The Last Witness

Chapter Eight

Mason showered and shaved, though he wondered at the wisdom of shaving a beard that was dusky by noon and in full shadow by nightfall. He occasionally thought about surrendering and letting his beard grow, but always ended up scraping his face. He had taken his aunt Claire to dinner after the one time he had given his beard free rein. His aunt was in her late fifties and was a big, rawboned woman with no-nonsense straight-cut hair that had grayed early in life. She wasn't attractive in any classical sense, but her exuberance, self-assured power, and rough take on life had been a siren call for Harry Ryman. The waiter had mistaken Mason for his aunt's husband. Mason had blamed it on the beard, refused to leave a tip, and shaved the moment he'd gotten home.

Making certain that Tuffy's dog door hadn't frozen shut, he patted her on the head and promised to be home for dinner. Tuffy cocked her head, as if to say, Who are you kidding? and watched him as he drove off, her paws propped up on the windowsill in the living room that was empty except for the oversize dog bed Mason had bought her.

Mason's first stop was the Jackson County Jail, a study in modern incarceration. Opened several years earlier, it was intended to relieve the overcrowding and lax security in the old jail. The voters were persuaded to fund the new jail after one enterprising inmate tried selling time-shares to prisoners.

The redbrick circular jail was on the east side of Police Headquarters, its exterior perforated by longitudinal rows of rectangular windows. The windows were big enough to satisfy court-mandated quality-of-incarceration living standards, and small enough to make certain the inmates stayed there to enjoy it.

The visitors' entrance resembled the waiting room in a doctor's office, complete with two-year-old magazines and a receptionist who didn't care how long an attorney waited to see his client. She was a civilian employee who wore olive slacks and a pale blue shirt with epaulets on the shoulders to give the ensemble an official uniform appearance. Her bleached blond hair was pulled back tightly enough to raise her chin almost to her lower lip, freezing her mouth in a scowl, though Mason thought she might have just made an awful face as a child and it froze that way. Her face was a washed-out listless shade of artificial light. Mason hesitated a moment when he read the name Margaret on her name tag. He rejected the likelihood of a conspiracy by the World Federation of Margarets to make his life miserable, but clenched his smart-ass impulse just in case.

"Good morning," he told Margaret. "I'm Lou Mason and I'm here to see my client, Wilson Bluestone." Mason handed her his driver's license, Missouri Bar Association membership card, and one of his business cards.

Margaret scanned Mason's card collection like a bouncer checking for fake IDs. "You didn't sign the back of your bar card. I can't accept it without a signature," she said, handing the bar card back to Mason.

Mason felt the first wave of intemperance ripple through his back and neck. He resisted the urge to vault the counter separating them, and smiled graciously instead.

"Of course. Sorry about that," he said as he signed his name and handed the card back to her.

Margaret held the bar card alongside Mason's driver's license, comparing the two signatures like a Treasury agent looking for counterfeit twenties.

"Bar card is expired," she said. "Can't take an expired bar card. You should have paid your dues," she added, and handed the bar card back to Mason.

Mason gripped the counter with both hands to keep them from Margaret's throat. He decided to appeal to her sense of reason.

"Margaret, consider what you're saying. The bar card only means that I'm a member of the Missouri bar. It's a form of identification. There's nothing in the law that requires me to belong to the bar association or even be a lawyer to visit an inmate. Now, fortunately, I am a lawyer and I have a client who's locked in a cell upstairs who is entitled to the effective representation of his chosen counsel. If he's deprived of that representation because you won't let me see him, the judge will have to dismiss the charges. Now my client happens to have been charged with murder, which most people think is a pretty serious deal. So, why don't you call the prosecuting attorney and tell him that his case is going to get dismissed because you, Margaret, are refusing to let me see my client because my bar card has expired?"

"Jeez," Margaret exhaled. "Are you a tight-ass or what? I'm just doing my job here. Pay your damn dues like everybody else."

"Trust me, Margaret. I've paid my dues. Now open up."

Mason had to pass through a series of security checks that fell one pat-down short of a body-cavity search. He was ushered into a cramped room divided by a narrow countertop that served as a table for both the lawyer and the prisoner. A reinforced double pane of glass cut the room completely in two. A circular metal screen was mounted in the glass that allowed conversation to be heard on both sides.

Mason stood, pacing in the small room until Blues entered through a door on the inmates' side. They looked at each other for a full minute. Mason saw a defiant man, ramrod straight, coal-black hair hanging raggedly over his tawny brow, piercing eyes searching Mason for good news. Blues touched his closed fist to the glass, holding it there as Mason returned the gesture.

"They're going to offer you a deal," Mason said.

"I won't take it," Blues replied.

"I know that."

"How do you know they're going to offer me a deal?"

Mason couldn't tell Blues what had happened in the parking lot. If Blues knew that taking a deal would protect Mason, he might agree to a plea bargain. Mason assumed that whoever had sent him the message was counting on his relationship with Blues as one more source of pressure that would bring this case to a quick conclusion.

