Shake the Trees

by Rod Helmers

  Citron turned both hands palm down and motioned for Rodger and Sandi to again take their seats.

  “What kind of trouble, Sandi?” Citron asked with marked concern.

  Citron sat silently with all ten well-manicured fingers touching each other, forming a tent-like structure, which he held in front of his mouth, almost touching his lips, as he listened to Sandi’s recitation.

  “Do you recall the name of the U.S. Attorney?” Citron asked.

  “Yes. Pierson. Franklin Pierson.” Sandi responded.

  Citron sat in a huge executive chair that towered above the top of his head. The chair had been covered in leather dyed a deep shade of violet. He spun around to the side and the keys began to click on an open laptop.

  Citron studied the screen for a few moments. “That’s good.”

  “What’s good?” Sandi asked hopefully.

  “I’ve just googled Mr. Pierson. He was recently appointed a United States Attorney by the current occupant of the Oval Office. His credentials as a right winger are extensive, and his love of the press is quite obvious.”

  “That’s good?”

  Citron took a deep breath. “Have you ever heard of Jefferson Davis Brown?”

  “The Mouth of the South?” Rodger asked in a tone expressing both astonishment and disgust at the mention of the name.

  “I’ve heard of him,” Sandi added. “Why on earth would parents in the Deep South name a black child after Jefferson Davis?”

  “Jefferson told me that his father wanted him to be constantly reminded of the obstacles that were overcome and the sacrifices that were made by his forebears. Obstacles overcome and sacrifices made to provide him the opportunity for advancement.”

  Rodger turned to Sandi. “Sort of ‘A Boy Named Sue’ thing.”

  “It still seems awfully cruel,” Sandi said.

  Citron nodded in agreement. “Yet it’s hard to argue with success. He’s risen from poverty to become one of the most successful and wealthy attorneys in the nation.”

  “You know him?” Rodger asked incredulously.

  “We served together on a ‘Diversity in the Judiciary’ advisory panel. We were appointed by the prior Administration.”

  Rodger smiled. “So you think ‘The Mouth’ might not care too much for Mr. Pierson?”

  Citron reached for the telephone. “I think not. Please allow me to attempt to make contact with him on your behalf. It’s not yet lunchtime in Atlanta, and he usually takes my calls. It won’t take but a moment to try.”

  “Duke! How you doin’?” Even though the phone was not on speaker, Rodger and Sandi could clearly hear The Mouth from across Citron’s desk.

  Citron covered the mouthpiece with the palm of his hand. “He calls me Duke. A reference to my Western roots. And perhaps there is some attempt at irony involved.”

  “I’m doing quite well, Jefferson. And yourself?” Citron responded to The Mouth’s greeting.

  “I’m great. Fantastic, as a matter of fact. What can I do you for, my man?” The Mouth’s booming and recognizable voice erupted from the handset.

  “I’m calling regarding a potential referral, Jefferson. Have you by chance been monitoring the newscasts this morning?” Citron asked.

  “Seen a little here and there. What’s up?”

  In fact, there were five televisions tuned to five different news and business channels currently arrayed around Jefferson Davis Brown’s desk in his huge and ornately decorated office. Each had the sound muted and the closed captioning turned on.

  “There was an arrest in Tampa, Florida this morning of a Samuel Norden on federal fraud and wire charges. He is a suspect in a murder as well.” Citron quietly explained.

  “Yeah. I did happen to see something about that. Looked like that little neo-Nazi press-loving prick Franklin Pierson orchestrated the arrest. Don’t know nothin’ else about it though.”

  Citron and Rodger exchanged smiles.

  “Well, Jefferson, it so happens that I have Mr. Norden’s . . .” Citron looked at Rodger and Sandi with raised eyebrows and a questioning expression on his face.

  “Fiancée,” Rodger offered. Sandi spun around and looked at Rodger like he had just farted out loud in church. Rodger shook his head and gave Sandi a ‘get a grip’ look.

