Shake the Trees

by Rod Helmers

  “We do have a laser,” the tech announced proudly. “After lots of bitching by moi. Just got it. It’s really cool.”

  “Have you ever processed for Tillis before?”

  The tech gave Sally an odd look. “Uh, yeah. Definitely an old-fashioned kinda guy.”

  Sally chewed her lower lip for a moment. “Let’s try the laser.”

  “Cool.” The tech made a note on a form.

  “Are the photos digital?” Sally asked.

  “We can do both, but I’m thinking you want digital.”

  “Right,” Sally nodded confidently. “Upload and e-mail them to me at the Orlando office as soon as they’re ready. I’ll have somebody waiting to run the databases.”

  “About that front of the line thing?”

  “Oh yeah. Hold on and I’ll get Tillis on my cell. You need him to talk to your supervisor?”

  “You’re his partner?” The fingerprint tech asked with raised eyebrows.

  “Yeah. What’s the problem?”

  “No problem for me. Don’t worry about the call. We’re cool.”

  CHAPTER 30

  “What’s up, Sally?” Tillis answered his cell with a disappointed tone in his voice.

  “Why so glad to hear from me?”

  “I’m sorry. I was hoping to hear from The Lakes. You know. The rehab place.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, I just wanted to let you know that we may get the prints back from the lab by the end of the day.” Sally offered cheerfully.

  “So soon?” Tillis sounded surprised.

  “Yeah. They’re using a new laser process. Sounds pretty cool.”

  “I hope they don’t fry our evidence.” Tillis responded suspiciously.

  “I don’t think so, Tillis.” Sally was shaking her head as she spoke.

  “Let me know how they look.”

  “Sure. Why do you think somebody will try to contact Marc Mason at The Lakes anyway?” Sally asked.

  “If Dr. Bob’s death was a double-cross, somebody missed a big payday.”

  “And they would try and contact Marc Mason because?”

  “Because a cut dog barks, Sally.”

  “Is that one of those coon hunting metaphors again?’

  “A coon can be a vicious animal when cornered; whoever killed Dr. Bob was vicious as well. Dr. Bob suffered physically, but somebody else is hurting financially.”

  “Gotcha. That somebody is the cut dog.”

  “Bingo,” Tillis replied. “Generations of Southern wisdom has been boiled down to coon hunting metaphors. You could learn a lot by paying attention to some of those sayings. I’m serious. Hold on. Shit. It’s Chuck. Gotta go.”

  “Okay, but just remember. A treed coon only sees its reflection in the light of the full moon.” Sally hit the end button on her cell phone and laughed out loud. “That ought to mess with his head for the rest of the day.”

  Tillis held a confused look on his face as he punched up the Governor.

  “Not you again,” Tillis began the conversation.

  “The Warden called the U.S. Attorney who called the Assistant Director who called Ron who called me. Basic gossip tree.” The Governor offered airily and entirely unperturbed.

  “Huh?”

  “Looks like an old friend of yours is going to visit to the federal detention facility outside Tampa late this afternoon.”

  “An old friend?” Tillis asked.

  “The Mouth.”

  “Jefferson Davis Brown is representing Sam Norden?” Tillis asked the question with a trace of wonderment in his voice.

  “Could be. Thought you’d want to know.” Lord answered with a chuckle.

  Tillis paused for a moment before responding. “I’ve always said that I wouldn’t wish The Mouth on my worst enemy. But I think an exception may be in order in the case of U.S. Attorney Franklin Pierson.”

  Sam sat alone in a cell designed for two. For that he felt lucky. He wore pink scrubs and dangled pink rubber clogs off the end of his toes. The theory was that even tough guys found it more difficult to violently act out when dressed in pink. Sam just felt vulnerable.

  Then a young and burly black guard appeared at his cell door. “Hey. Sweet Thang. You awake?”

  Sam looked up. “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get your ass up.” The guard ordered good-naturedly.

  “Okay.” Sam answered agreeably.

  “And put those shoes on.” The guard barked - his tone becoming sterner.

