by Jeff Nania
I couldn’t help but laugh. One thing for sure about muskies is that they rarely hit when you’re ready for them. It goes against their natural and primeval mandate to make fools of mortal men.
“Fish away, Counselor. I shall sit here prepared to bear witness to your victory over the mighty fish.”
Jack cast perfectly, working a surface popper again in fits and starts. On his third cast he was rewarded with a solid strike and responded with a perfect hook set. After a minute he brought in a golden and brown smallmouth bass that likely tipped the scales at three pounds. He gently handled the fish and released it.
“That almost gave me the big one,” he laughed. “I thought for sure it was the musky. Cripes! Look at my hand. I’m shaking.”
It was clear that he was afflicted by a common northern Wisconsin disease called musky fever. Some get it and are able to be cured. For others, it becomes a lifelong condition.
I watched Jack cast for a few more minutes and then decided to go back to the cabin.
“Counselor, when you are done whipping up the water to a froth, why don’t you come up to the house? I have some cold beer.”
“Thanks. I think I’m done for the day. I’ll walk up with you.”
We sat at the picnic table and enjoyed the quiet.
I fished a twenty-dollar bill out of my pocket and laid it on the table. “Counselor, that bill is for you.”
“What in the world for?” he asked.
“I’m hiring you right this minute, and you can send me a bill for the rest of the retainer. I am looking for attorney-client privileged status. I need you to be on board.”
He picked up the bill and put it in his pocket. “Thanks for the money, John, but actually I am already your counsel of record regarding any dealings you had with Derek Anderson. So anything you say as my client will go with me to the grave, of course, depending on what you tell me.”
“I have a couple of questions I think you might be able to answer.”
“Okay, ask your questions.”
“You are representing Homer and Irma Jones as well as Miles Turner.”
“As I said before, I am. However, I have not yet been able to make contact with them.”
“Counselor, I think I know why. I think those folks have become involved in some serious criminal activity.”
Wheeler looked directly at me. His experienced lawyer eyes judging me, judging my motives. He was too smart to rise to any bait I might cast without some thought.
“What makes you think that, John?”
“That’s the sticky part. I’ve come on some information that seems to implicate them in illicit activities, maybe involved with the sale of their respective businesses. I did not violate the law in getting this information, but I have seen it. My source has sworn me to secrecy, and I am going to respect that. Before we go any further, we need to detail the terms of our arrangement.”
“I am, of course, interested in any activity that might impact my clients. I can tell you that their cases do involve the sale of their properties. I can also say that if they ever respond to me, I have some important questions to ask them about those transactions.”
“Was there something wrong with the deals? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Again, he was thinking, assessing me.
“Well, it is strange that they sold valuable properties for about half of their assessed values. That is public record, so no breach of privilege there.”
“Why would someone do that, Counselor? Why would these people work their butts off all their lives, get set to retire, and sell their properties for half price? These were business people who built successful enterprises from the ground up. You don’t do that unless you know the value and cost of things.”
“People do funny things. I had one client who became ill and was given a year to live. He had always wanted to travel around the world. I arranged an auction for him where his property was sold off. It did not bring the value it would have had it been sold by more conventional means, but it allowed him to take his trip around the world in a fine way.”
“I don’t think that’s what happened here. I think it’s something else.”
“John, conversations like this are always awkward. Let me help you. You can say anything you want to me, and it will remain confidential. I cannot disclose to you any information regarding my clients that is confidential. I am interested in knowing anything that may be germane to their respective cases. As part of the responsibility bestowed upon me by the court, I am required to investigate several issues involving the dealings of Attorney Anderson. The number of improprieties is truly astounding. So, what is it you wish to share with me?”
“In the cases of the Joneses and Miles Turner, I am privy to information that may implicate them in some sort of scam regarding the sale of their respective properties. They may have received a significant portion of the sale price in cash, maybe even a suitcase full.”
Again, silent thought.
“So, this concerns you in what way?”
“Fair question, Counselor. I believe it has something to do with my uncle’s murder.”
“What is the connection that you seem to think exists?”
“I don’t know. I have a gut feeling.”
“I’m afraid, John, that will not get you very far in a court of law. Your thoughts and gut feelings will have little evidentiary value. I am sure you learned that lesson well as a police officer.”
Boy, that was the truth. Early on in my career, I had kicked down the door of a house without a warrant. I was convinced that a dangerous suspect we were looking for was there. I knew I had to grab him now, or he would get away again. He was, and I arrested him. As an added bonus, in plain view were ziplock bags full of cocaine. The arrest was good but the charges for “possession with intent to deliver a controlled substance” were dropped based on an illegal search. When I testified that the reason I kicked in the door was based on a gut feeling, the defense counsel asked me if my stomach ever rumbled when I was hungry. I said yes. Then he asked me if every time I got hungry, I kicked somebody’s door in. Case dismissed.
Lawyer lecture. I had heard it all before. Guilt and innocence were too often decided based on a clever twist of phrase, an undotted I or uncrossed T.
