The Devil's Punchbowl

CHAPTER 65

I’m staring at Shad Johnson across the compulsively neat surface of his antique desk. The district attorney looks as though he hasn’t slept since our meeting yesterday, and having seen the contents of Ben Li’s secret files, I’m not surprised.

“You look a little green around the gills, Shad.”

“Skip the bullshit, okay?”

I glance to my right, to his Wall of Respect. The picture of Shad and Darius Jones with the dead hog is conspicuously absent. In its place hangs a framed photo of Shad sitting beside a state senator at a political banquet.

“Looks like you’re missing a photograph.”

“I said cut the bullshit,” snaps Johnson. “Why are you here?”

I give him my most cordial smile. “You know what they say about a career in Mississippi politics, don’t you?”

“What’s that?”

“The same thing they say about Louisiana politics. The only way to truly end your career is to get caught with a dead woman or a live boy.”

Shad licks his lips as his gaze flicks to the window. His political instincts are well-honed; he knows something’s coming, only he doesn’t know what. Taking a manila envelope from inside my wind breaker, I remove an eight-by-ten printout of the dog-lynching photo and slide it faceup across his desk.

“I think that picture is the exception to the rule.”

Shad hesitates before looking down, knowing that after he does, his life will never be the same. At last his chair creaks and he leans forward, lowering his eyes to the image on the paper. Shad is a light-skinned black man, but he perceptibly lightens another shade.

“Looks a little bit like you and Darius with the hog, doesn’t it? Only it’s a little different. Especially when considered from a legal perspective.”

Shad seems to have lost his voice altogether.

“You’re a smart man, Shad. So I know there’s no misunderstanding about where we stand now.”

“What do you want?” he asks hoarsely.

“You already know. The USB drive. I know you’ve got it, and I know how you got it. But if you hand it over now and come up with a plausible story, I’m willing to run with that. You’re not who I’m after.”

The district attorney clears his throat, then speaks in his professional voice. “I was about to call you about that drive, Mr. Mayor. As a matter of fact, someone slid a sealed envelope underneath my door last night.”

“Is that so?” I smile to let him see that I’m willing to play along.

“Sure did. Even in this day and age, you’ll find a Good Samaritan doing whatever he can to help the cause of law and order.”

“I’d like to see that envelope.”

Shad reaches into his pocket, takes out a key, then unlocks his bottom desk drawer. He looks down into it for a long time, and for a couple of seconds I have a crazy feeling that he’s about to pull a pistol. I’m sure he’d like nothing better, if he could get away with it, but when he straightens up, he’s holding a sealed, bone-white envelope. He tosses it across the desk.

Ripping the envelope open, I tilt the torn side to my palm. A small, gray Sony thumb drive falls into it, no heavier than a child’s LEGO block.

“Do you know what’s on it?” I ask.

“How could I? I never even opened the envelope.”

I give him a hard look. “What’s on it, Shad?”

He shrugs, then sighs. “No idea. It’s encrypted. I couldn’t get into it.”

I slip the thumb drive into my pants pocket and stand.

“What are you going to do with that?” Shad asks.

“I’m going to run those Irish bastards out of town. Do you know why you’re still sitting here, and not in a jail cell?”

He swallows audibly. “Why?”

“Because you could have turned that drive over to them, and you didn’t. I know you didn’t do that from a noble motive-probably just self-preservation. But whatever the reason, you didn’t do the worst thing you could have done.”

“So, what now? Is this the end of it?”

“Oh, no. Today’s a big day, my friend. A red-letter day. I’ll be in touch about what I need from you.”

Shad rises behind his desk as I move toward the door.

“Whatever you want, Penn. You can count on me one hundred percent.”

“Oh, I know that.”

He clears his throat. “What about the original of that photo? The negative, or the disc or whatever?”

“Let’s see how things go. I’ll make my decision later.”

I turn and walk through the doorway, then stop and poke my head back through it. Shad is studying the photograph like a man being forced to peer into the darkest corner of his soul.

“One more thing,” I say quietly.

“What?” he says without looking up.

“Soren Jensen. You just pled him down to probation and a drug treatment program. He doesn’t spend one more day in jail.”

“He’s out on bail now.”

“Say it,” I tell him.

“Done. Probation.”

“Stay by your phone. I’ll be in touch.”