Shake the Trees

by Rod Helmers

  “The FDLE would like the remaining two weeks of Mr. Mason’s no contact period to be vigorously enforced. No exceptions.” Tillis replied sternly.

  “Oh. I see. Well, Mr. Mason did sign himself into this facility. We can’t legally prevent him from leaving. But we will certainly be very strict about our policy. The only exception would be a serious family emergency.”

  “I would definitely want you to insist upon proof of that. Of a family emergency. Written verification of some type. For your records.”

  “Of course. That seems prudent.” Director Jensen was nodding the entire time he spoke.

  “And may I assume that Mr. Mason would not be informed of any attempted contact that failed to meet the threshold which you’ve established?” Tillis raised an eyebrow as he ended the question.

  “You may, sir. Such notification would defeat the purpose of the rule. It would not be in the best interests of the patient. In my opinion.”

  “I thought so. You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Jensen. The FDLE is appreciative. Will you be personally supervising any attempted contact with Marc Mason?”

  “You may count on it.” Director Jensen stated with conviction.

  “Do you know whether the no contact rule has been violated to date with respect to Mr. Mason?”

  “No. No. It has not. I would have been informed.” Mr. Jensen was obviously searching his memory as he spoke.

  Tillis placed his card into the sweaty palm of the Director of The Lakes. The card identified him as Special Assistant to the Governor. “I would like our meeting tonight to remain confidential for the time being. Our investigation is at a critical stage.”

  “Certainly.” Director Jensen was obviously relieved that the meeting was coming to an end.

  “And I have one more favor to ask of you, Mr. Jensen.”

  The bird-like man studied the card. “Of course.”

  Tillis paused until he’d reestablished eye contact with Jensen. “Please call my personal cell immediately if anyone should attempt to make contact with Marc Mason.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I don’t see how that information would fall within the doctor patient privilege. I’m more than happy to be of assistance to the Governor. I voted for him, you know.”

  Orlando Executive Airport was deserted. It was nearly one a.m. as Tillis taxied to his leased hangar. With the plane nearly parallel to its sliding doors, he pushed hard on the left brake pedal and brought the power up on the right engine. The King-Air spun around until the tail was pointed directly at the center of the steel double doors. In the morning one of the field attendants would use a motorized tug that attached to the nose wheel assembly to carefully back the aircraft into the hangar. Tillis breezed through the shutdown checklist by heart, and climbed out of the plane with his black nylon overnight bag and a beat-up brown leather flight bag that also doubled as a briefcase.

  After spinning the dial on the combination lock, Tillis pushed the hangar doors in opposite directions to reveal a red convertible 1964 Pontiac GTO tripower with four on the floor and every option offered in a year when Lyndon Johnson and Barry Goldwater fought for the hearts and minds of the American people. The classic vehicle was so perfect that Tillis had left it entirely stock, choosing to even forgo twenty-first century ignition and braking technology.

  The general aviation field was only five minutes away from Executive Palms - the exclusive condominium high rise where Tillis owned a penthouse unit. The Orlando condo was not only centrally located and convenient, but was also his legal address for residency purposes. Florida was one of the few states without a state income tax; Georgia was not.

  Tillis put the top down and brought the 389 cubic inches to life. Then idled past the hangars and onto the boulevard that led to his condo. The deep and powerful notes produced by the barely taxed engine were soothing to his ears, and marked the end of a marathon weekend.

  Tillis let his mind wander. To Bubba Williams and Dora Hufstedtler. To the letter addressed to the clients and policyholders of American Senior Security. To the death of Dr. Bob and the gumbo-limbo BlackBerry. And to the blue-eyed girl. A little more than 48 hours had passed since he received the call from Governor Lord on Friday night, and the only thing he knew for sure was that Sam Norden had been trussed up like a Thanksgiving Day turkey and presented on a platter.

