I stretched and yawned. It was still early in the investigation, and the answers to these things never simply drop themselves into my lap. Still, I couldn’t help but feel some impatience—Fergus McNab’s time was short. I decided to soothe my edginess with a brownie.
In the kitchen I put the kettle on to heat and found one lone teabag of English Teatime to go along with the last brownie from a package that was probably, technically, outdated. These things have so much preservatives in them it must surely be edible. I opened the cellophane and took a nibble, gave myself a little lecture on eating more healthfully and a promise to start tomorrow. Mug and brownie went back out with me to my comfy spot on the wicker loveseat.
The quick rush of caffeine gave me an idea and I picked up my phone. Judge Aldo Blackman’s office number was included on the website for the judicial district, and a quick call put me through to his clerk.
“Hi, my name’s Charlotte from the organizing committee, and we just wanted to check and see if the judge received his tickets? We’re so hoping he’s planning to attend.”
“Is that for the theater gala Friday night?”
“Yes, exactly!”
“He’ll be there. I’m afraid Mrs. Blackman has other commitments though.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I’ll just put him down as a party of one?”
“He may bring someone else. Better keep it at two.”
I so badly wanted to ask who the other might be, but I had greater concerns. I thanked the woman and hung up, wondering how I would manage to snag myself a ticket.
What I discovered with one phone call was that, for the right amount of money, any group wanting your donation will manage to fit you in. I choked only slightly at the price, but I was in the door.
Now I had only one problem—what on earth would I wear?
Chapter 16
The air had turned cool, my brownie was gone, and Freckles had become bored with sniffing the garden plants so we went inside. I rinsed my tea mug and debated about making another cup, but my phone rang just then. Ron.
“Hey, I found out something interesting on Damian Baca,” he said.
“He’s pit manager now at Sandia Casino.” I couldn’t help myself. It’s rare I get a jump on my brother.
“Okay, you found that, but did you also come across the fact that before he started this meteoric rise in career, he got busted for trafficking and did some time?”
“Score one for you. So, how did he manage to get a casino job? I thought a prison record nixed that possibility.”
“In some places, I’m sure it does. You want the full story or shall I leave you to keep up with your own research?” A bit of testiness in his voice.
“Sorry. Go ahead.”
“Apparently, he laid low for a couple of years while Rory was under investigation and being tried for the jury tampering. Damian headed south and hooked up with a bunch down in El Paso. With easy access to the border, he had a tidy little business dealing pot and cocaine. Kept his Albuquerque connections and moved a lot of product. About three years into it, fate stepped in and he got pulled over on a traffic stop five miles from the state line, on the Texas side. An alert trooper hauled him out of the car and a passing Border Patrol officer initiated a search; they hit the jackpot.”
“And I’m guessing Texas was not nearly as lenient with him as New Mexico had been.”
“Nope. Damian’s luck held, though. He had just under the legal amount for a harsher sentence, so he only had to serve three years. It was apparently a productive three years for him, as he met some guys who knew some guys … Anyway, he was better connected when he came out, so he came back to New Mexico and managed to bypass the usual hiring process. Someone granted him a menial job at the casino—sweeping floors or something.”
“That’s a far cry from his position today.”
“Employment records get updated, the old background stuff magically disappears from the file when you know the right person … A year later, Damian’s in the training program as a card dealer, two years after that, he’s managed to work his way up the corporate ladder. Now he shows up for work every night in a tux and you’d never know he was a small-time cocaine dealer only a few years ago.”
A flash came to me—Rory’s silhouette standing in the doorway of his cabin deep in the Maine woods, isolated from everyone he once knew and unable to be at his father’s deathbed. Meanwhile, the guy he’d sworn was innocent, wasn’t. The real criminal had parlayed his know-how and connections into a lucrative job while he most likely continued to operate just the other side of the law.
