’re looking, though we haven’t sent in the bloodhounds yet. Given his penchant for disappearing, the U.S. Attorney would like to have him in our sights before there is an indictment.”

“That’s smart. But no, I don’t know of anyone who has actually seen Mack since he supposedly resurfaced. It’s safe to assume he’s living somewhere else. His mother still lives in Greenwood, right?”

“Yes, and we’re keeping an eye there. Have funeral arrangements been completed?”

“Yes, Saturday at two p.m.”

“Don’t suppose Mack would make an appearance, would he?”

Walter laughed and said, “I assure you, Mr. Lenzini, that the last place you’ll find Mack Stafford is the First Baptist Church this Saturday.”

“I suppose you’re right. It’ll be okay if we stop by, take a seat in the balcony?”

“Sinners are always welcome. It’s open to the public.”

(32)

Sunday morning, the day after Lisa’s funeral, Lucien Wilbanks entered Jake’s suite of offices through the rear door. He used the same key he had been using for decades. It was Jake’s office, but then it wasn’t. The law firm of Wilbanks & Wilbanks had been founded there in the 1940s by Lucien’s grandfather. Lucien had run the place until he was disbarred in 1979, a year after he had hired young Jake Brigance right out of law school.

Lucien still owned the spacious suite and leased it to Jake for a modest rent. Part of the deal was the understanding that he could come and go as he pleased. He kept a small windowless office on the first floor, far away from Jake’s domain upstairs, and he kept to himself as he read the Sunday papers and smoked his pipe and drank his coffee and bourbon. Sunday mornings were his favorites because the square was deserted, the stores were closed, there was no traffic, and everyone was in church. Lucien had given up on organized religion when he was fourteen years old.

He was in the same conference room Mack and Margot had used, at exactly 9:14, when he heard the first sounds. He glanced at his watch, knowing full well that Jake was in church and no one else would come near the office that morning. Since he had practically grown up in the place, he knew every window, hallway, hiding place. He stepped into the copy room and peeked through the blinds into the alley that ran behind the row of buildings facing the courthouse. Surprisingly, there were two men fiddling with the rear door that opened into the kitchen. They were dressed in matching navy shirts with the words custom electric in bold letters across their backs. They wore black rubber gloves and black foot covers.

Several things were wrong with it. First, Lucien had lived in Clanton his entire life and never heard of such a company. Second, no one worked on Sunday morning. Third, if they had been hired by Jake, why were they trying to sneak in the rear door? Fourth, they kept glancing around as if guilty as hell. Fifth, rubber gloves and foot covers were never used by repairmen in Clanton.

They managed to open the door and enter the kitchen. Lucien retreated to the shadows and listened carefully. The two men whispered to each other as they quickly moved through the downstairs. They missed Lucien as he slid between some bookshelves. They hurried upstairs, quietly opening and closing every door, then they were back by the receptionist’s desk, where they opened their tool kits and made their preparations. Next to the copy room was a large closet packed with wires running to everything — thermostats, AC units, phones, fuse boxes, electric meters.

Lucien stayed in the dark and listened. The men were whispering about phone lines, receivers, transmitters, with some slang that was indecipherable. They were quick and efficient, obviously skilled, and at 9:31 they simply disappeared. Lucien caught a glimpse of them as they left through the same rear door, locking it behind. He waited a few minutes, then moved slowly into the kitchen and checked the door. A pot of fresh black coffee was sitting on the counter, partially obscured by a roll of paper towels. If the men had seen the coffee, they would have known someone had just brewed it. They should have smelled the aroma.

He poured another cup and returned to his desk. Who was behind Custom Electric? The local cops wouldn’t have the capability. The state police did, but there was nothing in Jake’s office at the moment that would interest them. Lucien knew virtually every case, because he and Jake talked weekly and enjoyed discussing his clients. Was Jake cheating on Carla? Or was she cheating on him? Either scenario seemed highly unlikely. They adored each other and Lucien would never believe that they were fooling around. Could it be another lawyer crooked enough to tap Jake’s phones? Highly unlikely. Such outrageous behavior would lead to a disbarment, something Lucien knew a lot about. In all of his years as a lawyer and now as an observer, he had never known of a case where one law firm illegally eavesdropped on another.