“Well, that’s pretty much all I have, Counselor. A bunch of circumstances that may or may not be related. I trust my instincts and I think I’m on the right track.”
“I’m not saying that you’re not on the right track, but even you can see that what you’ve presented me with is a bit on the flimsy side. In fact, did you know that in the United States it’s allowable to keep your money in a suitcase, under your mattress, or in a can buried in the backyard? Some people don’t trust banks and with good reason. Nothing you have told me so far makes me think either of my clients is at risk or involved in any criminal activity.”
“I know you are a lawyer, but try to follow along here using a little common sense. These people spent their lives building these businesses, worked hard—probably sixty or seventy hours a week. Then they sell these businesses for half their value? Not likely, but that is what the public record shows. Interestingly, in both cases, your clients leave the town they have lived in for most of their lives, never to return. Last but not least, the lawyer that represented them in their sale of the property was a crook and tied into some pretty heavy hitters. I am sure I’m missing something, but that’s the general idea.”
“Compelling but also circumstantial. I will go this far, John. I will take a close look at those files and some others. If I find something that lends credibility to your claim, I will let you know within reason. Until then, I would appreciate us keeping our discussions to your case, or to boats and fishing. It is much less treacherous territory.”
Wheeler went back to the lake, hopped into his canoe, and paddled off in the dusk, the call of a loon wishing him farewell. The lake calmed and the sun finished its downward path. It was a beautiful scene—peaceful
and tranquil—the north country at its finest. As darkness descended, I was left wondering if I had trusted the wrong man. I would find out soon enough.
9
I was up way before first light, no alarm clock required. I got coffee brewing and had my first cup of the day looking out at the stars. What would today bring? More answers or more questions?
I checked the contents of my small day pack. Binoculars, camera, and my little Walther. I had switched it from inside the waistband holster, mainly because I had better access to it while hiding out watching the cabin from the hill, and since I was laying in the prone position, I found it more comfortable. I checked to make sure a round was still in the chamber and the magazine full. It was not the perfect choice for an all-out gun battle with a guy who had an AK. His magazine capacity alone was more than triple mine. My gun was chambered in .380, a pipsqueak of a round compared to the 7.62x39 chambering of his rifle. I wasn’t going armed for an offensive gunfight. If I was going there to take this guy head on, it would be a different deal. For now I dressed light and could defend myself, but the rule of the day was if discovered, cut and run.
Headlights painted the cabin as a pickup pulled into the drive. Len Bork got out and walked up to the door. I opened before he could knock.
“Morning Len. Want some coffee?” I asked.
“Sure. Thanks, John.”
We sat with our coffee and went over the plan for the day. I described the cabin location the best I could to Len. He sat up and said, “That sounds like the old road to Skunk Lake. I used to fish back there. It always was a heck of a good spot to catch a mess of bluegills. I haven’t been back there in years. I’m pretty sure I know that cabin too. It’s on private property, an inholding that was bought by somebody from the cities. He posted ‘No Trespassing’ signs every fifty feet. Up here people don’t do that. Anyway, the driveway to the lake goes right past his cabin. He chained it off, but there is another way in from the other side. It’s pretty muddy sometimes, but with four-wheel drive, it shouldn’t be a problem. If you want to watch that cabin, it would be way better coming in that way and climbing the bluff. There are enough rocks up there that if we did take fire, we’d be pretty well protected. That’s the way I think we should go.”
“Then that’s the way we will go.”
I fired up the jeep, and Len went back to his truck for his gear. I had packed for light and quick—he had not. A large revolver in a cross-draw shoulder holster hung across his chest, and in his hand was a full-size lever action rifle with a scope. Along with that was a thermos, binoculars, ammunition, and a satellite phone all packed into a backpack.
I looked toward the revolver and asked, “What sort of gun do you have there?”
“It’s my old Model 29 Smith & Wesson 44 Magnum. Accurate and powerful. It used to be the most powerful handgun round in the world. Now they got all sorts of bigger hand cannons. I’ve tried a couple and they’re too damn mean to shoot. This is the same kind of gun Harry Callahan used to clean up all those bad guys in San Francisco. Good enough for him, good enough for me. My rifle was a gift from my wife—a 1895 Marlin in .45-70. It’s granite tough and accurate as can be with my handloads. That big old bullet may not be traveling at hyperspeed, but when it hits something, it hits big. Had a bear that got nicked by a hunter two falls ago. It came into town and ran across the schoolyard. I had this rifle in my car. I went looking for the bear and spotted him running into a fenced-off area of the playground. When I caught up with him, and he realized he was cornered, he came at me on a dead run snarling and popping his jaws. I saw blood running down by one eye. I waited until he was about fifty yards away and shot him. One shot and down he went, stone dead. That big boy weighed in at 475 pounds at the feed store.”
“Jesus, Len. You waited until he was only fifty yards away, and he was running at you?”
“Yup, measured at fifty. I was ready for him and stood my ground ’til I knew I had a shot.”