  Citron continued. “As I was saying, Jefferson, I have Mr. Norden’s fiancée here with me, and she would very much like for you to speak with Mr. Norden at your earliest opportunity.”

  “Well, ain’t that a coincidence. I was just gettin’ ready to fire up the ole’ Gulfstream for a little trip down to my place in Florida when you called. I’ll ring ahead. I’m sure the folks at the federal detention facility outside Tampa will have the red carpet rolled out by the time I get there.” The Mouth laughed at his own joke.

  The conversation ended with exchanged pleasantries, and Citron hung up the phone. “I think that went well. I must warn you, however, that Mr. Brown is usually quite expensive. I understand that he charged that young celebrity actress in LA $250,000 to handle her DUI charge. No accident or injuries were involved. Just a basic DUI charge. But you never know how these things will work out when press and politics are involved.”

  “Wasn’t that a coincidence?” Sandi marveled. “That Mr. Brown happened to be going to Florida this afternoon?”

  Citron and Rodger exchanged glances. “She and her mother don’t get out much,” Rodger offered.

  As soon as they had left The Law Offices of Bartholomew Citron, and before they reached their pickup truck, Sandi turned to Rodger with her hands on her hips. “Sam and I are not engaged. Why did you lie about that?”

  Rodger merely rolled his eyes and continued walking.

  “And what’s the deal with that comment about your service?” Sandi asked.

  “I guess he knew I was in the military once.”

  “How would he know that?” Sandi persisted.

  Rodger just shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you have the money?”

  “Yes. I have the money.” Rodger answered quietly.

  “Well, then we have to sue. We don’t need to think about it.” Sandi insisted.

  “We’re not going to sue.” Rodger responded firmly.

  “What? Then it’s over. We’re done for. The ranch won’t survive without water. We have to sue. It’s our only chance.”

  “We’re not going to sue. That money is meant for other things.”

  “What other things? Nothing is more important than the ranch!” Sandi exclaimed.

  Now it was Rodger’s turn to stop and put his hands on his hips. “Look, I’m not worried about the boys. They’re financially secure. But Dustin and any other children you may have deserve the opportunity to be and do whatever they want to be or do in this big old world. That money is for their education. For college. The ranch has been marginally profitable for a long time. It’s not a wise investment. I worked for it, and I earned it. And I choose to invest that money in my grandchildren’s future. Not the ranch. We’re not going to sue.”

  Rodger continued to stride toward the truck, and Sandi followed with her head hung low and tears in her eyes. As they we’re turning out of the parking lot, Sandi finally pulled herself together and spoke again. “Did you know Bartholomew Citron was gay?”

  “Of course. Everybody in New Mexico knows that. He was out of the closet before you were out of diapers.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  Rodger shook his head. “You really need to get out more.”

  CHAPTER 29

  After the call from Governor Lord about the arrest, Tillis had brewed a pot of coffee and caught the next go round of the news cycle. He’d shaken his head as he watched the two FBI clones shove a zombie-like Sam Norden into a government issue sedan, and then ambled into the kitchen to peer into a refrigerator he already knew was empty. Since no food had magically appeared, he grabbed his laptop and found a comfortable spot in a big recliner. It was positioned in a corner near the floor
to ceiling living room windows, and provided a panoramic view of the scurrying sprawl of Orlando.

  After accessing the secure FDLE website, he reviewed the diagnostics and forensics on the American Senior Security computer system. As he’d suspected, the slate had been wiped clean by a skilled and professional hand. Scrolling to a different menu, he brought up the preliminary report of the forensics team investigating Dr. Bob’s death. Again, there was very little to be gleaned that he didn’t already know. And then his BlackBerry vibrated, and showed an incoming call from Sally.

  “Go.” Tillis barked.

  “I’ve screwed up, Tillis. I really screwed up this time.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Sally. Just remember that the feds are politically driven. Talk to me first in the future. I feel sorry for Norden, though. The guy looked like he didn’t know what planet he was on.”

  “What are you talking about? Did you arrest Sam Norden?” Sally asked.

  “No. The feds did.” Tillis responded slowly and deliberately.