It had to be the FBI. They were on to Mack Stafford and figured Jake knew where he was.

Lucien was startled, then amused. What fun Jake could have knowing the FBI was listening.

He finished his newspapers and dug through some old lawbooks. He smoked his pipe, sat on the balcony outside Jake’s big office and watched the courthouse, and at noon had a reasonable serving of Jack Daniel’s. He napped for an hour, and at 2:00 p.m. headed for Jake’s house, assuming lunch would be over. Carla invited him in but he preferred to sit on the back terrace, in the shade. Jake joined him and she brought them ice tea, and when she closed the door Lucien described what had happened that morning.

Jake was stunned and could think of no reason the FBI, or anyone else, would be listening to his phone calls. Indeed, things were so slow around the office that he was contemplating another painful trip to the bank to beg for more credit.

“So it has to be Mack, right?” Lucien asked.

Jake was flabbergasted, and also angry at the intrusion. When his thoughts cleared, his first impulse was to hire a private detective to inspect his phones, to confirm things. Lucien didn’t like the idea because he had no doubt about what had happened. And, why include anyone else? Someone might say too much. It was best to play along and be careful about what he said on the phone. His office had not been bugged, only the phones.

He said, “It’s safe to assume they’re listening here, too. You’d better tell Carla.”

“Of course,” Jake said, dreading that conversation.

“And you gotta tell Harry Rex.”

“They can’t bug his lawyer’s phones, can they?”

“They can and they will. You can’t trust the FBI. Hell, you can’t trust anyone.”

“Do I tell Mack?”

Lucien sipped his tea and considered this. “I’d be careful. I’d whisper this to Harry Rex and let him deal with it.”

“You whisper it. I’m afraid to use the phones. Tell him to meet me on your front porch at five this afternoon.”

As soon as Lucien left, Carla was on the patio and asking, “What was that all about?”

“You are not going to believe it.” He told her everything, and she did not believe it. His words of caution were not well received. Assume someone is listening to every phone, including those in our house. Use them as always, keep things normal, but stay away from sensitive matters. And whatever you do, don’t mention Mack Stafford or anyone in his family.

Carla was furious at the violation and wanted to hire someone to confirm the wiretaps. They had to be illegal and she wanted something done. Jake promised her he would get to the bottom of it, he just needed some time. He was stunned too and trying to clear his thoughts. He and Harry Rex would meet at Lucien’s and decide what to do.

But that afternoon they met at Lucien’s and couldn’t agree on what to do. They assumed that Harry Rex’s phones were tapped too, and he was ready for war. The surveillance was illegal, in his opinion, and he wanted to sue the government. Lucien kept things calm and thought they could use the knowledge to their advantage, or at least have some fun with it.

(33)

Monday morning, Jake’s first phone call, and the first with a potential audience, was to the circuit clerk’s office across the street, routine business. He made three more and tried to grow accustomed to the possibility that someone else was listening. He was careful with his language and tried to sound natural. It was still difficult to believe. He went downstairs to the kitchen, poured some more coffee, walked to the closet, stared at the phone lines and wires running everywhere, and kicked himself because he didn’t know beans about his own systems. Somewhere hidden in one of those boxes was a wiretap. Touching nothing, he retreated and returned to his office. At precisely 11:00 a.m., as rehearsed, he called Harry Rex and they discussed a zoning dispute they had been arguing about for three months. As usual, Harry Rex showed no signs of controlling his tongue, regardless of who might be listening.

Then Jake said, “Look, something’s come up. You’re alone, right?”

“Of course I’m alone. I’m locked in my office. It’s Monday morning and half of my idiot clients out there have either guns or knives. What do you want?”

“I heard from Mack.”

A long pause, in which both Jake and Harry Rex smiled at the visual of some half-asleep FBI flunky with a headset getting jolted in the ass with the reference to Mack.

Quietly, suspiciously, Harry Rex asked, “Where is he?”

“Says he’s living in a cheap apartment on the south end of Tupelo. Wants us to drive over this afternoon for a drink.”

“Where’s he been all this time?”

“He’s not too generous with the facts, but he did mention a trip to Florida. Now he’s back and says he’s found a job.”

“A job? What’s he want with a job? I thought he stole enough.”

