The Last Witness

Chapter Thirty-five

The blizzard suffocated the city for two days, keeping businesses, schools, and government in suspended animation, an emphatic reminder that nature's power to destroy was a match for man's worst instincts. The difference between nature and man was that nature looked good doing it. The city was draped in a thick white blanket that sparkled brilliantly under the cold rays of the sun. The snow reflected a painfully beautiful glare that polished the ice-blue sky with aching clarity.

Seventeen inches of snow had fallen on top of three inches of ice. One hundred thousand people had been left without power, and hundreds of electrical lines had gone down breaking the fall of limbs that had snapped off from trees like matchsticks under the weight of ice and snow. Property damage had been estimated at close to eighty million dollars.

Nineteen people had been killed in car accidents. Two men had suffered fatal heart attacks while shoveling snow from their walks over the vigorous objections of their wives. Four men-two of them cops and two of them hoods-had been killed at the lagoon in Swope Park.

The story of those last men had led every newscast, filled every front page, and clogged the phone lines of every radio call-in show, shoving the snowstorm of the century to the back page. The people preferred bloodshed to blizzards.

The chief of police personally suspended Harry when he made it to the lagoon. He demanded Harry's gun and badge on the spot, and came within a hairsbreadth of arresting Harry for something, anything. Every cop who shot someone to death was placed on administrative leave while the shooting was investigated. Almost all of them were ultimately welcomed back to duty with more thanks than reprimands.

Not one cop in the department's collective memory had killed his partner, let alone turned over crucial evidence to the FBI before summoning his brother officers to the scene. Not one, that is, until Harry Ryman.

Harry had explained to the chief that the box containing Cullan's files was evidence of a federal crime of political corruption and that the Bureau's jurisdiction was obvious. The chief explained to Harry that he was full of shit and would be lucky not to be fired and convicted of murder. The exchange between the two men had been hot enough to nearly melt the snow at their feet.

"You were right to call the Feds," Mason told Harry later as they sat in the Jeep waiting for the crime-scene techs to finish up. "Nobody does a good job cleaning their own house."

"I know that, but it won't make things any easier if they let me come back. Did you find what you were looking for in Cullan's files?"

Harry had let Mason examine the contents of the plastic box while they waited for the FBI to arrive. Zimmerman and Toland had kept only the best of Cullan's files, limiting themselves to the dirt on the mayor, Beth Harrell, Ed Fiora, the prosecuting attorney, and a handful of influential business people. They could, Mason had concluded, have released the files on a CD titled Blackmail's Greatest Hits.

Mason studied the pictures of Beth, this time focusing on her face, searching for, but not finding, a clue that would bring her into focus. True to form, Cullan had given a set of Beth's pictures to Fiora, saving his own copy for another time.

The mayor's file was surprisingly thin, nothing more than a few ledger sheets that may or may not have been a record of payoffs. Though he had only had a few minutes to study Fiora's file, Mason hadn't found proof of any links between Fiora and the mayor.

Mason's calculation of the destruction caused by his search for these files rivaled the storm's devastation. Four men were dead, as many families were ruined. Judge Carter's career was in shambles. Harry had been suspended. Blues was still accused of Cullan's murder, and Mason was still under suspicion for the death of Shirley Parker.

Harry had repeated his question, not certain whether Mason had heard. "Any luck with Cullan's files?"

Mason had shaken his head. "There should have been something more in those files, but it wasn't there. Maybe Zimmerman and Toland were holding back." He hadn't known what else to say.

By Friday morning, the city was crawling back to life. Streets had been cleared, creating mini-canyons paved with asphalt and surrounded by curbside walls made of exhaust-blackened, plow-packed snow. Mason was in his office when he got a call from Patrick Ortiz.

"We're dropping the charges against your client," Ortiz said.

"Thanks," Mason told him. "Was it Zimmerman and Toland?"

"Doubtful," Ortiz answered. "Zimmerman's wife told us all about his deal with Cullan. They've got an autistic kid. She claims he did it because they needed the money to pay for a special school for the kid. Toland just liked the good life-big Harley, women by the hour, booze by the case. Zimmerman's wife and Toland's girlfriend of the week gave both of them alibis for Cullan's murder."

"Any other leads?"

"The truth is we don't have shit on anybody, but tell your client not to get too comfortable. We may refile the charges if we come up with something."

"What about Shirley Parker?"

"She and Cullan are dead-end bookends," Ortiz said.

Mason permitted himself a small sigh of relief and changed subjects. "What do you hear from the Feds?"

"They skipped the investigation and started with the inquisition," Ortiz answered. "Harry Ryman has as much chance of getting his shield back as I have of getting it on with Jennifer Lopez."