  “I thought you were going to arrest him.” Sally spoke with a hint of confusion in her voice.

  “I changed my mind.” Tillis mumbled.

  “Why did the feds arrest him? Oh, shit. You mean my call to Homeland Security on the Cayman thing got the feds involved? Damn. I’m sorry, Tillis.”

  “Why did you call me, Sally?” Tillis inquired with obvious interest.

  “Uh. This may not be a good time. I’ll call back later.”

  “Sally, what’s going on?” Tillis demanded.

  Sally explained what had happened at the coffee shop that morning, and then cringed as she waited for the fireworks to begin.

  “You didn’t screw up, Sally. You had good instincts. Very few do. More importantly, you had the balls to follow your instincts. Even fewer do. All we had was a hunch before. Now we know we’re on the right track.”

  “We may know more than that.”

  “What do you mean?” Tillis asked.

  “I have the bill the blue-eyed girl paid with.”

  “I hate to burst your bubble, but you should know that currency is a very unreliable source of prints. First of all, currency isn’t paper. It’s a fiber. More like cloth than paper. It’s a very difficult surface to work with. Secondly, there may be dozens of partials on one bill.” Tillis lectured without enthusiasm.

  “Our girl’s fingers were covered with coffee when she handed the bill to the clerk. And the clerk segregated it.” Sally responded confidently.

  “She stained the bill?”

  “She stained the bill.”

  “Damn.” Tillis marveled.

  “Even a blind hog finds an acorn once and a while.” Sally responded.

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “Wouldn’t think of it.” Sally answered jauntily.

  “Get that acorn over to the field office. Call me as soon as you know something.” Tillis ordered.

  “En route as we speak, El Jeffe.”

  “Oh, Sally, there is one thing I want you to do differently next time.”

  “Uh-oh. What’s that?”

  “Run faster.” Tillis answered and immediately ended the call.

  The death of Dr. Bob and the events of the morning had left Elizabeth without options. She walked across the room and began to pick the larger pieces of glass off of the living room floor. Eventually delay gave way to inevitability, and she reluctantly revealed her scheme. And began to plead with James.

  “Don’t you understand, James? I did this for you. For us. For our future together.”

  He studied the searching blue eyes that betrayed vulnerability. After Elizabeth came to work for him, James had found her psychological state fascinating. She was like a horrible car accident alongside the road from which he was unable to avert his eyes. He’d recognized the symptoms of undiagnosed schizophrenia nearly from the start.

  “There is no future. There is no us. You’ve ruined all of that. Damn it, Elizabeth. You’ve destroyed everything. Everything that’s important to me.”

  “Why, James? We can figure this out. I haven’t given up. We can figure this out together. I’m sure of it.”

  “Figure what out? The money? Are you still talking about the money?” James spat out the words with disgust.

  “Yes. The money. We can still make a life together. A wonderful life together.”

  “I have a life. At least I had a life. A well-regarded reputation in the community. A respected profession. Something that took me nearly forty years to build. And you’ve destroyed it. Destroyed it all. How could you have been so reckless? What were you thinking, Elizabeth? God damn it! What were you thinking?” James was nearly screaming with fury now.

  “But we can have something more. Something better. Whatever we want. Wherever we want. We’ll buy a boat. And sail around the world. Just you and me. Together forever. It will be perfect. Don’t you see?”

  “With the money? Money you’ve stolen from the elderly? From the defenseless? From the most vulnerable of society? For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you? You make me sick. Sick to my stomach. I can’t even look at you.” James averted his gaze, yet continued to wear a mask of perfect scorn.

  Elizabeth began to cry. “I’m sorry, James. I’m so sorry. I just wanted to make you happy. I wanted you to have everything you deserve.”

  “Your greed is revolting. Your disgusting greed led to the death of someone I love. Of someone I considered family. Do you realize how important family is? Do you, Elizabeth? And you’re the one who’s responsible. It’s your fault, Elizabeth. You killed him. Maybe not by your own hand, but you killed him just the same.” James hurled the words at Elizabeth with stinging condemnation.