Harry Rex thought this was clever, sort of a left-handed admission that his client had indeed stolen something. Jake smiled too. Both were almost snickering at the fun and games.

“We didn’t talk about that, but he said he’s bored and needs to get busy. Said he’s going to work as a paralegal in Jimmy Fuller’s law office.”

“Fuller? Why’s he working for a crook like that?”

“I like Jimmy. Anyway, he wants to meet us at the Merigold at six.”

“I got four piles of shit on my desk and a nasty divorce trial first thing in the morning.”

“Since when do you prepare for trial?”

“And I got a room full of blubbering women out there all wanting me to hold their hands.”

“What else is new? We really can’t say no. I’ll be there at four thirty.”

“All right, all right.”

With his ever-expanding girth and natural lack of coordination, Harry Rex did not enter the passenger side as much as he crashed onto the seat and rocked the car from side to side. As soon as he slammed the door he asked, “You think your car is bugged too?”

“I doubt it,” Jake said.

“Kinda weird talkin’ on the phone with the FBI in the background.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I need a beer.”

“It’s four thirty.”

“You sound like my wife.”

“Which one?”

“You gonna chirp all the way to Tupelo?”

“Probably. Any thoughts about the penalties for impeding a federal investigation?”

“Sure. You?”

“Yep. I did some research this afternoon and I think we’re okay. We’re not touching the investigation, if in fact there is one. We’re just playing cat-and-mouse with the FBI.”

“Sounds harmless to me, unless of course we get caught.”

“We’re driving to Tupelo to have a drink with Mack, who, as far as we know, is not under investigation. We have not met with the FBI and do not know what they’re up to. So, we’re fine. So far.”

“Okay, so why are we doing this?” Harry Rex pointed to a gas station. “Pull in there. You want a beer?”

“No. I’m driving.”

“So. Can’t drive with a beer in one hand?”

“I prefer not to. We’re doing this to see if the FBI shows up at the bar so we can confirm it’s the FBI.”

“Brilliant. And how are you supposed to know if and when the FBI shows up in the bar? Ask them to whip out their badges?”

“Haven’t got that far yet. I’ll take a Diet Coke.”

Harry Rex rolled himself out of the car and went inside.

(34)

The Merigold Lounge was one of three well-known bars on the west side of Tupelo, in Lee County, which happened to be wet. For fifty miles in all directions the counties were dry as a bone. The drinkers who lived in those small towns and rural places had little choice but to drive to the big city for refreshments. Back home, most of them continued to support bans on the sale of all alcoholic beverages.

At 6:00 p.m. there were thirteen vehicles parked in the paved lot to the side of the lounge. The main entrance did not face the highway, giving more cover to those who slipped in and out. Of the thirteen, six were sedans, six were pickup trucks, and one was a white van. A quick scan of the license plates revealed that the patrons came from four different counties. Inside the van, two FBI technicians worked the cameras, a Minolta XL with a long-range lens, and a Sony high-def video recorder. Through one-way glass, they shot and filmed every person who entered and left the Merigold.

The problem with the van was that someone had painted custom electric on the outside panels, along with phone numbers. Jake and Harry Rex chuckled at this and couldn’t believe their good luck, nor could they believe the FBI’s sloppiness.

“Well, well,” Jake said as he parked. “They’re already here.”

“Don’t smile for the cameras,” Harry Rex said as they got out and went inside. They found a table with four chairs in a corner and sat with their backs to the wall. A waitress arrived and they ordered beers and a platter of fries. A jukebox near a dance floor played country tunes. The Merigold was a higher-end lounge and not known for bad behavior. Jake had been there a few times over the years. Harry Rex dropped in at every chance. They ignored the others and engaged in what appeared to be serious conversation. At 6:15, Jake glanced at his watch and looked around. There were no obvious electricians. Several of the men even wore ties.

Nick Lenzini sat alone sipping a soft drink and pretending to read a newspaper. Though he had never seen Jake or Harry Rex, the boys in the van had radioed him when they were entering. He was excited at the possibility of finally laying eyes on Mack Stafford, but managed to appear bored. He was quite smug with his success in convincing a federal magistrate to allow wiretaps.