Mason said, "I don't know. My guess is that the chief will end up begging Harry to come back."

"Right," Ortiz said. "If Jennifer turns me down, I'll have her call you. See you around."

Mason found Blues in his office, adding up his losses over the last month.

"I'm going to have to hire strippers and give away whiskey just to pay my mortgage," Blues said when Mason walked in.

"Don't give up yet," Mason said. "Patrick Ortiz just called. They dropped the charges against you."

Blues leaned back in his chair and looked at Mason, then swiveled to get a look out the window. He stood up, scanning the view down Broadway, before turning back to Mason. He pursed his lips and nodded. "Good."

"That's it?" Mason asked. "That's not the reaction of a client who's happy enough to pay his lawyer."

Blues said, "I didn't belong in jail. Nighttime was the worst. My pillow felt like quicksand. Makes it hard to get excited when it never should have happened. Makes it harder to forget when I know how easily an innocent man can get put away."

"Man, you are one depressing son of a bitch when you get philosophical," Mason told him.

Blues laughed. "I'll tell you what will cheer me up. Let's go see Howard Trimble at Liquor Control and get my license reinstated so I can pay your bill or buy you lunch, whichever costs less."

Blues had recently bought a Ford F150 and insisted on driving. They parked in front of Rossi's bar and walked to City Hall.

Howard Trimble wore a Patagonia vest that zippered down the middle over a denim shirt tucked into khaki pants a size smaller than the belly that hung over his belt. Trimble's handshake was fleshy and moist when he greeted Mason and Blues as his secretary showed them into his office, a disorderly and disheveled space where coffee cups and donuts competed for desk space with official business. Trimble gestured Mason and Blues to be seated in the two chairs opposite his desk.

Blues led off. "I'm Wilson Bluestone. This is my attorney, Lou Mason. You sent me this notice that my liquor license has been suspended," Blues added as he handed Trimble the notice he had received in the mail.

"That's because you violated our regulations," Trimble said. "From what I've seen in the news, your liquor license is the least of your problems."

Trimble showed no interest in Blues's situation. He was simply reporting the news with the inevitable disinterest of civil servants.

"I haven't violated any of your regulations," Blues said.

Mason heard the edge creeping into Blues's voice. Blues had less patience with regulations and regulators than Mason did.

"Well, now," Trimble said, sensing the rising tension. "Liquor control regulations require that a license holder be of good moral character. That generally excludes murder, don't you think?"

Mason stepped into the conversation between Trimble and Blues. "Mr. Trimble, all charges against my client have been dropped. The city is about to erupt in a major political scandal. You've got a chance to avoid getting caught up in that mess by reinstating my client's license."

Trimble slid the zipper on his vest up and down as he considered Mason's advice. "You don't mind if I check your story, do you, Mr. Mason?"

"By all means," Mason said. "Call Patrick Ortiz at the prosecutor's office."

Trimble dismissed Mason's suggestion. "I don't mess with the middleman, gentlemen. I go right to the top floor of City Hall. The mayor's chief of staff is a personal friend of mine."

Trimble called Amy White while Mason and Blues gazed around his office, examined their cuticles, and generally pretended not to eavesdrop. Trimble's eyebrows dropped and gave him twenty push-ups while he cupped his hand over the receiver and turned his head to muffle his end of the conversation.

"Good news, Mr. Bluestone," he said after hanging up the phone. "I'll reinstate your license just as soon as I can." He spoke as cheerfully as a man could who had just lost the perk of giving bad news.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Blues asked, naturally suspicious of too much good fortune in one day.

Trimble's hands fluttered to his zipper in a failed effort to be casual. "It's just a matter of completing the paperwork. It's all about forms, you know."

"Well, let's get it done right now," Blues said. "I've got to be open tonight and I can't take the chance that some overexcited cop busts me because he didn't get the word."

"Don't worry about it. I'll see to it myself."

Blues wasn't satisfied, and Mason didn't blame him. If Trimble worked his zipper any harder, the friction would start a fire.

"I want to see my file," Blues said.

A red stain began to creep up Trimble's neck as he tugged at his collar. Trimble was devoted to the bureaucratic dodge, but was running out of places to hide.

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Trimble said.

Mason interjected, "I'm afraid that's not possible, Howard. Mr. Bluestone's file is a public record and we have an absolute right to see it. My client has been held in jail for a month for a crime he didn't commit. You suspended his license and put him out of business. There's a lawsuit headed your way, Howard, if you don't come up with that file."

Trimble gave up on his zipper and resorted to hitching up his pants to untangle his underwear. "There's no need for threats, Mr. Mason. I'm not refusing to show you Mr. Bluestone's file. I just can't. Not right at this moment."