"Patrick Ortiz already invited me to his office to talk about it. I turned down the invitation. Are you ready to ride this thing out?"

"All the way, Lou. I'm innocent and I'm not going to let somebody railroad me. Besides, no matter how many of them there are, you and me got them outnumbered."

Mason smiled at the vote of confidence. "Blues, this case is hot and it's going to get hotter. You watch yourself in there."

Blues chuckled. "Man, you forget one thing. All those brothers and white-trash crackers in there are afraid this crazy Indian will scalp 'em in their sleep. No one is going to fuck with me, Lou. Not more than once."

"Be cool, Blues. The case they've got against you isn't worth a shit. Don't give them one they can make in their sleep."

"I hear that," Blues answered. They touched their fists against the glass again, and Mason pushed a button signaling the guard that they had finished their meeting.

There was one message on Mason's answering machine when he got to his office. It was from his aunt Claire telling him to meet her for lunch at the Summit Street Cafe at noon. It wasn't an invitation. It was an order. His aunt Claire was not much for protocol. Mason assumed that she wanted to talk about Blues's case. If he was caught in the middle between Harry and Blues, she was caught between him and Harry. Though she wouldn't see it that way. She was one of the few people Mason knew who meant it when she said let the chips fall where they may.

Mason booted up his PC, got on-line, and went to the Kansas City Star's Web site. He searched for Rachel Firestone's articles about Jack Cullan's murder, noting that the other murders that had been reported during the same span had been covered with no fanfare and little outrage.

Kansas City knows murder. Any town that began as a river trading post called Old Possum Trot knows killing. Any town that claims Jesse James as a wayward son and commemorates the Valentine's Day Massacre at Union Station knows how to let the lead fly. Any town that has convulsed with riots and raised a generation of hopeless hard cases who expect to die before they're twenty-five knows the sweet agony of death.

Put a million and a half people-white, black, brown, yellow, rich, poor, faithful, faithless, doped, dependent, and demanding-in the rolling river country of the heart of America and they'll find endless ways to kill. Put it in the papers and on the news with candlelight vigils for the funerals of infants. Watch as TV reporters stick microphones in mourners' faces asking how does it feel? and the people will search themselves for shock while keeping a head count, a steady drumbeat of death, ahead or behind last year's pace.

But take the life of a mover and shaker, of one to whom it's not supposed to happen, someone who holds all the cards, someone who gives more dispensations than the pope and holds more markers than the devil. Well, that's showbiz. The mayor grieves the victim and denounces the guilty. The chief of police reassures an anxious community with a quick arrest, and the prosecuting attorney promises justice swift and certain.

Rachel Firestone had reported it all. Her prose was concise, her tone neutral, and her facts straight. Only the headlines above the stories announced an agenda. They painted the crime, the victim, the accused, and the supporting cast with a broad brush dipped in sensational ink to capture mind share and market share in a media-saturated world. kingpin murdered, screamed the headline in Tuesday's paper. Wednesday's lead promised police close to arrest, and Thursday's paper trumpeted ex-cop arrested for murder of political boss.

None of the stories added to Mason's knowledge of the case. He ran a search for articles on the Dream Casino, printed them, and began reading.

Missouri had been a late entrant in the sweepstakes for gambling dollars. Bible Belt morality had kept the casino interests out of the state for decades, though Kansas City had been a wide-open town from the beginning of the twentieth century through Prohibition. Gambling had flourished in speakeasies all over town, particularly along the Twelfth Street strip from Broadway to City Hall. Tom Pendergast had been the Boss in those years, running his empire of influence and muscle under the guise of a concrete business.

A coalition of clergy, political reformers, and the IRS had brought Pendergast down, and Kansas City had settled into a long quiet period struggling with its lingering reputation as a cow town and unable to compete with the temptations offered on a grander scale by bigger cities.

The gaming people had seen opportunity beneath the blanket of conservatism that lay between the Missouri River on the western border of the state and the Mississippi River that marked the eastern boundary. They sold the Missouri legislature on a scam that would have shamed even Professor Harold Hill with its Music Man audacity.

Riverboat cruises reminiscent of Mark Twain's paddleboats were promised. Two-hour cruises with five hundred-dollar loss limits assured that no one would lose the rent money. Funding programs for problem gamblers was good citizenship. Committing the tax revenue from the casinos to education sealed the deal. The legislature doubled down and took the bet, offering the voters an amendment to the state's constitution legalizing riverboat gambling on the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers. The voters couldn't wait to cash in.

The first boat in the Kansas City area came to an unincorporated area north of the city. To the surprise of everyone but its owners, the Army Corps of Engineers ordered that the boat remain docked because of the hazards of navigating the Missouri River. With a sigh of regret heard all the way to their banks, the other casinos built their facilities on huge barges, digging moats around them that were fed by the rivers to meet the legal requirement that the boats be on the river.

