The Nominee

by Alan P Woodruff

  “Then why was Jackson murdered?”

  “That depends on your perspective,” White said as he picked up a colored marker and began tapping it on the table. “We can assume that Shepard and Jackson were set up, but we don’t know who was behind the set-up, or why it was necessary. The way the drugs were found, a single deputy coming out of the bedroom with drugs that David swears he never saw before, makes it look like they were being framed.”

  Leslie and Horse nodded as White continued. “The only likely reason the authorities would have for framing a couple of small-time nobodies is that they expected them to give up someone else, someone higher up the drug food chain.”

  Horse slapped his palm on the table. “And when Jackson was released, the higher-ups figured he’d made a deal and it was time to get rid of him.”

  “Them,” Leslie corrected. “If someone higher on the food chain thought they had to get rid of Tom Jackson, they would have to get rid of David for the same reason.”

  “That’s one possibility,” White said. “And it means we’re looking for two different people: the person who wanted Shepard and Jackson arrested for leverage and whoever wanted one or both of them killed, to keep them from talking. Under that scenario, both David and Jackson were victims of someone’s plot, and both Shepard and Jackson were liabilities who needed to be eliminated.”

  “Do you have something else in mind?”

  “Maybe,” White said. “Suppose David was the target of the set-up all along, and someone wanted to frame him on drug charges. When Jackson agreed to a deal, David suddenly had a motive for getting rid of Jackson. Whoever was after David in the first place saw an opportunity to pin Jackson’s murder on him in addition to having him charged with possession of the drugs.”

  “Murder is an extreme step just to set David up.”

  “It depends on how badly someone wanted to frame him.”

  “I suppose,” Leslie said. “But we can’t ignore the possibility that someone else had to keep Jackson from telling what he knew.”

  White nodded. “We also can’t ignore the possibility that Jackson alone was the target of a set-up and was Shepard was just a victim of circumstances. Sort of an innocent bystander.”

  “But who would want Jackson set up for the drug bust?” Horse said. “The only outside connection we have is to the Cambodian… and his only known connection, other than to Shepard and Jackson, seems to be to Jackson’s father.”

  Leslie stopped making notes and turned her attention to Horse. “Are you assuming that Jackson knew something that could hurt his father.”

  “He might have.”

  “But even if he did, we have to assume that his father isn’t behind his murder. What father is going to go along with a plan to murder his own son?”

  White stood and began pacing around the conference table. “Someone else connected to the father might not be so sentimental.”

  “Do you think the Cambodian was acting on his own?”

  “That… or he was working for someone else… someone other than Barlow. It’s time to start nosing around on the east coast.”

  “Fine. But where?”

  “I don’t know,” White said. “We’ll just have to start pushing until someone decides to push back.”

  “Well,” Leslie interrupted, “while we’re sticking our noses into interesting places, there’s something else we need to consider. Jackson started talking about a plea while Paul Parker still had the case. Right?”

  Horse and White nodded and waited.

  “I’m just brainstorming… but Jackson offered information in exchange for a deal from Parker. That means he wasn’t afraid of the consequences of talking to Parker.”

  Horse shook his head. “Not necessarily. It could be that he just didn’t know enough to be afraid of talking to Paul.”

  “But Leslie may be on to something,” White said. “According to Diane Lindsey, Jackson thought his case would be taken over by the U.S. attorney for the Southern District. She said he only started talking about a deal with Paul when he realized that, if the case was taken over by a U.S. attorney, it would be in the Middle District. He must have known that whatever information he had to trade wouldn’t do him any good in the Middle District.”

  Leslie seemed to suddenly realize what White was implying. “So someone in the Southern District could have a reason to be afraid of what Jackson knew… and might be willing to trade for a deal.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” White said. “But that alone doesn’t narrow things down very much. We can agree that whatever Jackson knew probably only had value in the Southern District. But we still don’t know if it concerned wrongdoing by drug dealers or the police or from someone in the judicial system. Someone from any one of those groups could have a reason to shut Jackson up.”

  #

  The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor created a kind of peaceful background noise, like the chirping of crickets in the night. Leslie was the only visitor in the ICU. She heard the squeaky soles of the nurse’s shoes approaching and looked up from her place beside Harry Harris’s bed.

  “He looks like he’s asleep,” Leslie said softly.

  “He comes and goes,” the ICU nurse said. “His eyes were open a little while ago.”

  “Was he…?”

  “Alert?” the nurse prompted.

  “Yes.”

  The nurse shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “It isn’t your fault,” Leslie murmured, still holding Harris’s hand.

  “He’s being moved tomorrow, isn’t he?”

  Leslie fought back a tear. “We’re taking him to the long-term care center in Miami.”

  “They’re the best. If anyone can help him, they can.”

  “That’s what Dr. Levenson said,” Leslie said.

  The nurse returned to her station, and Leslie sat down. “We’re going to do everything we can, Harry,” she whispered.