Blues asked, "And why not?"

Trimble shifted his weight and lifted his butt off his chair, grimacing as if he'd just given himself a wedgie. "Amy- Ms. White-has your file," Trimble confessed.

"Which regulation says it's okay to give my client's file to the mayor's chief of staff but not to my client?" Mason demanded.

Trimble stuffed his hand down his pants, rearranged his balls, and wiped a thin film of sweat from above his lip.

"Listen to me," Trimble pled. "I've known Amy White since she was a young girl. Her father, Donald Ray White, was the director of liquor control when I came to work here. Amy and her sister Cheryl used to come down here to visit their daddy. They took to me like I was some kind of an uncle. Then things turned bad for them."

Trimble paused and poked the inside of his mouth with his tongue, choosing his next words carefully. "Amy had a hard road and has come a long way. I'm real proud of her, and I don't want her to get into any trouble."

Mason's gut tightened as he wondered what Trimble was getting at. "How could she get in any trouble over my client's liquor license? The file is a public record." Mason chose a conciliatory approach, hoping it would keep Trimble talking.

Trimble let out a sigh. "Her having the file isn't a problem. I mean, I know you want it right now, Mr. Bluestone. And I don't blame you."

Mason said, "Mr. Trimble, you sure sound like a man who's trying to tell us something without saying it. Like I told you, the charges against my client have been dropped. If that's what this is all about, you'll help yourself and Amy if you just tell me why she has the file."

Trimble hesitated, struggling with his answer, uncertain whether he should give it up, but not strong enough to hold it in. "I hope you're right. Amy called me at home late one night last month. It was a Friday night."

Blues looked at Mason, silently telling him to take the lead as he got up from his chair and took a slow tour of Trimble's office. "You remember the date?" Mason asked.

"December seventh," Trimble said. "Pearl Harbor Day. I remember because my grandfather was killed at Pearl Harbor." He kept his eyes firmly on the floor.

It was also the night of Blues's confrontation with Cullan at the bar, Mason thought to himself. "Did she tell you why she wanted the file?" he asked Trimble.

Trimble shrugged. "She only told me who wanted it, not why." Mason waited, letting his silence ask the next question. "She said Jack Cullan wanted it. It was late. I asked her why it couldn't wait until Monday morning. She said that Mr. Cullan wanted it right away. So, I met her down here and gave it to her." Trimble kneaded his hands like a kid who'd been caught shoplifting.

"What time was that?" Mason asked.

"Around midnight, a little after."

Amy had told Mason that Cullan had called her that night and demanded that she get him Blues's liquor license file. She had told Mason that she had put Cullan off until the following Monday. Trimble's version could put Amy in Cullan's house the night he was killed if she had picked up Blues's file and taken it to Cullan. Yet that didn't square with Amy still having the file.

"Do you know what she did with the file?"

Trimble shook his head. "I didn't talk to her about it again until today."

Mason asked him, "What did you mean that Amy had a hard road?"

Trimble looked up at Mason, uncomfortable with answering, but more uncomfortable with being pushed. "Amy's father died when she was fifteen. A tough time for a girl to lose her father even if he wasn't much of a father. That's when I took over this job. That was eighteen years ago."

"How did he die?"

Trimble sighed again. Mason thought Trimble would hyperventilate and pass out if he did it one more time. "Amy's sister, Cheryl, shot him to death," Trimble said softly.

Mason had been trying to keep his interrogation casual. Blues was roaming around Trimble's small office, reading the diplomas and certificates that traced Trimble's career. Both of them came to attention at Trimble's explanation.

"What happened?" Mason asked.

"Cheryl was three years younger than Amy. Their father was arrested for abusing Cheryl. His lawyer got the charges dismissed and hushed the whole thing up so Donald could keep his job as director of this department." Trimble tilted his head back as if trying to expel his memory of Donald Ray White. He continued the story, biting off each word with obvious distaste.

"When Donald Ray was released from jail, he beat Cheryl so severely that she was permanently brain-damaged. Somehow, Cheryl managed to get a hold of Donald Ray's pistol and killed her father. Amy's mother hired the same lawyer who got her husband off to get her daughter off. Cheryl wasn't prosecuted because she was a brain-damaged child. Their mother drank herself to death a few years later, and Amy has taken care of Cheryl ever since."

"Who was the lawyer?" Mason asked.

"Jack Cullan," Trimble answered, aiming his words at a blank spot on the wall.

Mason put his hand on Trimble's shoulder. He wanted to thank Trimble for telling him the truth, but from the broken expression on Trimble's face, Mason knew that he didn't want any thanks.