  James continued to scold Elizabeth ruthlessly. Without compassion. Every time she tried to explain or apologize, James responded with scathing and pitiless disgust. Finally, Elizabeth began crying hysterically and was soon unable to catch her breath, but James offered nothing and the hysteria continued.

  “It’s your fault, Elizabeth. You’re responsible. He died because of you. There won’t be any boat. No cruise around the world. Nothing. It’s your fault. It’s all your fault. He’s dead, and he’s not coming back ever again. Because of you, Elizabeth. All because of you.” James continued with an unrelenting verbal attack.

  The words bored into her brain and bounced around her head, and the image of a body bag clawed its way into her consciousness. And then a pool of blood on the floor of his office. The same old questions reverberated through her mind. Why didn’t he stay? Why wasn’t she enough to make him want to stay? It was the money. It was always the money. The money was more important. More important than his own daughter. She hadn’t been enough, and because she wasn’t enough he died. He killed himself. He bored a hole through his brain with a .32 caliber pearl-handled pocket revolver.

  Then with an eerie suddenness she regained her composure. And began to speak in an innocent and childlike voice.

  “I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me again. Please.”

  “I’m disappointed in you, Elizabeth. It may be time. Time to leave. Time to leave you forever.” James answered harshly.

  “Nooo. Nooo.” Elizabeth whimpered.

  “Do you love me, Elizabeth?”

  “I love you. I love you more than anything in the world.” She answered hopefully.

  “If you loved me, you wouldn’t argue with me.”

  “I’m not. I won’t. I’m sorry. I promise I won’t.” Elizabeth pleaded.

  “If you want me to stay, you must listen to me. Are you going to do what I tell you to, Elizabeth?”

  “Yes. I’ll listen. I will. I promise.” Elizabeth whimpered as she curled into a ball, emitting a pitiful child-like sound before offering a tortured prayer. “Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me again. I love you. I need you. I’ll be enough. I promise. I’ll be enough this time.”

  James insisted that Elizabeth take a strong sedative, and then guided her to the bedroom.
She listlessly did as she was told, and fell into a fitful sleep. James peeled off the sweaty clothes he was wearing, and put on a pair of running shorts and a t-shirt. After stretching, he briefly watched Elizabeth toss and turn before quickly pivoting away from her.

  Dr. Bob had predicted that Elizabeth would eventually devolve into the dissociative fugue state he’d just observed. James shook his head. Dr. Bob was both genius and naiveté, and didn’t deserve to die. He’d been concerned for Elizabeth’s mental health. James told himself that he couldn’t afford such noble intentions. Not this time. Elizabeth had been helpful, more than she even knew, but she was unstable and posed a risk to everything he had worked for.

  ”Wet or dry heat process?” The fingerprint tech at the Miami-Dade FDLE lab asked Sally.

  “Uh. Which one’s better?”

  “Toss-up. Depends on whether you’re an old-fashioned kinda girl. Or not.”

  “Talk to me, science boy.” Sally smiled.

  “Okay. But remember, you asked. Wet process. Immerse in Ninhydrin to react with amino acids. Dry and set for 24 hours. Process with live steam to darken. Immerse in Maleic Acid and then Physical Developer to react with lipid fats and waxes. Rinse and dry. Immerse in 20% bleach and dry again. Photograph the prints. They can’t be lifted.”

  “How long does that take?”

  “Minimum 48 hours.”

  “Holy shit.” Sally grimaced.

  “I guess that’s why it’s called old-fashioned.”

  “What about the other one?”

  “Dry heat. Also called laser processed. Immerse in DFO and . . .”

  “DFO?” Sally questioned.

  The tech sighed. “Diazafluoren. Immerse in DFO and apply dry heat. Immerse in Physical Developer and dry. Place under a laser and photograph. Again, the prints can’t be lifted.”

  “How long?”

  “Maybe by the end of the day. If somebody bumps it to the front of the line.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “As I said, you need a laser for the dry heat process.”

  “We don’t have a laser?” Sally looked perplexed.