The Whistler

9

The director of the Florida Gaming Commission was Eddie Naylor, a former state senator who had happily surrendered his seat for the fat salary the new agency offered when casino gambling arrived in the early 1990s and the state felt compelled to try and regulate it. His office was three blocks from Lacy’s, and the meeting had been easy to arrange. Far from the grungy digs of the Board on Judicial Conduct, his suite was in a modern building with fine furnishings, a bustling staff, and apparently no budget constraints. Florida was happily in the gambling business and its pliant taxing schemes were working smoothly.

One look at Lacy and Naylor decided he should leave his large desk and chat around the coffee table. At least twice before the coffee arrived, she caught him glancing at her legs, which were on full display courtesy of a skirt that was almost too short. After some preliminaries she said, “Obviously, our office investigates complaints against nonfederal judges in the state. There are a lot of them, and they keep us busy. Our investigations are confidential, so I ask for your cooperation in that regard.”

“Certainly,” Naylor said. Nothing about the guy inspired trust, from his shifty eyes and greasy smile to his ill-fitting suit and dress shirt straining at the buttons. Probably has a generous expense account, she thought. He could easily pass for another lobbyist working the streets of Tallahassee.

To impress her, he went through a windy summary of duties of “his commission.” All gambling in the state had been herded into one oversight agency, and he was the man in charge. Horse racing, dog racing, lottery, slots, casinos, cruise ships, even jai alai, were now under his jurisdiction. It seemed to be a mammoth undertaking, but he was up to the task.

“How much oversight do you have over the Indian casinos?” she asked.

“All casinos in Florida are run by the Indians, the Seminoles being by far the largest tribe and biggest operators. Frankly, though, and to be perfectly candid, when it comes to the Indian casinos we have very little oversight and control. A tribe that has federal recognition is its own nation and makes its own laws. In Florida, we have entered into treaties with all casino operators, and this allows us to collect a small tax on their profits. Very small, but it adds up. There are now nine casinos and they are all doing quite well.”

“Can you go into a casino and inspect its operations?”

He shook his head gravely and admitted, “No, nor can we check the books. Each casino files a quarterly report showing its gross revenues and net profits, and we tax from there. But, frankly, we have to take their word for it.”

“So a casino can submit whatever it wants?”

“Yes, that’s the current state of the law, and it’s not likely to change.”

“And a casino pays no federal tax of any kind?”

“That’s correct. By entering into treaties, we sort of cajole them into paying a little to the state. We do this by building a road here or there, and by providing a few services like emergency medical treatment and some educational support. On occasion they’ll ask for the state’s help for this and for that. But, truthfully, it’s completely voluntary. If a tribe says no to any form of taxation, there’s nothing we can do. Fortunately, none of them have taken that position.”

“How much do they pay?”

“One half of 1 percent of net. Last year that was about $40 million. It funds the bulk of our commission and the rest goes into the Florida rainy-day fund. May I ask where this is going?”

“Sure. A formal complaint has been filed alleging some bad behavior by a circuit court judge. It involves a developer who’s apparently in bed with a tribe and its casino and a judge who’s sharing in the profits.”

Naylor set down his coffee cup and shook his head. “Quite frankly, Ms. Stoltz, I’m not that surprised. If a casino wants to fudge on its financials and skim cash off the top, or under the table, doesn’t really matter, there’s little to stop it from doing so. It’s a perfect storm for corruption. You start with people who are not that sophisticated, and suddenly they’re raking in more profits than are imaginable. They attract all manner of crooks and con men who want to help. Add the fact that most of the business is in cash that’s absolutely untraceable, and it’s just a bad mix. We here at the commission are often frustrated by our lack of oversight.”

“So corruption does happen?”

“I didn’t say it happens. I said the potential is there.”

“But nobody’s watching?”

He recrossed his thick legs and thought about this. “Well, the FBI has the authority to investigate wrongdoing on Indian land, any kind of bad behavior. That’s pretty intimidating, I suppose. And again, these folks are not that sophisticated, so the idea of the Feds poking around keeps them in line. I should add that most of our casinos contract with reputable companies who know how to run casinos.”