  The ICU door opened, and White entered, followed by Dr. John Wiley. White headed directly for Harris’s bed, and Leslie. Wiley retrieved Harris’s chart from the nurse and joined them. “Hi, Leslie,” Wiley said. “Are you doing okay?”

  “I guess… Better than Harry.”

  Wiley scanned the chart before continuing. “He’s holding on. That’s a good sign.”

  Leslie looked up hopefully.

  “He has a long way to go, but I didn’t expect him to make it this long.”

  “Harry’s tough,” White said, to no one in particular. “If heart and willpower mean anything…”

  They were interrupted by the nurse. “I’m sorry, but visiting hours are over.”

  Dr. Wiley was about to object when the nurse scowled at him. Instead, he merely said, “Thank you, nurse.”

  Leslie stood slowly. White wrapped an arm around her and guided her toward the door. When they reached the waiting room, Leslie collapsed on a chair and began to cry.

  25.

  White was reviewing the final draft of a brief in his securities fraud case when his private line rang. Without looking up from the brief, White reached for the receiver and answered, “Lucius White.”

  “Please listen carefully, Mr. White.”

  The unusual beginning of the conversation seized White’s attention. A quick look at the screen on the telephone console told him that neither the caller’s name or number was identified. Out of habit, he looked at the clock on the corner of his deck and made a note of the time.

  “I’m listening.”

  “On the southeast corner of the intersection of U.S. 41 and state road 997, there’s a gas station and convenience store. There’s a parking area on the north side of the convenience store. The man you want to talk to will meet you there at seven o’clock tonight.”

  “That’s only three hours from now,” White said, hoping his response didn’t come out as the protest it had started out to be.

  “That’s enough time.”

  “How will I know you?”

 
“The man you want to talk to will know you. Come alone.”

  “It would be helpful, to all of us, if my investigator was there.”

  What White assumed to be a hand over the caller’s mouthpiece muffled a brief conversation with someone else. Fifteen seconds later, the caller returned. “You may bring Mr. McGee. But no one else.”

  How the hell do they know Horse’s name? “We’ll be there.”

  “Seven o’clock,” the caller confirmed and hung up.

  #

  Traffic on Route 41, known locally as the Tamiami Trail, the original road across the southern edge of the Everglades from Naples to Miami, was surprisingly light. Few people traveled the old road, the original Alligator Alley, since the interstate across the Everglades opened. There were no enclaves of significance between Naples, on the west coast, and Miami. What little traffic there was most likely stopped at Port o’ the Glades, an upscale development midway across the Alley, or turned south to Everglades City or one of the isolated clusters of fish camps

  Half an hour into the crossing, Horse signaled White to stop.

  “What’s up?”

  Horse turned on the overhead light and unfolded a large-scale map between them. With his finger, he made a circle on the map extending from the road they were on south to Everglades City’ “This area is one of the few areas where there’s grass like the kind found on Jackson’s shoe.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I checked on the grass stuck in Jackson’s shoes. It wasn’t like the grass in Matlacha, so I called the Department of Agriculture extension service. According to them, the grass found on the body is only indigenous to this area.”

  White retrieved a flashlight from the compartment on his door and shined it on the area of the map Horse indicated. “There aren’t many ways in or out.”

  Horse grunted. “I think we just passed this road,” he said, indicating a narrow line on the map.

  White continued to examine the map. “Pretty isolated back there.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good place to dump a body.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The gators wouldn’t leave a trace.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But if this is where Jackson was killed, why was his body found fifty miles north of here in an open field near a busy highway?”

  White put the truck in gear, and they continued east.

  Horse broke the silence first. “They wanted the body discovered.”

  White nodded. “Why?”

  “To send a message,” Horse suggested.

  “Maybe. But to who?”

  Horse shrugged. “Maybe they wanted to be sure the bullet would be recovered.”

  “So that there would be proof that Graham’s gun was the murder weapon.”

  “Could be.”

  “Or…” White paused, “to avoid a payoff on a bail bond. If Jackson disappeared, the bail bondsman would have to cough up fifty-thousand. With a body, he has no liability.”

  “But why Alva?” Horse asked. “It would’ve been just as easy to dump the body along Alligator Alley, and there wouldn’t be as much risk of being caught.”

  “Maybe it was for jurisdictional purposes.”

  “How’s that?”

  “If the body was found here, the case would be in the jurisdiction of the Collier County State’s Attorney. Bodies found in Lee County give Paul Parker jurisdiction over the murder.”

  “So someone wanted Paul to have jurisdiction.”

  White shrugged. “Or maybe Paul wanted it.”

  “Why would he want jurisdiction?”

  “If he had it, he controls the investigation… and the evidence.”

  “You don’t think…”

  “I’m just listing possibilities.”

  Miles passed before Horse broke the silence, “Maybe someone just wanted to make David a viable suspect.”

  “How would moving the body to Alva do that?”

  “David has to check in with the court officer at least every six hours, and he has to check in from a phone in Tampa. Alva is within a six-hour round trip of Brochette’s house, but this area of the Glades isn’t.”