  CHAPTER 26

  Sam had awoken three times to his mother’s pale and silent lips during the night. His lack of sleep and inability to keep anything down had left him light-headed, but his limbs felt like lead. Every movement was a physical effort. Even simple tasks required more concentration than he could seem to summon.

  Normally he left for work shortly after six a.m., but this Monday morning it was nearly eight before he pointed the new Mercedes that American Senior Security had leased for him toward the gatehouse of his condominium complex. A dark-colored sedan fell in line behind him as he pulled onto Bayshore Boulevard.

  He began to notice the circus-like atmosphere nearly a full block away from the office, and wondered if there had been a fire. Or a bomb threat. But there were no fire trucks or ambulances. Just media vans bristling with satellite dishes. All of the local channels, as well as Fox News and CNN were represented.

  Sam was blocked from entering the driveway to the parking garage by another dark colored sedan, and he brought the Mercedes to a halt directly in front of his building. People were scurrying about, and the reporters and cameramen seemed to be getting into position. It never crossed his mind that it was all for him. Not even when the sedan that had been following him suddenly sprouted a red flashing light on its roof, and an unseen siren whooped twice.

  Sam looked around and noticed one individual seemingly unperturbed by the hurried confusion. The meticulously groomed and athletic looking man appeared to be in his early thirties, and was dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt and red patterned tie. His closely cropped blond hair looked as if it had been bleached by the sun, and his bronze tan popped against the white shirt, the long sleeves of which peeked out from his suit at the wrist.

  The confident looking man was standing next to the American Senior Security sign in front of the building, as if waiting for someone or something, but he also appeared to be thoroughly enjoying the scene around him. Then the man looked over at Sam and the two locked eyes. Sam wondered if the man was smiling at him or sneering. It seemed like a little bit of both. Then the moment ended with a solid rap on the driver’s side window.

  “Mr. Norden, please exit the vehicle now.” Sam looked up as FBI credentials were shoved in his face, and then recognized the agent he had spoken to the day before.

  “What’s going on?” Sam asked with concern.

  “Exit the vehicle. Now.” The agent raised his voice several decibels, and unbuttoned his sport jacket.

  Sam recognized the threatening tone and movement and climbed out of the Mercedes. “What about my car?”

  The question went unanswered as Sam was temporarily blinded by two white-hot lights. As he shielded his eyes with his hands, he saw several cameras pointed in his direction. Suddenly his hands were pulled away from his face and his arms were twisted around behind his back. Only as the hard steel of the handcuffs was being cinched tightly around his wrists did he comprehend what was happening. And then words floated into his consciousness. Words he had heard dozens of times in movies and on television.

  “Mr.Norden, I need a verbal response,” the FBI agent barked in a much louder voice. “Do you understand these rights?”

  Sam tried to shake himself from the dreamlike state he had entered. “What?”

  “Do you understand these rights?”

  “I guess so.” Sam answered in a trance-like state.

  Sam felt like he was walking on his tiptoes, as the two federal agents each grabbed an arm and almost carried him. His head was pushed down and he was shoved into a waiting vehicle. His shoulder joints seared as his full weight slammed against his cuffed arms and the back seat. Sam l
ooked up and out the window as the reporters and camera crews scurried over to the calm looking man standing next to the A.S.S. sign.

  The siren of the FBI vehicle whooped again. Twice. As if in celebration of the successful apprehension of the assailant it contained. Then Franklin Pierson, the young United States District Attorney for the Middle District of Florida, began to speak. A relentless attack upon the greedy white-collar criminal was the sine qua non of his public persona, and hopefully of a successful political ascendancy. Rudy Giuliani was his hero, and he longed for a sexier target, but, alas, the Costa Nostra had practically been driven to extinction by his ambitious predecessors. Sam Norden was no mafia don, but he would do.

  Elizabeth returned from her morning run, and James was still there. Normally he ran at the crack of dawn, and then went straight to his chambers to review pleadings and case law. He said it was his most productive time of the day. When his thinking was fresh and crisp. Elizabeth, on the other hand, usually enjoyed a fairly leisurely morning, stopping at Blue Moon for a cuppa black bold and the morning paper after a run on the beach. Typically she arrived at the courthouse at nine along with the rest of the federal employees.