“Could the FBI go in with warrants and grab the books?”

“I’m not sure. It’s never been done, as far as I know. And over the past twenty years the FBI has shown little interest in Indian affairs.”

“Why is that?”

“Don’t know exactly, but I suspect it’s a question of manpower. The FBI is focused on fighting terror and cybercrime. A bit of swindling in an Indian casino is of little interest. Why bother? The Indians have never had it so good, at least not in the past two hundred years.” He dropped another cube of sugar into his coffee and stirred it with a finger. “This wouldn’t be the Tappacola, would it?”

“It is.”

“I’m not that surprised.”

“And why not?”

“There have been rumors over the years.” He took a sip and waited for the follow-up.

“Okay. What kinds of rumors?”

“Outside influence. Some shady guys got involved from the beginning and are making a killing on developments around the casino. Just suspicions, that’s all. Our job does not include investigating crimes so we don’t go near it. If we learn of wrongdoing, we’re supposed to notify the FBI.”

“Rumors about skimming cash?”

He was shaking his head. “No, haven’t heard that one.”

“Rumors about a judge?”

Still shaking, he said, “No. I’d be surprised if that were true.”

“It is surprising, but we have a source.”

“Well, there is a lot of cash, and it does strange things to people. I’d be very careful, Ms. Stoltz. Very careful.”

“You seem to know more than you’re willing to tell.”

“Not at all.”

“Okay. But please remember that our investigations are confidential.”

“You have my word.”

–

While Lacy was making her first and only call to the Florida Gaming Commission, her partner was making his first and only visit to a golf course. At the suggestion of Michael Geismar, and borrowing his seldom-used clubs, Hugo cajoled a BJC colleague named Justin Barrow into faking a round of golf. Justin had leaned on a friend who knew someone else, and after a fair amount of discreet manipulation and outright lying, a guest tee time at Rabbit Run had been arranged. Justin was a weekend player; thus, he knew the basic rules and enough etiquette not to arouse suspicions. Hugo had neither a clue nor a shred of interest. In the world he grew up in, golf was a white man’s game played at white country clubs.

The first tee box at Rabbit Run East was around the corner from the driving range and clubhouse, so no one noticed when Justin teed off and Hugo did not. It was 10:30 on an August morning, the temperature was already above ninety, and the course was deserted. Though Hugo, the driver of the golf cart, knew nothing about the game, he chose not to withhold his comments about Justin’s lack of skill. When Justin failed on three consecutive sand shots to get the ball out of a green-side bunker, Hugo was amused to the point of laughing out loud. On the third green, Hugo grabbed his borrowed putter and a ball and figured anybody could tap it into the cup. When it repeatedly failed to drop in from only ten feet away, Justin unleashed an avalanche of trash talk.

Using satellite photos, they had located the four condos allegedly owned, in one way or another, by Judge Claudia McDover. Geismar wanted site visits and photos. Standing at the fourth tee box, Hugo and Justin gazed at the long par 5, dogleg left, and studied a row of handsome condos 250 yards away and out-of-bounds to the right.

Hugo said, “By now I know most of your shots go out-of-bounds, so try and place your tee shot over there by those condos. A hard slice, one of your specialties.”

Justin replied, “Why don’t you take a shot, big guy, and see how easy it is?”

“Game on.” Hugo stuck a tee in the grass, placed a ball on it, addressed the ball, tried to relax, and took a long easy swing. The ball went a mile in the air and slowly began to hook left. The hook gained momentum, and by the time the ball disappeared into the woods it was out of sight. Without a word, he yanked another ball out of his pocket, placed it on the tee, and with even more determination took a hack. The drive shot forward, low and hard, and slowly gained altitude. It appeared to be headed straight for the condos to the right but soon rose high enough to sail over them.

Justin said, “Well, at least you’re using the entire course. Those two shots are a mile apart and way out-of-bounds.”

“It’s my first time out.”