I’d had a vision of a quiet evening with a good book but Ron’s information sparked another idea. While Freckles scarfed down her bowl of kibble I went into the bedroom and perused my closet. A pair of form-fitting black jeans and a glittery blue top that left me with bare shoulders should work. I coaxed a few curls into my shoulder-length hair and added some extra mascara. It should be enough to help me fit in with the casino crowd, but not to the point where anyone would think I was a hooker.
I wanted to see Damian Baca in person and in his own surroundings, although I still hadn’t worked out what I would say to him, if anything. Maybe I could learn a lot simply by watching. Leaving lights on in the house and Freckles to guard the place, I grabbed an angora pashmina Victoria had given me last Christmas, and headed out.
Traffic wasn’t too horrible on the interstate—the afternoon rush was largely over. North on I-25, I aimed for the Tramway exit. My, how things had changed. I remembered when this Indian casino began in a large temporary building that looked like a giant tent, featuring nothing more worldly than bingo. Now, it had moved to the east side of the interstate, with the majestic Sandia mountains as a backdrop, and included a huge four-star hotel, golf course, world-class spa, outdoor amphitheater with big-name entertainment, and a buffet that would knock your socks off. You really can’t convince me that the players are the winners at these places.
Midweek wasn’t one of the hotter nights for casino play so I managed to grab a parking spot fairly near the main entrance. The bing-bing chatter of slot machines led me to the casino door and I steeled myself for the clamor, which tends to grate on my nerves.
A smile, a jaunty walk, a drink offered by a roving waitress, and my disguise as a patron was complete. I strolled the floor, past a dozen or more rows of slots and poker machines, not to mention the blackjack tables and roulette wheels, with dozens of people desperately putting money toward all of them, hoping a fortune would come their way. A couple of craps tables drew boisterous groups and I stood among one of these mini-crowds, scanning the action elsewhere until I spotted Damian Baca.
As portrayed in his photo on the casino’s website, he wore a tux, a diamond stickpin in the lapel, and his dark hair slicked back from a low forehead. What saved him from looking like a punk mobster was the open smile with which he greeted the gamblers. He did, however, keep an eagle eye on the dealers. Of course, little black half-globe fixtures on the ceiling concealed security cameras, which no doubt had their eyes on every person in the place.
An enthusiastic player at the craps table bumped into me, sloshing the sticky sweetness of my Coke down my arm. With a giggled apology, she offered me a tissue but I opted to go into the ladies room for some water and paper towels. Freshened up, I made my way to a slot machine situated where I had a clear view of the pit and the podium that appeared to be Baca’s work station.
While I pretended to hit buttons on the machine, I saw him sign a dealer out and a new one in, pass some paperwork to another employee, and step over to one of the blackjack tables to settle some kind of dispute that cropped up between a dealer and a player. All the while, his eyes scanned the tables the way a hawk in a treetop would watch for a mouse in the grass below.
Each time I saw the gaze coming my way, I refocused intently on my machine. When the eyes went elsewhere I watched for signs of anyone from the past who might be in present-day contact. An hour with no h
its and I was, frankly, bored. I don’t know what I had expected, but if Damian was still up to his old tricks there was no sign of it happening here.
Maybe I’d been going at this all wrong, from the start. I left the casino noise behind and went home to shower off the smoke and desperation that clung to my skin. As hot water sluiced off me, I thought about other approaches to establishing Rory McNab’s innocence.
What if Fergus had been right in his assertions that the judge was crooked? For what reason would Blackman have sided with Damian Baca against a respected officer of the court? Or, was Rory McNab not quite as respectable as his father wanted me to believe? It was late before I tucked myself into bed, much later still before my brain slowed down enough to let me sleep.
Chapter 17
Come daylight, I’d reached the conclusion that I needed to go back to the source, Rory McNab. For all this effort, I still had only his father’s word that the son was completely innocent and had been railroaded somehow by the system. I also only had the sketchy details Fergus remembered or wanted me to know.
