The Whistler

32

The morning mail included three thick packages from the law offices of Edgar Killebrew. Lacy reluctantly opened them and found his cover letter. He explained, in typical terse and arrogant language, that the “enclosed” was Judge McDover’s response to Lacy’s “frivolous” subpoenas. Attached to the letter was his formal demand that all allegations against his client be dropped and the investigation terminated. In the alternative, he demanded “an immediate and confidential hearing before the full Board on Judicial Conduct.”

Lacy had requested all of his client’s records, both official and personal, for ten specific lawsuits. As she began plowing through the stack, it became apparent nothing new was being offered. Killebrew and his associates had simply copied the court filings and lumped them together in a haphazard manner. There was an occasional memo dictated by the judge and not filed, and even a few handwritten notes, but nothing that revealed her thoughts, intentions, or observations; nothing that would implicate her in favoring one side or the other. But in all ten cases she had ruled for the faceless offshore entities and against the local property owners and litigants.

Not surprisingly, the paperwork was far less organized than the material Sadelle had indexed long ago. Nonetheless, Lacy had no choice but to review every document and record. When she finished, she reported to Geismar.

–

On October 5, the first Wednesday of the month, Judge McDover left her office an hour earlier than usual and drove to the same condo at Rabbit Run, her second visit there since the filing of the complaint that accused her of receiving the unit in a bribery scheme. She parked her Lexus in the same spot, leaving room for another vehicle, and entered the condo. She gave no indication of being the least bit jumpy or nervous, never once looked over her shoulder or up and down the street.

Inside, she checked the patio door and all windows. She went to her vault and spent a few moments admiring her “assets,” goodies she’d been collecting for so long that she now believed she deserved them. Cash and diamonds in small, portable, fireproof safes. Locked steel cabinets filled with jewelry, rare coins, vintage silver goblets and cups and flatware, limited signed first editions of famous novels, ancient crystal, and small paintings from contemporary artists. All of it had been acquired by casino cash, skillfully laundered through the systematic purchasing from dozens of dealers who never suspected that she and Phyllis Turban were violating those pesky reporting laws. The genius of their scheme was patience. Buy fine and rare goods in small quantities and, with time, watch their collection grow. Find the right dealers, avoid those who asked questions or seemed hesitant, and, when possible, move the goods out of the country.

She adored her collection, but for the first time in eleven years she felt the beginnings of a panic. All of this stuff should have been shipped or smuggled to a safer place. Now she had been accused. Someone knew about her condos and the mysterious companies that owned them. Vonn Dubose may have ice water in his veins, but Claudia McDover did not. Her insatiable appetite for cash was finally fading. She had enough. She and Phyllis could travel the world in style and laugh about the Indians. Most important, she could cut all ties to Dubose.

He arrived and fixed a double vodka. She sipped green tea as they sat at a breakfast table and watched the golf course. The two satchels were on the sofa; one filled with loot, the other empty.

“Talk to me about Killebrew,” he said after the usual chitchat.

“He’s loaded them down with paperwork, at five hundred bucks an hour, I might add. And he’s demanded that everything be dropped, of course. He’s blowing smoke about a prompt hearing but thinks he can delay it for at least six months. Where will we be in six months, Vonn?”

“Right here, counting our money. Nothing is changing, Claudia. Are you worried?”

“Of course I’m worried. These people aren’t stupid. I can show them the canceled checks when I bought the condos, ten thousand down for each when the market value was a lot more. I can show them the promissory note for the balance, most of which I still owe to some shady bank down in the Caribbean.”

“You’ve made payments over the years. Your arrangement with the bank is none of their business.”

“Very small payments, Vonn, very small. And the payments got rerouted back to me through another offshore bank.”

“They can never trace that, Claudia. How many times have we discussed this?”

“I don’t know, Vonn. What if I just resign?”

“Resign?”

“Think about it, Vonn. I can blame it on health issues, feed the press some bogus crap, and leave office. Killebrew would raise hell and claim that BJC would no longer have jurisdiction. There’s a good chance the complaint would go away.”

“The complaint is dead anyway.”

She took a deep breath, then a sip of tea. “Myers?”

“Myers has disappeared.”

She shoved the cup and saucer away and said, “I can’t take this anymore, Vonn. This is your world, not mine.”

“He’s on the run, okay? We don’t have him yet, but we’re closing in.”

Nothing was said for a long time as she counted the dead bodies and he thought about the extra cash he could pocket with her in retirement. “Who is the guy?” she asked.

“A disbarred lawyer from Pensacola named Ramsey Mix. Served some time in a federal joint, got out, found some money he buried when the Feds came in, changed his name to Greg Myers, and lived on a boat with his little Mexican sweetheart.”

“How’d you find him?”

“That’s not important. What is important is that BJC cannot go forward without him. It’s over, Claudia. It was a nice little scare, but it’s over. You can relax now.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I’ve studied BJC’s rules inside and out, and there’s no hard-and-fast procedure that dismisses the charges when the complaining party loses interest.”

She was a lawyer. He was not, and he wouldn’t argue with her. “Are you sure they’ll go away if you retire?”