Jake and Harry Rex sipped beers from frosted mugs and nibbled on fries and seemed to grow irritated as the minutes passed. No sign of Mack.

More drinkers arrived and the lounge was almost full. At 6:30, Jake went to the men’s room and walked beside Nick’s table. The two made eye contact for a second, and Jake thought the guy could pass for an agent — clean-cut, dark suit, no tie, a bit out of place. When he returned he fetched two more beers from the bar and sat them in front of Harry Rex. Both looked at their watches and frowned. Whoever they were supposed to meet was running late. Even later, at 7:00, they paid their tab and left the lounge, showing as much frustration as possible. The van was still there. Jake started his engine as Harry Rex grabbed the car phone and punched in the phone number of Custom Electric. Whatever it had once been, it was now disconnected.

They had a good laugh as they sped away, certain they had outfoxed the FBI while doing nothing wrong. When the laughter died, they debated what to do next. The Feds were after Mack, which could only mean an indictment was in the works.

(35)

The following day, Jake drove to the Stafford home to deliver a chocolate cake Carla had baked, along with an arrangement of flowers from their favorite florist. Margot answered the door and invited him into the den. Honey, her grandmother, was there, and Jake solemnly passed along his condolences. The house was as gloomy as a funeral parlor. They were gracious and thankful and invited him to stay for coffee and cake. He had no desire to, but he needed to have a word with Margot. They sat at the kitchen table and managed a laugh at all the food that lined the counters.

“Would you like a pound or two of fried chicken?” Honey asked with a smile.

“Or half a dozen casseroles?” Margot chimed in.

Helen stepped in to say hello and Jake again told her how sorry he and Carla were. All three looked as though they had been crying for a week, which was probably true. Helen soon disappeared and Honey whispered, “She is really struggling. I guess we all are.”

Jake could not respond and took another bite. The phone rang and Honey went to answer it. Jake quickly handed Margot a small envelope and whispered, “Read this later. It’s confidential.”

She nodded as if she knew, and stuffed it in her jeans.

He finished his cake and coffee and said he had to get back to the office. Honey thanked him again, and Margot showed him to the front door and onto the porch.

He waved to her there as he drove away.

The note instructed her to avoid his telephones. If she wanted to talk, stop by the office or call his secretary at her home. And, he passed along Mack’s number.

(36)

The federal grand jury met in the U.S. Courthouse in Oxford for its regular monthly session. Eighteen registered voters from eleven counties were currently serving a six-month term, and most were eager to be done with it.

The docket began with the usual string of drug cases — selling, manufacturing, distributing — and within an hour fourteen indictments had been approved. It was depressing work and the grand jurors were bored with drug felonies. Next was a slightly more interesting case involving a gang of car thieves that had been rampaging for the past year. Five more indictments.

J. McKinley Stafford was next. Judd Morrissette, the assistant U.S. Attorney, handled the presentation and recited the facts as he now understood them. Lawyer Stafford diverted some settlement funds away from his clients and into his own bank accounts, which in itself was a state crime, not federal, but he then filed for bankruptcy and hid the money.

Special Agent Nick Lenzini took over and presented copies of the settlement agreements, the bankruptcy petition, affidavits from the jilted clients Odell Grove and Jerrol Baker, an affidavit from Freda Wilson, and the wire transfers.

Morrissette presented evidence from the IRS that Mr. Stafford had not bothered to file tax returns for the past four years.

One grand juror asked, “Is he that lawyer over in Clanton who stole the money and disappeared?”

“That’s correct,” Morrissette answered.

“Have y’all found him?”

“Not yet, but we’re getting close.”

In less than an hour, Mack was indicted for one count of bankruptcy fraud, with a maximum sentence of five years in prison and a fine of $250,000. For good measure, the grand jury also hit him with four counts of tax evasion, with similar penalties. At Morrissette’s insistence, the grand jury voted to seal the indictments until further notice. Mr. Stafford was a significant flight risk.

(37)

Jake was in chancery court, along with at least a dozen other lawyers, waiting for Judge Reuben Atlee to assume the bench and begin signing routine orders. Harry Rex was resting his ample backside on a table and regaling the crowd with the story of a divorce client who had just fired him for the third time. Jake listened to the story for the third time. As order was called by the bailiff, Harry Rex whispered, “Meet me upstairs in the law library, as soon as possible.”

