by Pat McKee
Big Dog was no longer Grey’s jovial fishing buddy.
“What the hell did I just hear?”
“You heard William Fowler admit to bribing a judge, committing two murders and influencing a public official, framing Paul McDaniel, threatening his girlfriend, and then trying to kill him. The last gunshot you heard killed Fowler after he had pulled a gun on Paul and they struggled.
“Raymond, meet Paul McDaniel. Ever since that gunshot Paul’s been running to save his girlfriend and to find a way to clear himself. Now that Melissa is safe and he has this recording, Paul wants to surrender, and he expects not to be prosecuted on the strength of that tape.”
“Grey, you haven’t been harboring a fugitive, have you?”
“Nope. He just showed up at my lodge, and I brought him in.”
“Hell of a coincidence! Where did this recording come from, and how do I know this is Fowler?”
So far, I hadn’t said a word. It was my intent to say as little as possible. It’s bad form to lie to law enforcement, and I wanted as little opportunity to do so as possible. But Grey turned to me, there being no reason to misrepresent anything about the origin of the recording and how I came into possession of it. Giving the DA the details of the tape only supported its veracity and allowed me to develop some credibility with the Honorable Raymond “Big Dog” Ravenel.
“All this happened at Fowler’s cottage on Frederica Island. When the G-8 was held there, the cottage was wired with some sophisticated security measures, including cameras and microphones. As you heard in the tape, Fowler disabled the cameras and thought he disabled the microphones, but one of them picked up all the action. I retrieved the tape from the security company. They can authenticate it.”
Big Dog turned to Grey and shook his head.
“Wimp Boyd. We’ve known for a while that boy’s been altering death certificates for some serious cash. I didn’t much care, so long as he didn’t make my work more difficult. Until now, all we’ve known Wimp to do was change the time and place of death. I heard he’d made a bundle back in 2011 when the estate tax laws changed. If someone died in 2010 instead of 2011, their estate paid no tax at all. A couple of loaded old geezers on Frederica Island died in early January 2011. For a piece of the action Wimp had them dead just after Christmas and cremated real quick before anyone could ask questions. One family even brought their elderly benefactor down from New York to Frederica Island just to take advantage of Wimp’s special talent. Kinda like Jesus only backward—instead of raising people from the dead, Wimp makes ‘em dead before their time.
“There’ve always been stories of men dying in their mistresses’ arms only to be delivered home and pronounced dead on their own sofas. Depending on who the deceased was, Wimp would perform that little service for their widows, their lovers, or the board of deacons. I didn’t mind Wimp taking care of that—pretty much thought it a civic service.
“Now that he’s altering cause of death, he’s getting into my line of work, and that’s a problem for me. We’ll prosecute him for RICO. He’ll go away for a while.
“But Mr. McDaniel, we still have a man dead of a gunshot in that cottage that no one has taken responsibility for killing. Based on that recording you easily could have murdered Fowler for threatening your girlfriend.”
Big Dog’s eyes bore into me.
“I never even threatened Fowler. Everything on that tape supports my story. He pulled a gun on me. We struggled. The gun went off. I didn’t—”
“Yeah, but there’s nothin’ to prove you didn’t kill him either. You were there, you had a motive, and your prints are on the gun. That’s at least circumstantial evidence that you killed him. And many a man has been convicted of murder on circumstantial evidence.”
“Fowler staged the whole thing. I think he pulled the trigger himself to avoid prosecution.”
I sounded desperate. And I was.
“I’ve heard many variations on ‘the other dude did it,’ but never ‘the other dude killed himself to make me look like a murderer.’”
Big Dog looked at Grey, shook his head, then back to me.
“I ain’t buyin’ it. If you were innocent, why the hell did you run? You’re a smart man, Mr. McDaniel. You know—”
“I didn’t trust the Frederica Island police to do the right thing. I was afraid I’d end up in jail. And I had no idea there was a tape that could prove my innocence. But in the end, I ran so I could help Melissa.”
“How the hell were you plannin’ to do that?”
Any more down this road and it would threaten to implicate Grey and Rebecca and open up the whole affair on South Cat Cay. I was not going to do it. I kept silent.
“If you can’t do any better’n that, I got no choice but to lock you up. The tape puts you at the scene with a motive to kill Fowler for threatening your girlfriend. If we can’t authenticate the tape, we have your prints on the weapon that killed Fowler and Oliver. We also have your prints on the shotgun that killed the judge, and we can place you at the Abbey about the time of the murder. That’s three murders in the space of a few hours. Sounds to me like you’re one dangerous hombre.
“If we can authenticate the recording, we might be able to drop the charges for the murders of the judge and Oliver. But that still leaves Fowler. I ain’t letting you go on that one. And I’m recommending no bond, since you are a clear flight risk.”
He looked to Grey.
“Sorry.”
Grey picked up my lap top, thumb drive still plugged in.