  “Sorry.” Sam scrambled to put the pink clogs back on his feet.

  The guard looked at Sam with a small dose of compassion. “Listen. I’m supposed to take care of you. You keep those shoes on. Even in the showers. Especially in the showers - they have all those little round holes in them for a reason. Some of the fungal shit goin’ ‘round here will rot your toes off. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now get on over here and put your wrists together. Stick ‘em through the bars.” The guard’s tone was almost affable now.

  Sam did as he was told and the guard applied a pair of flex-cuffs and unlocked the cell door.

  “You goin’ to see your lawyer, Sweet Thang.”

  “My lawyer?” Sam’s asked with a mix of concern and surprise.

  “Didn’t know you had one, huh?”

  “No, sir.”

  The guard smiled. “Well, you sure as hell got you one, Sweet Thang. The fricking Muhammad Ali of god-damned lawyers. Floats like a butterfly. Stings like a bee. You sure got some pull there, Sweet Thang.”

  Sam looked confused. “Is he famous?”

  The guard chuckled. “Yeah. I’d say the Mouth of the South is famous.”

  Sam stopped in his tracks and his jaw dropped. “Jefferson Davis Brown is my lawyer?”

  The guard laughed again. “Looks like it. I watched a thing about him on TV. They say he plays that Warren Zevon song over and over again before each trial. You know the one. ‘Lawyers, guns, and money.’ Good song, but that Warren Zevon was one messed up weird white boy.”

  “Jefferson Davis Brown?” Sam asked again.

  The guard smiled once more. “Come on, Sweet Thang. Let’s go meet your lawyer.”

  Sam was taken to a small room which contained a metal table bolted to the floor and two plastic chairs. The room was painted a soothing sea foam green. The entire front wall was glass in which embedded wire formed a checkerboard pattern. Several other identical rooms with identical furnishings lined both sides of the broad hall, which the glass walls faced. Everything was subject to the harsh glare of the open fluorescent lighting that hung from the ceiling above.

  The guard invited Sam to sit in one of the plastic chairs with an exaggerated arm gesture. As Sam took a seat, he could hear the footsteps of hard-soled shoes. Although Sam didn’t know it, hard-soled shoes meant lawyer to the denizens of a federal detention facility. Soon a new guard appeared with Jefferson Davis Brown in tow. The new guard handed the lawyer off, and then returned to a chair and a magazine at the end of the hall.

  Jefferson Davis Brown had adopted the dress and attire of the 1920s and 1930s early on in his career. He figured that if that cowboy lawyer could wear a fringed leather vest and a ten-gallon cowboy hat to court, then he could do his thing too. And it worked. Even if they didn’t recognize his face, everybody knew when Jefferson Davis Brown was in the building.

  The Mouth ignored Sam as he entered the room, and turned to the guard. While wearing a huge smile, he grasped the guard’s hand with both of his own and began to shake it vigorously.

  “Jefferson Davis Brown. Glad to make your acquaintance; uh, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Reggie.”

  “Right. Reggie. Damn glad to meet you, Reggie.” The Mouth withdrew his hand, but left five crisp and carefully folded $100 bills in the guard’s now closed palm.

  “Likewise,” the guard replied.

  “Reggie, as you may have noticed, my client is a fricking babe in the woods here. I hope to have him
on the street before the end of the week, and I would hate for him to get his cherry popped between now and then.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out, Mr. Brown.” Reggie promised.

  “Thank you, Reggie. Thank you so very much. I’ll look forward to shaking your hand again when I come back for my boy here.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Brown.” The guard smiled broadly, guessing about the number and denomination of the bills clutched in his hand, and then doubling that amount.

  “Oh, Reggie, can you clip those flex-cuffs please. I’m not exactly in fear for my health, welfare and safety here.” Now it was The Mouth’s turn to grin from ear to ear before laughing too loudly.

  The guard chortled and pulled a plastic device off of his belt, cutting the flex-cuffs free from Sam’s wrists. “You buzz when you’re ready, Mr. Brown, and I’ll come back for Sweet Thang here personally.”