The law library was on the third floor of the courthouse and was seldom used. In fact, it saw so little traffic that the county supervisors were toying with the idea of getting rid of the outdated and dusty collection of ancient tomes and using the space for storage. The lawyers and judges were fighting back, thus creating another rancorous turf battle small towns are famous for. In years past, Harry Rex had been known to eavesdrop on jury deliberations through a heating vent, but a renovation tightened up the walls.

When they were alone, he said, “Lowell Dyer is calling a special meeting of his grand jury for tomorrow, and they’re meeting down in Smithfield. Believe that?”

Jake was thoroughly baffled. “Say what?”

“You heard me. The Ford County grand jury will convene itself in the courthouse in Smithfield.”

“In another county?”

“That’s right. Ain’t never heard of it before. I checked the statute and it’s pretty vague, but it does not prevent him from doing so.”

“Any idea why?”

“Sure. It’s all a big secret. He has informed his grand jury that the meetin’ is extremely confidential and they are to tell no one about it.”

“Mack?”

“I’d bet on it. Can you think of another crime in this county in the past year that anyone gives a shit about? There’s been nothin’. Break-ins, burglaries, honky-tonk fights, the usual run-of-the-mill crap, but nothin’ even remotely interesting.”

Jake was shaking his head. “No, folks are behaving. I’m in the middle of a long dry run in my office. We need some more crime.”

“It’s gotta be Mack. Dyer’s afraid Mack’ll pull another vanishin’ act and disappear. So, he gets an indictment out of town, sits on it until somebody finds Mack, then arrests him. And, I’ll bet he’s doin’ what the Feds tell him.”

Other than the startling news, the obvious question was: How did Harry Rex know about a secret meeting of the grand jury? Jake wanted to ask, but he knew there would be no answer. His close friend moved in mysterious circles and had a wide net of informants. Sometimes he shared the inside dirt, often he did not, but he never revealed a source.

Jake asked, “So you think the Feds are a step ahead?”

“I’ll bet they have an indictment and are sittin’ on it. They gave Dyer the green light. It makes sense and it’s a smart move. You got federal charges and you got state charges, multiple indictments, and suddenly everyone is lookin’ for Mack.”

“You’re his lawyer. What’s your advice?”

“Get the hell out of town. Again.”

(38)

Two weeks after her mother’s funeral, and ten days after moving into the home of her grandparents, Margot woke up on a Saturday at 8:00 a.m., an early hour for her, and quickly showered and dressed in jeans and sneakers. At the breakfast table she was polite to Hermie and Honey because they were trying to be polite to her, but the tension was palpable. They had some rules they wanted to impose, and Margot seemed determined to ignore them. One rule was about respect — respect for elders, for grandparents, for her guardians now. She accepted this and asked that they respect her as a seventeen-year-old young woman who had a mind of her own. She had an appointment at 1:00 p.m. that day with an admissions counselor at Millsaps College in Jackson, and she was certainly capable of driving herself down there and back. The trip to Rhodes in Memphis had been a breeze. Hermie and Honey didn’t like the idea at all and had made the mistake of saying no. A disagreement followed, and though all sides managed to keep their cool and not say anything they would regret later, two things became apparent: (1) the Bunnings were not quick enough to verbally spar with Margot, and (2) she had no plans to spend the next year taking orders from them.

She left at ten and thoroughly enjoyed the open road, all alone with her choice of music and the entire day to spend as she wanted.

She had never visited Millsaps, knew no one there, and was certain she wouldn’t fit. Like Rhodes, it was too close to home. But she would visit and collect the brochures to leave on the kitchen table. And she would apply there in the fall, as she would Rhodes and Ole Miss and maybe some others not too far away. She would lean toward Ole Miss because the in-state tuition chatter would ease Hermie’s concerns. She would make the usual fuss over the application process, feign the usual angst and anxiety, and include her grandparents from time to time to make them feel better, but she would not tell them about the two art schools out west. Nor would she tell Helen, at least not anytime soon. She was waiting for Helen to grow up and leave behind the adolescent routine, but there was little sign of progress.