“Again, I can’t predict what they’ll do. Their procedures are not always clear-cut. But, if I’m not on the bench, why should they care?”

“Perhaps they won’t.”

She did not know about the two videos and Vonn’s frantic efforts to contain the damage they might have created. She did not know about Lyman Gritt and his suspicious activities. There was a lot she didn’t know because, in his world, knowledge could be dangerous. Trusted confidants can be convinced to talk. Secrets get exposed. She had enough to worry about anyway.

There was another long gap in the conversation. Neither seemed eager to talk, though both minds were spinning. He rattled his ice cubes and finally said, “So the question remains, Judge, how did Myers find out about the condos? Any possible paper trail would take him nowhere. There are too many firewalls, too many foreign companies governed by laws that cannot be penetrated. Someone told Myers, which means, of course, that there was a leak. Look at the people around me, and look at the people around you. My guys are professionals who run an organization that’s airtight, and we’ve been in business for a long time with no leaks. What about you, Judge?”

“We’ve had this conversation.”

“We’re having it again. What about Phyllis? She knows everything. How secure is her office?”

“Phyllis is my partner in crime, Vonn. She’s just as guilty as me.”

“I’m not suggesting she might talk. But who’s around her these days? I know she has no partners, only flunkies, but who are they?”

“She’s a fanatic about security. Nothing sensitive is kept in her office, nor in her home. For the important stuff, she works out of a small office no one knows about. It’s all very secure.”

“What about your office?”

“I’ve told you, Vonn. I use one full-time secretary that I run off every eighteen months or so. Not a single one has ever lasted two years because I don’t want them getting comfortable and nosing around. Occasionally, I’ll have an intern for a year, but those poor kids can’t take the pressure. And I have a court reporter who’s been with me for years and I’d trust with my life.”

“JoHelen.”

“JoHelen Hooper. A very sweet girl who does her job beautifully but keeps her distance from anything else related to the courthouse.”

“And how long has she been your court reporter?”

“Seven or eight years. We get along because she says little, kisses my ass when it needs kissing, and otherwise stays out of my way.”

“And why do you trust her so completely?”

“Because I know her. Why do you trust your boys so much?”

He ignored her question and asked, “Does she have access to your office?”

“Never. No one has access.”

“There’s no such thing as complete trust, Judge. And it’s often the one you trust the most who’ll cut your throat for the right price.”

“You should know about these things.”

“Damned right I do. Keep an eye on her, okay? Trust no one.”

“I don’t trust anyone, Vonn, especially you.”

“Attagirl. I wouldn’t trust me either.”

They managed a forced chuckle at their own crookedness. Vonn went for more vodka and she sipped cold tea. As he was sitting down he said, “Let’s do this. Let’s take it one week at a time, meet here each Wednesday at five, and monitor things. And give me some time to think about your retirement.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll warm up to the retirement plan. You’re already counting the extra cash each month.”

“True, but, as I’ve learned, it’s so handy to have a judge in my pocket. You’ve spoiled me, Claudia, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to find another judge so easily corruptible.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“Getting religion in later years?”

“No. I’m just tired of working. I had to take a child away from its mother today. She’s a meth head and a complete wreck, and the child was in danger, but it’s still not easy. It’s the third time I’ve snatched a kid away from this woman, and after a six-hour hearing, with all manner of emotion and name-calling, I had to order social services to take the child. So, as she’s leaving, the mother announces in open court, ‘Hey, no big deal, I’m already pregnant again.’ ”

“What an awful way to make a buck.”

“I’m tired of it. Stealing from the Indians is much more enjoyable.”

–

Lacy was on a yoga mat, trying painfully to complete a seated forward fold, a basic yoga move that she had done for years but not since the crash. With both legs straight and together on the floor, she was almost touching her toes when Cooley’s burner rattled on the coffee table. Since she couldn’t live without it these days, she had learned to despise it. Nonetheless, she immediately forgot about yoga and grabbed the phone.

“Just checking in, Lacy,” he said. “No sign of Myers. Not that I expected any, but troubling nonetheless. The cops in Key Largo are looking for him but it’s a pretty cold trail. Some bank repossessed his boat a couple of days ago. Just talked to the mole. Nothing new there either, except that our gal met with Dubose today for their monthly cash party.”

“How does he know this?” Lacy asked, but by now it was an old question.

“Maybe you can ask him one day. I don’t know. Look, Lacy, if the bad guys can find Myers then they can find me as well. I’m pretty spooked. I’m moving around these days, one cheap motel after another, and I’m worn out, to be honest. I’m sending you a package tomorrow with another burner, along with a phone number. It belongs to a phone in the possession of the mole. We change every month. If something happens to me, you call the number.”

“Nothing will happen to you.”

“Thanks, but you have no idea what you’re talking about. Myers thought he was clever.”

“True, but he also signed his name on the complaint. The bad guys have no idea who you are.”

“I’m not sure I believe that anymore. At any rate, gotta run. Be careful, Lacy.” The call ended and Lacy stared at the cheap phone, expecting more.