  “What’s going on?” Elizabeth leaned over and gave James a sweaty peck on the cheek.

  “Nothing.” James didn’t look up from the paperwork spread out in front of him on the kitchen bar.

  “I mean why didn’t you go to your chambers this morning?”

  “Felt like working from home. My first hearing isn’t until ten.”

  “Okay.” Elizabeth looked at him oddly as she walked across the room and picked up the television remote.

  “Will the news bother you?”

  “Go ahead.”

  As CNN came to life, both James and Elizabeth stared at the screen as Sam Norden was handcuffed and shoved into a waiting vehicle. But it was the end of the report that hit them both like a rock hard punch to the gut.

  “In addition to the federal fraud counts, Sam Norden is also a suspect in the death of Robert Delgado Martinez, Jr. Mr. Martinez was an executive at American Senior Security, and was in charge of information technology at the company. His body was discovered in the Ten Thousand Islands area of southwestern Florida this past weekend.”

  Elizabeth backed away from the television, as if distancing herself from the source of the terrible news might make it less true. She turned to James in a stricken state of disbelief, and found him with his head in his hands and shoulders hunched tightly together, trapping all emotion within his rigid pose.

  It was two hours earlier in New Mexico. Sandi was glad when first light had appeared in the eastern sky signaling the start of a new workweek. She had been lying in bed awake, thinking about the ranch, water rights, and the questions she would ask Bartholomew Citron later that day. And she’d been worrying about Sam. He had called her the previous day after the FBI agents had approached him at his condo. She realized he needed a good attorney, but didn’t know he desperately needed one at that very moment.

  The tragedy Sandy experienced early in her young life had put a hard edge on an already practical view of the world. The ‘everything will work out for the best’ crowd was full of shit in her book; she was living proof of that. Maybe they felt better after telling themselves that big fat lie, or maybe it just gave them an excuse to sit on their asses. But she wasn’t going to sit on hers. Or let Sam sit on his.

  She figured most innocent people got about as much justice as they could afford. Or they got lucky. Unfortunately, neither she nor Sam had been especially lucky in the past. Fortunately, Sam had been saving nearly everything he’d earned since he went to work for American Senior Security. She knew he’d need every penny and more.

  The brightening eastern sky brought Sandi out on the front porch of her cabin. Dustin wouldn’t be awake for another hour. She was relieved to see a light in the kitchen window of the ranch house. Her father was up and the coffee was on, so she decided to join him before taking care of things at the maternity ward. The walk up the curving dirt road, along with the cool mountain air of the almost new day, chased away the cobwebs that had accumulated during a fitful night of sleep.

  Sandi caught the screen door as it swung shut behind her - so that it wouldn’t slam and wake her mother. Her father already had the small TV on the kitchen counter tuned to Fox News.

  “What’s new?” She mumbled as she made her way to the coffee pot.

  “Nothin’,” Rodger Rimes replied as he watched the Fox crew banter with each other. Rodger and Sandi had never been morning talkers; at least not until the caffeine had kicked in.

  The aroma of the brew reached her nostrils as she filled the large and irregularly shaped ceramic cup that Dustin had made for her; she inhaled deeply before taking her first sip of the day. As Sandi took her seat at the kitchen table, the breaking news banner slid across the screen of the television. Neither father nor daughter seemed to notice; the voracious appetite of the 24-hour cable network for anything remotely newsworthy had devalued the alert, and it now attracted less attention than an illuminated hot doughnuts sign at Krispy Kreme.

  But then the name Sam Norden came spilling out of the yapping box, and the morning routine stopped in its tracks. When the breaking news story was complete, Sandi stared at her father in stunned amazement. And she thought to herself that she would most certainly pose a danger to society today. If anyone said things would eventually work out for the best, she’d punch them right in the nose.