The old man had a taste for sweets, so I popped in at a favorite coffee place and got him a fully loaded caramel latte and a huge cinnamon roll, while I virtuously decided to limit myself to a regular coffee with fake sweetener. Taste-wise a mistake but it kept me from drinking much of it.
I tapped at the door of Fergus’s trailer and got no response. Betty Wilkerson was out front, getting her mail from the box and I sent an inquisitive look her way.
“He should be there,” she said. “Knock a little harder. He plays the TV pretty loud.”
I didn’t hear a TV set, but I gave a firmer knock anyway. Within a few seconds I heard a grumpy “Hold your horses” from inside. He appeared in faded plaid pajamas and a robe hanging open at the front.
“Hey, Fergus, just thought I’d check in.” I ignored the food spill on the front of the pajama top. “Betty said you might have a few minutes?”
I held out the coffee cup and he sniffed at the lid. “Caramel?”
I nodded and he let me inside. The trailer was heated to a stifling level—it had to be at least eighty in there. I shed my coat immediately and followed him to the sofa. A cereal bowl with residual milk and corn flakes around the edges sat on the coffee table.
“I’ve been reading everything I can find on Rory’s case,” I told him, “and I’ve followed up on where the major players are now, but I have to admit that I haven’t had much luck finding any kind of evidence that would exonerate Rory.”
Fergus had settled in his recliner and was savoring the sweet coffee.
“It would be very helpful if I could speak with your son,” I said.
“I can’t give out his number,” he immediately protested.
“You told me you talk with him somewhat regularly—can you place the call and convince him to talk to me?” I had come up with some things to ask during my mostly sleepless night. “I’ll try to keep the call short.”
He dithered, using an untidy newspaper as something to fuss with while he stalled. I gave him a steady gaze that dared him to come up with an argument. Finally, he set the now neatly folded paper down and walked to the kitchen. From one of the drawers he pulled a small black flip phone.
“Let me see now,” he mumbled as he fiddled with it. “Is this the right one …?”
He held it to his ear, muttered a mild curse, and tossed it back in the drawer. Another little phone came out, a red one. Some more fiddling, and it began to ring. He had the volume turned up so loud I could hear it across the room, even though he held it to his ear.
“Dad? What is it?” came a male voice.
“The lady’s here,” Fergus said. “That investigator I told you about. She wants to talk to you.”
A lengthy silence. “You didn’t give this number …”
“Nope. She’s right here. I’m going to hand the phone over. If that’s okay with you, son.”
There must have been a word or two of assent. The heater fan came on, masking other sounds, but he brought the phone to me.
“Don’t even think of tracing this number,” came Rory’s voice. “I’ll dump it in the lake and have another one by this afternoon.”
“I won’t do that. I’m just trying to help.”
“I’m paying by the minute here, so get on with it.”
I wondered where he was finding the money to live on. It didn’t appear that Fergus had enough resources to spare. And the cabin was so remote it didn’t look convenient for Rory to be holding a job in the nearest little burg called Grandy.
“Well?”
“Um, yeah. I’ve been looking into the various people who were involved ten years ago, including your defense attorney and your former partner. I just haven’t found anyone yet with any idea who wanted to see you go to prison. So I figure you’d have a better feel for that. Surely you’ve relived the scene over and over—what comes to your mind? Why would someone come after you?”
“Listen to my dad. He’s right in what he thinks. We’ve hashed this over a million times, and I think the answer lies somewhere between an inadequate defense and a corrupt judge.”
“I’ve sent for the trial transcript but they say it may take a while because the case was so long ago. Unless you have a copy …?”
“I don’t.”
“And we don’t have a lot of time to wait around.” I tried not to glance at Fergus as I said it, but we all knew what I meant. “Rory, can you think of anybody connected with the Damian Baca trial—or your own—who might have been scared of you, someone you pissed off in some way?”