  The Mouth gave the guard a good-natured pat on the back. “Thank you, Reggie, I surely do appreciate it.” The guard locked the inmate and the lawyer together in the small room and walked away. The Mouth remained silent with his head cocked to the side, listening to Reggie’s rubber-soled black shoes squeak against the highly waxed squares of linoleum tiles as he made his way down the hallway.

  After a moment Reggie began to whistle and The Mouth turned to Sam. “You stay on the right side of that boy. If you value your ass virginity. You with me, Sam?”

  Sam couldn’t seem to speak, but did produce a nod of the head.

  “Okay, then. How much money do you have? And I don’t mean how much are you worth. I mean how much ready cash do you have and where is it?”

  “Huh?”

  “Look, Sam, you can’t afford me. Okay? So let’s not play any games here. I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you. You may not know it, but it’s true. Now the feds are going to freeze your accounts if they haven’t already, so I’m going to need your cash as soon as possible. Then we’ll talk about liquidating other assets. And, of course, I‘ll have you sign over any book or movie rights. Probably a waste of paper and ink, but you never know.”

  “Who hired you?” Sam asked tentatively.

  “Maybe you if you answer my god-damned questions.” The Mouth snapped.

  “I mean who sent you?”

  “Your fiancée.” The Mouth looked down at his notes. “Sandi Rimes Johnson. She got my friend Bartholomew Citron to talk me into coming down here, but I’m starting to have second thoughts.”

  “She called me her fiancée?”

  “Yeah, yeah. She called you her fiancée.” The Mouth tapped his pen on the metal table. “The money, Sam.”

  For the first time that day, Sam felt like there might be something worth living for. “I’ve have $176,000 in my money market at the Bank of San Luis. I’ve been sending all of my paychecks there.”

  “That’s a start. And it’s out of state. Probably hasn’t been frozen yet. We need to get a power of attorney signed so we can make the transfer.”

  “Sandi already has one. She’s handling my business back there.”

  The Mouth handed Sam his cell phone. “Call her and tell her to make the transfer immediately. It’s two hours earlier there, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Then we’ll talk about your case. And about getting your virgin ass out of here.”

  James ran and walked along the beach. For what seemed like hours. He needed time to think. It was nearly dark when he returned to the condo. Elizabeth was still in the same fitful sleep as when he left her. The paperwork he’d been reviewing when Elizabeth made her angry entrance still lay spread across the dining room table. Stanley Rosen, his divorce attorney, had it couriered to his office the prior afternoon. He began to gather it up. He would sign the final documents at Rosen’s office in the morning.

  Lorna had finally agreed to only two years of alimony. In two years he would have served as a federal magistrate for 30 years, and would qualify for full pension benefits from the Judicial Retirement System. He’d agreed to an Order to Divide Benefit, and Lorna would receive 50% of the pension payout. She also got the house. Everything else was split evenly. James stuffed the paperwork into his briefcase. It wasn’t a great deal, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t care. He was free.

  James had regained control of his personal life. Now he needed to regain control of his emotions. The death of Dr. Bob had been a horrible shock. Bobby was like a son to him. Like the son he never had. He admired him. He admired his genius and the way he had pulled himself up by his own bootstraps. And now he was dead. James felt a sadness and a tiredness deep inside. Nothing would be the same without Bobby.

  Things had gone so horribly wrong. James was baffled. It couldn’t have been Elizabeth. She was emotionally and mentally incapable of any act that she considered to be in his disinterest. And she knew how he felt about Dr. Bob. No, it wasn’t Elizabeth. Elizabeth had been a gift. A gift that had appeared at just the right moment. A gift that had been well used.

  It wasn’t Elizabeth. And if it wasn’t Elizabeth, there was only one other person left. That left Marc. It had to be Marc. James shook his head at his mistake. He didn’t think Marc had it in him. He never would have thought Marc, of all people, could have pulled it off.

  James stepped out on the condo balcony and admired the night ocean. The sun had set and the water was barely sparkling here and there as it reflected the light from a shrouded moon. As he stood there, his mind went to a strange place. He recalled the 1994 Florida race for governor. Particularly, the last debate between candidates Jeb Bush and Walkin’ Lawton Chiles.