  “Good thinking. That’s why you’re the investigator, and I’m just the lowly attorney.”

  #

  At 7:02, a dark limousine, black or maybe dark blue, pulled off the Tamiami Trail and into the convenience store and gas station on the corner of state road 997. It cruised slowly around the parking lot until the driver spotted White’s gold pick-up truck. The limousine made a wide arc and parked directly in front of White’s truck. Its lights, on high beam, blinded White and Horse.

  In spite of the glare of the limousine’s headlights, White could make out the movement of the passenger door opening and a large man stepping out. For a moment, he remained standing beside the limousine. White assumed the man was somehow confirming his identity, although where the other man could have obtained a picture, or any other means of identification, eluded him.

  The man nodded to someone still inside the limousine and walked toward White’s truck. The limousine driver’s door opened, and another man headed for the passenger side of the truck. When the first man reached the door, White rolled down the window. All he could see was the man’s waist, broad chest, large forearms and larger hands. White guessed the man to be at least six-foot-five and, if his forearms were a good indication, at least three-hundred pounds. At a minimum, he was an intimidating bodyguard. More than that, White preferred not to consider.

  White quickly examined the man’s arms and hands. He wasn’t wearing a watch or any rings and had no visible tattoos. Nothing that could be used to identify the man. White concluded that these people were very cautious, and didn’t overlook even the slightest detail.

  A voice told White and Horse to get out and face the truck. They did as instructed.

  “Put your hands on the truck,” the first man ordered.

  As they did so, powerful hands expertly patted them down.

  “He’s clean,” the first man said.

  “So’s this one,” the driver said.

  “This way,” the first man ordered, signaling White and Horse to the limousine.

  The rear door opened as they approached. The inside of the limousine was as dark as a cave, made so by the black window tinting and the absence of any interior lights. White could only make out the legs of someone seated in the middle of the rear seat. His upper body and black face were lost in the shadows.

  “Get in,” the first man ordered.

  White and Horse slid into seats opposite the other passenger and the doors closed. No one said anything as the limousine backed up and made several circles in the parking lot before pulling out into traffic.

  White knew the circles were intended to confuse him. Unable to see out, and disoriented by the circles, he couldn’t determine which direction they were going. It probably didn’t make any difference. He assumed the entire conversation was going to take place in the car, but it confirmed White’s assumption that his host was extremely careful.

  “Which one of you is White?” the man in the rear seat asked in a deep baritone. His tone was neutral, neither demanding nor accusatory. The voice disclosed little about the man, except that he was probably African-American.

  Considering the ethnicity of the man and his associates, White was tempted to say, “we both are,” but doubted the man would find humor appropriate. Instead, he merely said, “I am.”

  In the shadowy darkness, White could vaguely see the man nod.

  “So you must be Horse,” the man said, the sound of his voice indicating that he had turned to face Horse.

  “That’s me.”

  “I’ve heard of you,” the man said. “Both of you.”

  “Good things, I hope.”

  “If they weren’t good, you wouldn’t be here.” The voice sounded mildly irritated, as if stating the obvious was a waste of everyone’s time.

  The limousine pulled onto
the expressway and accelerated. White tried to establish their location on a mental map but quickly gave up. A few minutes later, the limousine left the expressway and wound its way through back streets with no apparent traffic. White sensed that the other man would continue in his own time and so he waited in silence.

  “We have a mutual acquaintance,” the voice continued abruptly.

  White noted that the man had not said they had a mutual friend. He waited for the man to say something more, maybe something about their mutual acquaintances — or why he had agreed to the meeting. Anything to give a clue to his identity or his place in the pecking order of the underworld.

  The man remained silent. White said, “Our mutual acquaintance believes we have common interests.”

  The man seemed to be considering White’s comment when the limousine pulled off the road. White heard the sound of gravel crunching beneath the tires as they came to a stop. White realized that they had driven into some kind of a building and strained to determine what, or where, it was. The last of the light from the outside streetlights was lost when the door to the building was closed.

  The front door of the limousine opened. A moment later, the rear door was opened from the outside. Around them, there was nothing but darkness.

  “Come,” the man instructed. “We’ll walk.”

  Where the hell are we going to walk to?

  They left the car, and the door closed. A lighter flared in the dark, illuminating the face of the man from the front seat as he lit a cigarette and passed it to the man with White. Talk about being careful.

  The man inhaled. A whiff of pungent, bitter smoke drifted past White. There was something familiar about the aroma, but White couldn’t place it.

  The ash of the cigarette glowed, but not enough to reveal the man’s face. He held the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger with the ash hidden in his cupped hand — the classic positioning of a cigarette by a combat soldier. White immediately thought of Jackson’s father. Could this guy be connected to attorney Barlow? White was suddenly conscious that he was perspiring. The dark interior of an empty building would be an excellent place to get rid of any problem they might think they had with White and Horse. White could only hope that Manny Rodriguez had properly vouched for him, or whatever is done to assure safety in meetings such as this.