“So I’ve heard.” Justin teed it up and looked at the fairway. “I gotta be careful here because good contact could send the ball into the condos. Don’t want to break any glass.”

“Just give it a ride and I’ll spend some time looking for it.”

The shot went just as planned, a hard slice that rolled out-of-bounds and into some shrubbery bordering the condos. “Perfect,” Hugo said.

“Gee, thanks.”

They hopped in the golf cart and sped down the middle of the fairway, then eased right, toward the condos. Justin dropped a ball onto the grass as if it were his tee shot, and he pulled out a small device that appeared to be a laser range finder, one used to measure the distance from his ball to the flag. It was really a video camera, and while Hugo nonchalantly strolled over to the edge of the patio of unit 1614D as if hunting a lost ball, Justin shot close-up footage of the condo. Hugo had on his belt a small digital camera that snapped stills as he poked through some shrubs with his seven iron.

Just a couple of bad golfers hunting lost balls. Happened every day, whether someone was watching or not.

Three hours later, after searching for many lost balls, Hugo and Justin called it quits. As they drove away from the pro shop, Hugo silently vowed to never again set foot on a golf course.

On the way back to Tallahassee, they detoured to the small town of Eckman for a quick chat with a lawyer named Al Bennett. He had a nice office on Main Street and seemed to welcome Hugo to break the monotony of drafting deeds. Justin found a coffee shop to kill the hour.

Five years earlier, Bennett had entered politics for the first and last time when he challenged the reelection of Claudia McDover. He campaigned hard and spent too much money, and when only 31 percent of the voters favored him he hustled back home to Eckman with a diminished desire to serve the public. On the phone, Hugo had revealed nothing and promised just a few quick questions about a local judge.

In person, Hugo explained that the BJC was investigating a complaint against Judge McDover, that the investigation was confidential, and that the complaint could well be frivolous. It was a sensitive matter and Hugo needed Bennett’s word that all would be kept quiet.

“Of course,” Bennett said, eager to be involved and a little excited. As they talked, Hugo wondered how the guy managed to get even 31 percent of the vote. He spoke rapidly, nervously, with a high-pitched voice that was obnoxious to the ears. Hugo could not imagine him on the stump or in front of a jury.

Hugo was wary of the meeting. Lawyers could usually be trusted to keep secrets that involved their own clients, but were often horrible gossips when it came to everyone else. The more witnesses they interviewed the more leaks there would be, and before long Judge McDover and her confederates would know they were being shadowed. Lacy agreed, but Geismar wanted to put a check in Bennett’s box.

Hugo asked, “Was it a rough campaign?”

Bennett replied, “Well, you could say the outcome was rough. Hell, I got clobbered in a landslide. It hurt, but I’m almost over it.”

“Was it dirty?”

He thought for a moment and seemed to resist the temptation to trash his former opponent. “It never got too personal. She made much of the fact that I have no experience on the bench. I couldn’t argue with that, so I tried to take the high road and say, well, she didn’t have any experience either until she got elected. But it took too long to explain this, and, as you know, voters have short attention spans. Plus, Mr. Hatch, you gotta keep in mind that Judge McDover has a good reputation.”

“Did you attack her?”

“Not really. Couldn’t find much.”

“Did anyone allege ethical violations on her part?”

He shook his head. “No.” Then he asked, “What kinds of ethical violations are you investigating?”

Hugo made the quick decision to avoid anything of substance. If Bennett went through a tough campaign against McDover and heard no rumors of misconduct, Hugo was not about to reveal the allegations. “You heard nothing?” Hugo asked.

Bennett shrugged as if he had nothing. “Not really. A long time ago she had a bad divorce. She’s still single, lives alone, no kids, no real community involvement. We weren’t looking for dirt and none came to the surface. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. Thanks for your time.”

Leaving Eckman, with another check in the box, Hugo was certain he had wasted an entire day in the pursuit of Claudia McDover.