“Who would want to retaliate against me, in other words?”
“Exactly. Think about it for a few days if you want. Give me a call.” I recited my number.
“I’ve thought about it for years, sweetheart. Trust me, I’ve been over every word of every meeting, deposition, and court day. What I’ve told Dad is all I’ve come up with.”
“Still, if a new idea comes along, will you let me or your dad know about it? We all just want the best outcome for this.”
I received a gruff reply, not exactly a warm or grateful response for someone who wanted to save your ass from prison. Then the connection went dead.
I handed the phone to Fergus, who stashed it back in his top-secret kitchen drawer. It wasn’t as if I couldn’t find it again the moment he wasn’t looking, and I’d bet a dollar that Rory’s was the only number on his contact list. But for now I didn’t see much point; Rory wasn’t in a helpful mood.
Asking Fergus didn’t net anything new so I left him to make preparations for his day while I decided what to do with mine. Before showing up tonight at a social occasion where I could observe Judge Blackman in person, I thought it might be a good idea to get some other perspectives.
Who knows things about a person, things that don’t make the news or the Wikipedia profile? I drove away from the trailer park, mulling that question in my mind. The ready answer seemed to be coworkers and neighbors. I’d already prowled around for Blackman’s personal information. His home address wasn’t easily found but I came up with it. I also knew where he worked, and it was a big, wide-open public building that any citizen could visit. I set a course for downtown.
Chapter 18
It was nearing ten o’clock by the time I located a place to park, entered the courthouse, and passed through the security station. Perfect timing, it turned out. I hovered outside Judge Blackman’s courtroom less than five minutes—not long enough to be questioned about my presence—when the double doors swung open and people began to stream out. I blended into the crowd, many of whom got as far as the corridor before pausing to look around and decide what to do with the twenty-minute break they’d been given.
One man was among the ones with a purposeful stride and a destination in mind. I recognized Mike Farmer because we’d been in school together, and the alumni newsletter had contained more than one mention of his various promotions at the Albuquerque Journal, to his c
urrent position on the courthouse beat. We ran into each other now and then around town, and he’d once confessed to having a crush on me in the sixth grade.
“Hey, Mike. I didn’t know you were covering this case.”
“Charlie—wow. I didn’t see you in there,” he said with a nod toward the now-closed door.
“I missed the morning session.” I fell into step beside him. “So, how’s the case going?”
“No real fireworks. My luck, it’ll get two lines on the City Beat page. Pity—sometimes Blackman’s court gets some juicy stuff.”
“You got a minute?” I asked. “I’ll buy you a coffee.”
“Sure.” He pointed toward the stairs, where the scents of food drifted up from the courthouse cafeteria. We opted for the quickest version, plain black coffee, and settled at a tiny table against the wall.
“You’ve covered the courts for a lot of years now, haven’t you? I wonder if you remember a case about ten years ago, the one where a local lawyer got convicted of jury tampering.” I doctored my cup with sugar from the little white packets at the table.
“The guy who disappeared?” His interest perked immediately.
Uh-oh. This might have been a bad idea, bringing a reporter in, especially one who might tend to land on the side of law and order. I gave a noncommittal nod.
“The judge who heard the case was Blackman, and I heard a rumor that he was secretly after the defendant, that he wanted the man convicted.”
Mike shrugged. “Don’t know where you got that. I remember the situation pretty well. I was just getting my start and had been sent to cover the crime beat, so I sat in on the trial of that drug guy—Damian something-or-other. The other case came about when his lawyer was accused of convincing certain jury members to vote not-guilty.”
I merely nodded. “Judge Blackman heard both cases?”
“Yeah, as I recall. Of course, the real nasty bugger in the room was Herman Quinto. It was no secret that he was planning to run for state Senate and the younger guy … McNab. That’s it. McNab was this dashing handsome guy who’d come on strong with a big PR campaign and it was looking like he might actually win it.”
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