It wasn’t a man with a gun shooting at you, but standing your ground against a charging bear is right up there. Len Bork was the real thing.
“What are you carrying, John?”
“A little Walther 380.”
“Nice little compact pistol. If you run into a pissed off bear, you can use it to shoot yourself,” Len said with a laugh.
It was not yet daylight when we reached a gravel road a mile past where I had turned in before.
“Kill the lights and take a right here, John. Better put it in four-wheel drive.”
I pulled the floor shift and felt the jeep lock up. Doc O’Malley had explained that it had been modified so that when you shifted into four-wheel drive, it locked in immediately. A hundred feet onto the road, we were running through mud and shallow water. We came to some high ground that led up a rocky slope. Although it was steep, the jeep never spun a wheel and climbed like a goat.
“Up top here there’s going to be a little flat area. Pull in there. Don’t go too far in or you’ll go off the cliff.”
We parked the jeep, set the brake, grabbed our gear, and walked further up the rock outcropping. At a small clearing in the trees, Len crawled behind a huge boulder and got out his binoculars. A dim light came from the cabin window. It looked like our man was home.
“He’s there, John. A least I can see someone moving behind the curtains.”
The sun had come up, but the forest would remain dark until it was higher in the sky. The light was enough for our binoculars to give us a good view. When the door opened and our man stepped out, we could see him clearly. He was fully dressed and carried a large backpack over his shoulder. In his right hand he held the AK-47. I assumed the shotgun was in his pack and the pistol probably tucked into his waistband. He was moving quickly but taking care to stay in the shadows. We lost sight of him, and the next thing we heard was a truck starting. The engine revved and he took off out of the yard, fast.
“He’s running, Len. Get to the jeep.”
We scrambled in and fired the engine. The jeep growled as we turned it around on the narrow path, its tires barely grabbing and all four wheels pulling us back from the edge. The turn completed, I took off and drove down the trail at breakneck speed. The jeep responded to each switchback with determination.
The highway appeared before I expected it, and so did a logging truck. I swerved out then back in. I missed the big eighteen-wheeler but not by much. Had he gone east or west? Len spotted his pickup far in the distance.
“West, John. Turn west. There he is!” Len shouted.
I could barely make out the truck, but I was after him. At seventy miles per hour, the jeep started to buck and make a noise.
“The four-wheel drive,” Len yelled. “Pull it out of four-wheel drive!”
I grabbed the lever and jerked it back, but it wouldn’t move.
“You gotta slow down a little to take some pressure off the drivetrain,” Len advised.
I slammed on the brakes and pushed in the clutch, then grabbed the lever and pulled with all my strength. It popped out like nothing. I hit the gas and now the jeep flew unrestrained down the road.
The driver of the truck ahead of us was going fast but did not appear to be exceeding the speed limit by much. In his case, running too fast and meeting an oncoming squad car with their radar on would complicate his life and maybe end the life of the cop who stopped him.
Ten miles from the Musky Falls city limits the truck turned off. As soon as it hit the secondary road, he hit the gas. We followed, but the unexpected burst of speed had put us behind. There was no doubt that he knew he was being followed.
“John, I gotta ask you a question. What are we gonna do if we catch this guy?”
Good question and I had no answer. “I guess we will find out when we catch him.”
The road became a series of curves and small hills. A farm tractor and wagon pulled out in front of us, and we had to slow down and wait to pass. Once over a small hill, we were rolling again. The truck was nowhere in sight. As
we approached a sharp curve, I started to brake for the turn. All of a sudden, the jeep’s engine banged loudly, metal on metal. The loss of power at high speed caused it to swerve wildly. The wheels, already turned to make the sharp curve, bit into the pavement. We were thrown hard against the inside as we went up on two wheels. I was able to muscle the steering wheel, and we came to rest sideways in the road.
We jumped out and took stock of ourselves.
“You hurt, Len?”
“Nope, not a scratch. How ’bout you?”
“I’m good. I guess we pushed my little jeep too hard.”
We heard a vehicle start and listened as the noise diminished in the distance. The truck we had been following was now long gone.
We looked things over. The front left tire was flat and about halfway off the rim. We opened the hood and could see gas leaking from the carburetor, and the distributor was smashed. Len got his head down in the engine compartment for a closer inspection.
“Holy Mother of God, John, this damage was done by bullets. I can see where they went through the grill and hit the carb and distributor. That guy shot at us. I can see two holes for sure, and another shot probably took out the tire. Oh my Lord, that guy tried to kill us,” Len exclaimed somewhat in apparent disbelief.
I could also see where the bullets had hit.
“You’re right about him shooting at us, Len, but I don’t think he was trying to kill us. He wanted to stop us so he could get away. If he wanted to kill us, he would have put them all through the windshield. The shots he took were accurate and served his purpose. The jeep tires on the highway covered the noise. No ‘spray and pray’ guy. Three well-placed shots and we are out of the game.”
Len used his phone to call Doc O’Malley and told him where we were. He was there within the hour.