The legislative scheme was complex, having been drafted by lawyers with help from the casinos' lobbyists. Like any successful partnership between regulators and those they regulate, the law appeared tough, but was actually more malleable than a politician's oath to tell the truth. The Missouri Gaming Commission was established to oversee and regulate all gaming activity. Each city retained the right to issue licenses to casino operators, subject only to the Gaming Commission's approval of the qualifications of the owners. Rules prohibiting ownership by convicted felons and other unsavory individuals were window dressing to distract attention from the real horse trading that accompanied the grant of licenses.

The competition for Kansas City 's license had been fierce. Four casino operators had expressed interest in obtaining a license from the city. Each had put together their own team of local supporters and business partners that had as its singular purpose getting the mayor's blessing. Some had been subtler than others, giving ownership interests to black and Hispanic businessmen who had carried a message of diversity and economic opportunity to the mayor. Others had offered sizable campaign contributions to the mayor and city councilmen.

Mayor Sunshine had announced the appointment of a Blue Ribbon Commission to recommend which of the contenders should receive the sole license Kansas City intended to grant. It had been the mayor's way of remaining above the fray, and gave him plausible deniability of any effort to influence his decision.

Of equal importance to the selection of the casino operator had been the selection of the site for the casino. Kansas City 's river frontage afforded several possible locations, each of them privately owned. The owners of those sites had joined in the free-for-all. They had anguished over whether to choose between aligning with a particular casino operator and waiting to see if their site was selected. The wrong move could cost them millions.

When all the coalitions and alliances had been formed, when all the political contributions had been deposited, and when all the promises that would be broken had been made, the Blue Ribbon Commission had recommended to the mayor that he grant the license to Galaxy Gaming Co. Galaxy was a publicly traded company with casinos in Las Vegas, Atlantic City, and three other states that had approved river-boat gambling. Galaxy had formed a joint venture with three prominent black businessmen and two labor unions whose local presidents were Hispanic. It had pledged $250,000 to the Kansas City chapter of Gamblers Anonymous. Galaxy had signed a ninety-nine-year ground lease, contingent on getting the license, with the owner of the site the Army Corps of Engineers had designated as its first choice for a one-hundred-fifty-thousand-square-foot floating barge. Three city councilmen and Congressman Delray Shays had backed the Galaxy proposal.

The mayor had thanked the commission members for their efforts, had praised their hard work, and then had bestowed the license on the Dream casino. He had then announced that the casino would be docked at the limestone ledge that had once attracted eighteenth-century traders and trappers to pull in and build the trading post that had grown into Kansas City. That site, he had noted, was owned by the city and would be leased to the Dream Casino, turning an unproductive historical footnote into a new source of revenue for the city.

The owners of the losing casinos had shrugged their corporate shoulders, accustomed to the game of chance they played in cities throughout the country. A few local investors in the losing companies had cried foul, more aggrieved by the loss of the money they were convinced they would have made than any misplaced sense of civic outrage. In time, they had let the matter drop and gone in search of the next good deal.

Rachel Firestone, however, hadn't let the story drop. She had dogged the Missouri Gaming Commission, the mayor's office, and the Dream Casino until she found the one thing that tied them all together. It was Jack Cullan. Cullan had represented Ed Fiora and led the behind-the-scenes efforts to win approval of the Dream's application. Before that, he had been treasurer of Billy Sunshine's two successful campaigns for the office of mayor. Though she hadn't found evidence of a direct relationship between Cullan and Beth Harrell, she had cited highly placed confidential sources intimating that Harrell had been improperly influenced in her decision to approve the license for the Dream Casino.

In addition to the conflicts of interest that were Cullan's hallmark, she had traced the flow of money from Ed Fiora to Billy Sunshine. Though her most recent article intimated at a quid pro quo, she fell short of an outright accusation. She had quoted the U.S. attorney as not finding sufficient evidence to take the case to the grand jury, making it sound as if he was part of the cover-up.

Trying to find a connection between Cullan's murder and the Dream Casino reminded Mason of a game of three-card monte. The game was a con, not a game of chance or skill.

The dealer dealt three cards, one of which was the ace of spades. The dealer men turned them facedown, and the gambler bet that he could keep track of the ace as the dealer shuffled the three cards at lightning speed. When the dealer finished shuffling, the gambler pointed to the card he believed was the ace. If the dealer wanted the gambler to win a small pot and keep playing until he lost a big one, the dealer would let the gambler win. The trick was to distract the gambler while the cards were being shuffled so that the dealer could replace the ace with another card, hiding the ace in his clothes.

The dealer worked with a partner who bumped the gambler, offered him a drink, or otherwise pulled his attention away from the dealer just for an instant. Mason looked at the notes on his board, the newspaper stories, and the police report. He wondered who was hiding the ace of spades was and who was trying to keep him from finding it.