Their father’s disappearance, coupled with their parents’ divorce, had forced Margot to mature and distrust the motives of almost everyone. She guarded her emotions and feelings and rarely offered friendship. She had made the decision to leave home and return only when necessary, and she would soon lose contact with the girls she had grown up with. The sooner the better. A big world was waiting. She wanted her sister to grow up and get away too, after high school, but Helen seemed trapped in an almost pre-teen state of silly emotions and perpetual gloom. Since Lisa’s death she had gravitated more toward Honey. They were still sharing tears, something Margot had grown weary of.

She found Millsaps in central Jackson and stopped by a cafeteria for a quick sandwich. At one o’clock, she met an admissions counselor who went through the standard spiel — small school, one thousand students, serious about liberal arts, plenty of extracurricular activities, sports, intramurals, every club you could think of. It was all covered in the brochures. She joined a group of five high-schoolers and walked the campus with a third-year student who just loved the place and never wanted to leave. They sat on benches under an old oak and sipped sodas while their guide answered questions.

After two hours on a campus she would never see again, Margot was ready to leave. Her group broke up, and as she was walking away, her father suddenly materialized from between two buildings. They walked stride for stride until they were far away from anyone else.

“So how do you like Millsaps?” he asked.

“It’s nice. I’m sure I’ll apply here. Where have you been?”

“Here and there.” He pointed and said, “The football field is over there and it’s not locked.”

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

“Long enough to scope out the campus.”

“You act like you’re being followed.”

“These days you never know.”

They walked through an open gate, climbed ten rows of bleachers, and sat next to each other, but not that close. In a far end zone a maintenance man puttered along on a riding mower and trimmed the immaculate turf.

After an awkward pause, Mack asked, “So how’s home life?”

She didn’t answer for a long time and finally said, “It’s okay, I guess. Everybody’s trying real hard.”

“I’m sorry about your mom, Margot.”

“That sounds weird, coming from you.”

“Okay, but what am I supposed to say? No, I don’t miss Lisa, but I’m saddened by her death. She was far too young. I’m trying to be polite and offer my condolences.”

“So offered. We’ll survive, somehow.”

Another awkward gap. “How’s Helen?”

“Still crying a lot. Pretty pathetic, really.”

“Have you told her about our meetings?”

“No. She can’t handle it. She’s overwhelmed as it is. If I told her you’re back and trying to weasel into the picture she’d probably have a total breakdown.”

“Weasel?”

“What do you call it?”

“I’m trying to reestablish some type of relationship with my daughters, beginning with you. I’ve said my apologies and all that, and if you want to flog me some more for being a coward and a deadbeat and a crook, then go right ahead.”

“I’m tired of it too.”

“Good to hear. I’d like to be your father.”

“I think we’re getting there.”

“That’s nice, because I have some bad news.”

She shrugged as if it couldn’t matter. “Hit me.”

“I have to leave again.”

“No surprise there. That’s what you do, Mack. Things get rough, then slither out of town again. What’s up this time?”

“Well, I’m not sure, but I think the cops are closing in. I need to disappear for a while and let things cool down.”

She shrugged again and went silent.

“I’m sorry, Margot. My quiet little homecoming has not gone exactly as I planned.”

“Since I have no idea what you’re talking about, how am I supposed to respond?”

“No, just try to understand. I don’t want to leave again. I’d rather hang around here, stay close to you and Helen, and live a normal life. I’m tired of running, Margot. It’s not a good life, and I really missed my girls.”

Slowly, she lifted a hand and wiped her eyes. For a long time they gazed down at the field and listened to the lawn mower. Finally, she asked, “How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know. It’s likely that I’ll face some criminal charges and you’ll probably see something in the newspaper. I apologize again. I’m not going to jail, Margot, and that’s why I’m leaving. My lawyers will handle everything, and with time, they’ll work out a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Money. Fines. Restitution.”

“You can buy your way out of trouble?”

“Something like that. It’s not always fair but that’s the way things work.”

“Whatever. I don’t understand any of this and don’t really want to.”

“I don’t blame you. Just understand that I have no choice but to ‘slither out of town,’ as you say.”

“Whatever.”

“I want to keep in touch. Mr. Brigance has a secretary, Alicia.”

“I’ve met her.”