–

Lacy found the widow of Son Razko living in a small subdivision near Fort Walton Beach, about an hour from the Tappacola reservation. Since she’d remarried she was not technically a widow. Her name was Louise, and she was at first reluctant to talk. Halfway through the second phone call she agreed to meet at a waffle house and speak briefly. Since she had a job she was not available until after work. Lacy drove three hours and met her at 6:00 p.m. on the same day that Hugo buzzed around Rabbit Run in a golf cart.

According to the file and the records, Louise Razko had been thirty-one years old when her husband was found murdered, and naked, and in the same bedroom with the wife of Junior Mace. She and Son had two children, now young adults, and both had left Florida. Louise had remarried a few years earlier and moved away from the reservation.

She was pushing fifty, with gray hair and a squat figure. The years were not being good to her.

Lacy explained what she was up to, but Louise showed little interest. “I am not going to talk about the murders and all that,” she said initially.

“Fine. Off-limits. Do you remember Judge McDover?”

She sipped iced tea through a straw and gave the impression of wanting desperately to be somewhere else. Finally, she shrugged and said, “Only from the trial.”

“So you watched the trial?” Lacy asked, a throwaway, anything to ramp up the conversation.

“Of course I watched the trial. All of it.”

“What did you think of the judge?”

“Why does it matter now? The trial was many years ago. Are you investigating the judge for something she did back then?”

“No, not at all. The complaint we are investigating centers on allegations that the judge is involved in a conspiracy to take bribes and such. It all revolves around the casino.”

“I prefer not to talk about the casino. It is a blight on my people.”

Great, Louise! If we can’t talk about the casino and we can’t talk about your husband’s murder, then why exactly did I drive all the way over here? Lacy scribbled on a notepad, as if deep in thought. “Have any of your family members ever worked in the casino?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because we need information about the casino and it’s proving rather hard to find. Someone on the inside could be of great assistance.”

“You can forget that. No one will talk to you. The people who work there are happy to have jobs and to get the checks. The people who cannot work there are envious, maybe even bitter, but also content with their checks. No one is going to upset the casino.”

“Have you ever heard the name of Vonn Dubose?”

“No. Who is he?”

“What if I told you he is probably the man who killed your husband to get him out of the way so he could build a casino? Would you believe that?” Lacy did in fact believe it; the problem was that she had so little proof. She made the rather bold suggestion in an effort to jolt Louise into a conversation.

Louise took another sip and stared through a window. Lacy was learning a few things about the Tappacola. First, and not surprisingly, they did not trust outsiders. Couldn’t blame them for that. Second, they were in no hurry when discussing matters. They were prone to slow, thoughtful speech, and long gaps in the conversation never seemed to bother them.

Finally, Louise looked at Lacy and said, “Junior Mace killed my husband. It was proven in court. I was humiliated.”

As firmly as possible, Lacy said, “What if Junior did not kill your husband? What if he and Eileen Mace were killed by the same criminals who convinced the Tappacola to build the casino, the same people who’ve made a fortune from the developments around the casino, the same people who are in all likelihood skimming large amounts of cash from the business? And these same people are in business with Judge McDover. Does this shock you, Louise?”

Her eyes watered and a tear spilled onto her right cheek. “How do you know this?” she asked. After having believed one version for so many years, it would be difficult to suddenly believe something else.

“Because we’re investigators. That’s what we do.”

“But the crime was investigated by the police many years ago.”

“It was a bogus trial that produced a wrongful conviction. The two star witnesses were both jailhouse snitches who were coerced by the cops and prosecutors to lie to the jury.”

“I said I didn’t want to talk about the murders.”

“Right. So let’s talk about the casino. I don’t expect you to cooperate until you’ve thought about it carefully. But we need names of people, your people, who know what’s happening. If you give us a name or two no one will ever know. I promise. It’s our job to protect the identity of our witnesses.”

“I know nothing, Ms. Stoltz. I have never set foot in the casino; never will. My family too. Most of us have moved away. Sure, we take the checks because it’s our land, but the casino has destroyed the soul of our people. I know nothing about it. I despise the place and the people who run it.”

She was convincing and Lacy knew the conversation was over.

Another check in the box.