  Chiles had been a U. S. Senator for multiple terms. The Democrat had never been conventional. He’d won his first term in the Senate by literally walking across the state, thus earning his moniker and endearing himself to the populace. He’d decided to end his political career as Governor of his beloved state. But he was behind in the polls and the election was upon him.

  Near the end of the debate, Walkin’ Lawton turned to his opponent and spoke in a slow drawl. “The old he-coon walks just before the light of day.” Jeb! - as his campaign signs had renamed him - seemed both confused and bemused. But the conservative voters of rural Florida, who had been trending Republican, understood the classic Cracker line perfectly. And so did James.

  James had grown up in Miami when it was “Miama.” When it was still part of the South. In his only truly prescient political moment, James immediately realized the consequences of the exchange. A come-from-behind victory had been promised and would be delivered. This young heir to the Bush political legacy would wait another four years before moving to Tallahassee.

  Yes, James thought to himself as he studied the dark and foreboding waters spread out before him, the old he-coon was about to walk.

  CHAPTER 31

  It was late afternoon in San Luis. Sandi had returned home from Sante Fe after her meeting with Bartholomew Citron. She now sat at her desk at the real estate office, and stared glumly out the window as an afternoon thundershower moved through the mountain town. She tapped her fingers on her leg, waiting for the hands of the clock to slowly claw their way to 5:00. Then her cell rang and she snatched it off her desk, hoping that it was Sam. The display showed an unknown number.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Sam! Are you okay?”

  “I guess. I’m with Jefferson Davis Brown.”

  “Already?” Sandi asked with surprise and some trepidation.

  “Yeah. He wants you to transfer my money at the bank to his account. All of it.”

  “I can’t believe he’s agreed to represent you! That’s great!” Sandi responded with relief and near delight.

  “Really? I mean I guess you’re right. I’m confused, Sandi.”

  “Sam, listen to me. Everything is going to be all right. Let me talk to Mr. Brown.”

  “Sandi, did you tell him that I was your fiancée?” Sam began to choke up as he questioned her.

  Sandi was taken aback. She hadn’t expected the
question. But she knew that Sam was in a fragile state, and that now was not the time for this discussion. “We’ll talk about it when we get you out of there, Sam. Okay?”

  “Okay. Here he is.” Sam despondently agreed.

  “Ms. Johnson?” The Mouth bellowed.

  “Yes, Mr. Brown. Please call me Sandi. And thank you so much for agreeing to represent Sam.”

  “Well, Sandi, at this point, in light of Mr. Norden’s limited financial resources, all I can really agree to is seeing Mr. Norden through First Appearance.” The Mouth spoke without emotion.

  “First Appearance?”

  “Yes. I’m expecting the hearing will occur on Thursday morning. The government has three days under these circumstances. It will be an opportunity for Mr. Norden to enter a plea. But more importantly, it will be an opportunity to get your fiancée released from this hell hole.”

  “Is it bad?” Sandi asked nervously.

  “I don’t want to alarm you Sandi, but this isn’t a safe place for a man like Sam,” The Mouth warned with knowing authority.

  “I’m scared for him, Mr. Brown.”

  “I know, Sandi. I know. You need to trust me. I’m doing everything I can here.”

  “Do you think you can get him released on Thursday?” Sandi begged.

  “Like I said, Sandi, I’m going to do everything I can. But you need to understand that the federal system is very different from the state systems. Normally bail is not even a consideration in the federal system. The sole issue is risk of flight. And the prosecutor in this case is a bulldog. He will argue that Sam is a flight risk given the amount of money he is alleged to have stolen. That kind of money can buy a safe haven.”

  “Sam didn’t steal anything. He’s not going anywhere.” Sandi retorted in a shrill and insistent tone.

  “I understand, Sandi,” The Mouth answered calmly. “But the United States Attorney for the Middle District of Florida says he did. He will seek to keep him under lock and key. If bail is an option, which as I said is unlikely, we’ll be talking several million.”