“Stop by the office and she’ll give you some envelopes addressed to me at a building in Panama. When I write to you, I’ll send the letters to Alicia. Call her at home if you need something, but do not use the office line.”

“Is this illegal or something?”

“No, I would never ask you to do something illegal. Please trust me.”

“I was just beginning to, and now you’re disappearing again.”

“I’m sorry, Margot, but I have no choice.”

“And what about the tuition thing?”

“I made you a promise and I intend to keep it. Found a school?”

“Yep. Rocky Mountain College of Art and Design, in Denver.”

“Sounds pretty exotic.”

“I plan to study fashion design. I’ve already talked to an admissions person.”

“Good for you. I can tell you’re excited.”

“I can’t wait, Mack. Just don’t screw up the tuition.”

“Got it covered. Can I come visit?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious. Look, Margot, I’m determined to be a part of your life.”

“Are you sure that’s a good thing?”

“What a smart-ass.” Mack couldn’t help but chuckle. She smiled too and soon both were laughing.

They walked to her car without a word.

When it was time for the goodbyes, Mack said, “I gotta go. Please keep in touch.”

Her eyes were moist as she looked at him. “Be careful, Mack.”

“Always.” He took a step closer and said, “I’ll always be your father and I’ll always love you.”

She reached up for an embrace, and Mack finally got the hug.

She sniffled and said, “I love you, Dad.”

(39)

Mack drove an hour west on Interstate 20 to the river town of Vicksburg and took an exit. He entered the grounds of the national military park commemorating the crucial Battle of Vicksburg, another one lost by the South. He parked near the visitors center, walked through the cemetery, and followed a pathway to the top of a small hill where some picnic tables were arranged in an opening, with batteries of cannons nearby standing guard. In the distance, the Mississippi River curled for miles. The tables were empty but for one. A couple of Bubbas sat with a shoebox filled with roasted peanuts between them. Empty shells covered the ground. Harry Rex was drinking a beer from a tall can. Jake had a bottle of water. Both wore jeans, golf shirts, and caps.

It was six forty-five. Harry Rex looked at his watch and said, “You’re fifteen minutes late.”

“Good afternoon, fellas,” Mack said, as he scooped up a handful of peanuts.

“How was Millsaps?” Jake asked.

“Nice, but too close to home. She wants some distance.”

“Not a bad idea,” Harry Rex said, chomping.

“What do you know?” Mack asked.

“Indictments, Ford County grand jury. Don’t know how many counts, but one’s enough. I suspect the Feds are doing the same.”

“I’ll bet Herman’s behind this,” Mack said. “Someone’s pushing hard.”

“He’s the type,” Harry Rex said.

“Yes, he is. He’s wounded because his daughter is dead and now he has two teenagers to raise. I guess I underestimated the danger.”

Jake said, “All of us did.”

Mack asked, “What are the chances of cutting a deal?”

Harry Rex cracked another peanut, flung the shell on the ground, added to the pile, and looked at Jake. “You’re the criminal guy.”

Mack said, “What’s your opinion, Jake?”

“As a friend, and not as a lawyer, I’d say it’ll run its course. It’ll hit the newspapers and be the news for a month, and if you’re arrested—”

“There won’t be an arrest.”

“Okay, if they don’t find you, then pretty soon they’ll lose interest. Let a few months go by, maybe a year, then test the waters. See if they’ll take some fines and restitution and forget about it.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

Harry Rex said, “As your lawyer, I advise you to turn yourself in and face the music. I cannot advise you to flee the country.”

“Jake, as a friend?”

“Flee the country. Nothing good will happen if you stay here. Go back to Costa Rica and live the good life.”

Mack smiled and ate another peanut. He faced them both and said, “Thanks, guys, for everything. I’ll be in touch.” And with that, he abruptly turned and walked away and disappeared down the path.

He drove six hours and stopped at an interstate motel near Waco, where he slept late Sunday morning. He had biscuits and eggs at a truck stop, then drove seven hours to Laredo. He left the Volvo DL in the lot of a cheap motel, unlocked and with keys in the ignition, and caught a taxi. He carried a small backpack with some clothes, $40,000 in U.S. cash, and four passports.

At dusk, he walked across the bridge over the Rio Grande and left the country.