“You can take the computer, but I’ll need that recording.” Big Dog popped out the thumb drive, stuck it in his pocket, and handed the computer to Grey. A few minutes later a deputy put handcuffs on me and carried me off to a holding cell in the basement of the courthouse, now Exhibit A to the lesson why you should never talk to a DA without a lawyer by your side, even if you think you’re innocent. And everyone thinks they’re innocent.
I had never been arrested, never been in jail in my life. The holding cell was populated with those like me who’d been arrested that day and those awaiting some processing in the courts. There were about a dozen of us unfortunates in the cell together. Some, I guessed from their disheveled appearance, were there for DUI, some allowed they were in for domestic abuse, and there were a few prostitutes thrown into the mix who made no secret of their profession. Everyone seemed to be in some amount of distress about their plight except for the prostitutes, whose outlandish outfits and provocative calls to the police brightened the room. One, a woman named Marie, teased every male officer who passed, offering free samples of her services and advertising an open house next weekend for any who wished to attend.
Marie showed some interest in my well-being until she asked what I was in for. When I told her I was a suspect in a triple murder and wasn’t interested in talking about it, she retreated to the safety of the opposite corner of the cell.
The day was long, and the night longer, not unlike the time I spent as a prisoner of Anthony Milano. While on South Cat Cay I feared immediate execution; here, it was not imminent death I feared, but the possibility of being in jail awaiting trial while my outside life disintegrated, Melissa gone to be with Cabrini, partnership disappeared now that the firm had discovered my deception, and Mom with a fresh check for a thousand bucks to buy all the liquor she wanted. How had I so miscalculated the reaction of the DA to the recording? There was Ariel, who found the recording so compelling, and Grey, who was so assured of the DA’s good faith.
I could understand Ariel’s miscalculation. For all her ability, she was still unable to account for the intervening free will of a person who’s not rationally motivated. It’s this failure of machines to account for human frailty that makes me wonder whether they’ll ever be able to fathom human consciousness. For it was likely that the DA had received significant political pressure from the residents of Frederica Island to sol
ve a triple murder in their sheltered enclave, and letting a convenient suspect loose presented too much of a risk to his re-election.
Grey’s missed call was far more difficult to understand. It was evident the moment Big Dog walked out of his office to greet us that he was more of a political animal than a servant of justice, more interested in using his office to arrange fishing trips with influential locals than using those same resources to track criminals. The fact that his name had been over the entry to his office long enough for the paint to flake and peel was all anyone needed to know about the focus of his efforts. Perhaps most disturbing is that Grey said nothing to warn me.
Now the worst fears that had entered my mind as I flew down the causeway to escape the Frederica Island police a week ago had been realized. The DA needed a murder suspect to parade before the cameras, and I dropped one in his lap when I walked into his office and surrendered. He wasn’t going to let me walk out. I was caught in the flawed justice system that I’d feared from the beginning.
I must’ve fallen asleep sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall of the cell. I was awakened by the sound of another inmate urinating in the stainless-steel toilet in the corner of the cell not three feet from me, a sound, a smell, and a sight that I’d just as soon never experience again. This vision appeared as the deputies came around to shove plates of food in the cell for breakfast. They called my name before they handed me a plate and told me to step out of the cell. I offered my arms for cuffs, assuming that was the expected procedure, but the deputy told me it wasn’t necessary. The DA wanted to see me.
Big Dog was sitting at his desk and motioned me to sit down. The deputy remained behind me.
“Mr. McDaniel, Milano Labs has authenticated the recordings. As far as I am concerned, that takes care of any responsibility you might’ve had for the homicides of Judge Richards and Oliver. Those crimes can be laid squarely at the feet of Fowler. I also had our forensic lab take another look at Fowler’s weapon. Your prints are all over it. All over it except for one place: the only prints on the trigger are Fowler’s. That fact, along with the recording and the other evidence we’ve been able to retrieve from the scene, make it unlikely that you could be successfully prosecuted for Fowler’s murder. It’s probable that he intended suicide all along. You just interrupted him and provided someone convenient to blame.
“But that still leaves you with a couple of problems: fleeing the scene of a crime and obstruction of justice. What we now know happened in that room, and with the threat that you felt Melissa was facing, I have decided not to pursue charges against you for those crimes. I just called the US Attorney and told him what we found, and he confirmed that he will not be pursuing charges either. Since Grey brought you here, I asked him to come get you. He should be here in a few minutes.”
I was in front of the Courthouse waiting for Grey when he pulled up. I jumped in his truck before he had a chance to stop.
“Big Dog told me what he said about forensics and all, but he was just jerkin’ you around. He sure as hell knew whose prints were on the gun and where they were long before we walked into his office. As for the recording, he knew it was authentic. William Fowler has been one of his biggest campaign contributors for years. He knows Fowler’s voice better than he knows his own mother’s.
“One of the prostitutes in the cell with you last night is Big Dog’s best informant. She was just trying to get information from you to nail me. Big Dog wants something on me, not to put me in jail, just leverage, in case he ever needs it. That’s why he was so interested in your plans to rescue Melissa and why he locked you up when you refused to answer. If he could’ve put me with any of those plans, he’d have me on aiding and abetting. When you told Marie you didn’t want to talk, Big Dog figured he had nothing and decided to let you go.”