  Tillis tried to shake the fog from his brain and remember where he was. He opened one eye and recognized what he considered to be the over the top decorating of his Orlando condo. And once again reminded himself to have someone make the place look like a man lived there. Then he grabbed his BlackBerry without bothering to check who had interrupted his well-deserved rest.

  “Tillis.”

  “Tillis, do you know what’s going on?” Governor Chuck Lord asked with concern in his voice.

  “No, Chuck, I don’t know what’s going on. I’m trying to get a good night’s sleep for the first time since you called me last Friday.” Tillis’ tone conveyed more than a little annoyance with Lord’s morning call.

  “Sorry, Tillis, but the feds arrested Sam Norden this morning.”

  Tillis sat up in bed. “Who in the hell . . .”

  “Sam Norden. The Acting CEO at …”

  “I know who Sam Norden is,” Tillis snapped disgustedly. “I was thinking about arresting him myself.” Tillis paused and then continued. “I was going to ask who in the hell is responsible for this?”

  “Based on the press conference I just saw, I’d say Franklin Pierson, U.S. Attorney for the Middle District, is responsible for this.”

  “That fricking little press hound.” Tillis growled. “Didn’t even bother with a grand jury. Must have gotten a complaint issued based on some bullshit affidavit one of his cocksucking FBI agents cooked up.”

  “Why the rush? Norden isn’t violent or on the run.” Lord asked.

  “Because the little peckerhead wants the case. And the press. And he wants it now.”

  “My, but your vocabulary is colorful this morning.” There was a bit of levity in the Governor’s tone for the first time since Tillis had answered the call.

  “I haven’t had a lot of fricking shut eye recently, Chuck.”

  “So now Pierson has thirty days to …”

  Tillis interrupted. “To pull a grand jury indictment out of his ass. Or Norden goes free. But there won’t be an indictment if I have anything to say about it. Sam Norden is innocent.”

  “I thought you said you were thinking about arresting him yourself?”

  “I was. But just to keep the bad guys complacent while I shook loose a suspect. Or at least some evidence.” Tillis mumbled.

  “That doesn’t sound like you. It’s a blatant abuse of power.”

  “I was thinking of the greater good. Specifically the elderly citizens that are going to be out on their asses if I don�
��t figure this thing out.”

  “That argument is a very slippery slope leading to all sorts of bad things.” The Governor chided.

  “I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet, and you’re talking about a fricking slippery slope. You’re a goddamn wonk. You know that don’t you?”

  “Returning to the reason for my call. Bring me up to date on the investigation.” Lord put the conversation back on track, and Tillis filled him in on the events of the weekend, including the letter that Mrs. Hufstedtler gave him.

  “That letter has some very interesting implications,” Governor Lord mused.

  “I thought that might be your reaction.” Tillis responded.

  “Who put the feds on this thing anyway? I figured we had at least a 72-hour head start. Ron said the Assistant Director called this morning; the FBI wants all the forensics.”

  “Aw shit. I just figured that out.” Tillis moaned.

  “Let’s have it.”

  “It’s not her fault. I should have warned her.”

  “Her who?” Lord inquired.

  “It doesn’t matter. A call was made to Homeland Security. The sole shareholder of American Senior Security is a Cayman holding company. We were trying to track down the owners of the Cayman company. And somebody owed somebody a favor. So a call was made.”

  “Some favor.”

  “It won’t happen again.” Tillis promised.

  There was a pause before Governor Lord spoke again. “Well, Tillis, it looks like you got your wish. Sam Norden - an innocent man according to you - has been arrested and is being processed into a federal detention facility as we speak. I certainly hope something shakes loose. And soon.”

  CHAPTER 27

  James cancelled his calendar for the day, and Elizabeth called in sick. At first James retreated to his bedroom. And then he began to pace around the condo. Asking the walls over and over again how this could happen. And who would have done such a thing.