“So, why didn’t you warn me?”
“I didn’t think Big Dog would try to use you to get something on me. I guess I was wrong.” Grey laughed. “Welcome to South Georgia.”
“It’s about time I got the hell outta here.”
Twenty-Three
Two days after being cleared by the Glynn County DA and the US Attorney in Brunswick, I was ready to walk into a conference room on the fiftieth floor of a glass tower in Midtown Atlanta to face the Strange & Fowler Management Committee. But not until I could talk with Tracey about the interaction between Mom and the Chairman.
I had not seen Tracey in five years. When I met her she was a sullen nineteen year old, emaciated from drug use, in skinny black jeans and a too-tight T-shirt, with cropped florescent green-and-orange hair, and every imaginable body piercing. Back then, while I sensed Tracey was grateful for my efforts, there was no evidence of it in her face, her body language, or what she said. It was clear I was helping her for the sake of her mother, and at that point Tracey didn’t think much of either of us. But over the years we’d kept in touch, at first only casually, then more in earnest. Tracey opened up over time; we talked, often for long periods, about work, life, her efforts, her goals. The friend of mine who did me a favor to employ Tracey told me she had grown into the job. Tracey was the best hire he’d ever made.
I arranged with Lillian to have Tracey meet me in my office. When I walked in, she was already there, her back to me, looking out the window over the Atlanta skyline.
“Tracey?”
She turned to face me, and for an instant, I thought she must be someone else.
“Didn’t recognize me, did you?”
The woman standing in my office was a petite blond, bright smile, not a single body piercing or visible tattoo, all curves and stylish dress, conservative in the manner of a young woman who worked in a small-town Southern law firm. Tracey was a younger image of her mother, who had been a runner-up for Miss Alabama before her unplanned pregnancy derailed her beauty-pageant career.
“Well, I have to say you do look a little different from the first time I saw you.”
“All thanks to you.”
“I hear you returned the favor. I appreciate what you did for my mother.”
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her she may’ve blown the elaborate cover story I’d crafted for my childhood, that explained the absence of my mother, that even with Placido backing me, her good intentions and selfless kindness may’ve derailed my plans for attaining the partnership I’d worked so hard for, that I needed to find out exactly what she’d told the Chairman so I’d be ready for the questions that were sure to come from the Management Committee.
“Can you tell me what happened that morning?”
“Your friend Ariel told me you really needed help with a matter for your Mom. She explained you were out of town and couldn’t handle it yourself, but I already knew about all that and didn’t let on. She told me that you’d be out of town longer than expected, and you wanted me to loan $1,000.00 to your Mom until you returned.”
“That’s a lot of money. I hope . . .”
“I talked to my mother. She and I got the money together and figured out how to get it to your Mom. According to the security guard, your mom had been around the office every morning until they ran her off. I almost missed her that morning, but then I saw one of your partners was threatening to have her arrested for trespass—and I let him have it. I told him she’s your mother and was only trying to get in touch with you to get some rent money. I shamed him so bad he wrote a check to reimburse me. He said he wanted to be the one to stop her eviction.”
“I bet he did.”
“Paul, I’m sure you know your Mom has an addiction problem. But I talked to her. I can tell you she could benefit from the same program you got me in. If you had faith in someone like me, I’m sure you can help your own mother.”
“I’ve lived through her problems all my life, and since I’ve been grown, she has resisted my every effort to help. You know better than anyone else, you can’t help someone until they want to be helped.
All I’ve been able to do is give her money and talk her into going into rehab for short periods. At some point you have to let people live with the consequences of their choices. It’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. My mother has decided her own fate, and I’ve decided to let her.”
“This time I really think she wants to change.”
That was part of my mother’s usual pitch for money.
“I hope you’re right. I’m going to give her the chance. Again.”
I paused for a moment, thinking how to say what was in my mind without it coming out wrong, without it being taken wrong.
“Tracey, I appreciate what you’ve done for me and my mother. You, more than anyone else, can understand how my mother has suffered and what I’ve gone through as a result.”
But that wasn’t what I wanted to tell her.
“Did I tell you, you look great?”
She flashed a smile, and before it faded, I stepped out of the office for my appointment with the Management Committee.
I rode the elevator to the fiftieth floor and stepped off into Strange & Fowler’s firm conference room, a room that took up the entire east side of the building. A solid wall of glass displaying the Atlanta skyline struck you immediately, and when the electronically frosted glass was left clear, as it was this morning, the light was disorienting after leaving the dim elevator, an effect that was no doubt intended by the architect. On the other side of the glass wall was the observation deck, from where Billingsley had jumped, starting all this in motion.
Across the length of the room stretched a conference table large enough to seat all fifty of the firm’s Atlanta partners. Today the dozen members of the Management Committee were spread on the side next to the window, forcing me to look into the brightness, not able yet to see their faces. A junior member of the Committee, the designated hatchet man, pounced as soon as I entered the room and took the lead in presenting the firm’s position. I was still trying to focus my eyes.
