by Rod Helmers
Another security guard rushed forward as he brought a radio to his mouth, reporting the events to a supervisor in excited tones. As the same guard fumbled with a never used pair of handcuffs attached to his belt, he spoke with a tone of derisive aggression. “Sir, it’s a felony to bring a firearm into a federal courthouse. You committed a felony when you walked thru those doors.”
As Rodger Rimes looked oddly at the young guard, Tillis knew the situation was about to go from bad to worse. He flipped open his FDLE Special Agent identification, and shoved it in front of the face of the adrenalin over-dosed security guard. “I’m Special Agent Tillis. I’m escorting Mr. Rimes to the chambers of Judge Turnbull.”
“What’s your problem, man?” The guard spat the words at Tillis, and then began to twist the valves closed on his glandular spigots. “What about the firearm?”
“Forgot my second cup of coffee this morning. My bad. I’ll need the firearm delivered to Judge Turnbull’s chambers. Potential evidence in a pending matter.”
“This is bullshit, man. Follow protocol or I’ll have your ass in a sling.”
Tillis smiled. “Like I said. My bad. Follow me, Mr. Rimes.” As the two began to walk toward the elevators, Tillis turned to the young woman and small boy and motioned them along.
When they were behind the closed doors of the elevator, Tillis turned to Rodger Rimes and spoke to him like an old friend. “Semper fi.”
Rodger appeared both relieved and discomforted. “Semper fi,” he mumbled as Sandi and Dustin looked on with questioning faces.
The judicial assistant assigned to Judge Marshall Turnbull ushered Tillis and Rodger Rimes into his private chambers. Sandi and Dustin remained in the outer office. The Colt Peacemaker lay prominently on the desk in front of Turnbull. The old man bore an exasperated expression on his face as he drummed his fingers on a leather blotter.
“Is this son of a bitch loaded?” Turnbull growled as the two men entered.
“Yes, sir. Five beans in the wheel,” Rodger replied calmly, as he referred to the traditional manner of carrying the single action six shooter - the cylinder under the hammer being left empty.
Turnbull shook his head and turned to Tillis. “Okay, Tillis. I’ve played along. God only knows why. But you better have a damn good explanation for all of this. I have a highly annoyed head of security raising all sorts of hell.”
“Judge, may I introduce Corporal Rodger Rimes. San Luis, New Mexico.”
Turnbull had a blank look on his face as he turned to Rodger. “You were in the Corp?”
“Yes, sir. It’s been a long time.” Rodger replied.
Turnbull looked back at Tillis questioningly.
“Rodger Rimes. San Luis, New Mexico. Korea. 1951.” Tillis prompted.
Finally a look of recognition came across the face of the aging jurist. “Well I’ll be god-damned.” Then Turnbull turned back to Tillis. “You two know each other?”
Tillis shook his head. “I just happened to be in line behind him this morning.”
“How’d you know? I mean you’re too damn young.” Turnbull continued to hold a confused expression on his face as he queried Tillis.
“T-Bone was there. In D.C. With the Florida Cattlemen’s Association. They were supposed to meet with Truman for a handshake and a photo, but he ran short of time. So Truman invited the entire group to attend the ceremony.”
“And T-Bone told you about it?”
“Many times. I think he thought it was the only time he truly witnessed history in the making.”
Turnbull now turned to Rodger with a stern expression on his face. “You know, Rimes, for a long time I thought you were a god-damned traitor. To this country. To the Corp. And to the President. In that order. And it’s a good god-damn thing you and I didn’t lock horns fifty years ago, soldier.”
“It was never my intent to show any disrespect, sir. To my country, to the Corp, or to the President. In fact, my intention was exactly the opposite.” Rodger explained.
“Hell, I know that now. I’ve changed my mind about a lot of things over the past fifty years, Rimes.” Turnbull seemed to relax, and pushed his chair back and put his feet up on his desk.
The jurist continued. “Back then I thought Truman was a god-damn idiot. I thought containment was some cockamamie idea he pulled out of his ass. Another example of the soft on communism policy he’d embraced because of his cowardice. And I thought Macarthur walked on water. I knew we’d have to fight WWIII sooner or later, and better to get to it while we held the nuclear advantage.”
The three men sat in silence, Tillis and Rodger sensing that Turnbull was on his own personal trip thru time. Finally he returned. “Obviously, I had a couple of things wrong.”
“Yes, sir.” Rodger replied.
Turnbull glared at Rodger. “What the hell are you doing here, Rimes?”
“I’m here for the bail hearing,” Rodger replied.
“I think you went to the wrong courthouse, Rimes. Hillsborough County Courthouse is four blocks east.” Judge Turnbull responded.
Rodger shook his head. “It’s a federal case. Sam Norden is the defendant. He’s a businessman in San Luis. And he’s engaged to my daughter. She’s right out there. With my grandson.” Rodger nodded at the door. “I brought a check.”
Turnbull turned to Tillis with a questioning look in his eye. “Sam Norden is the defendant in the American Senior Security case.” Tillis offered.
“I know that,” Turnbull scowled. “I’ve read the affidavit of the FBI agent in support of the arrest warrant.”
Tillis squirmed in his chair.
“Why the hell wasn’t this case presented to a grand jury for indictment anyway?” Turnbull seemed to ask the walls.
Tillis looked at Turnbull with an uncomfortable expression on his face. Turnbull waved his hand in response. “I know. I know. No ex parte discussions regarding the merits.”
Turnbull directed his attention back to Rodger. “Okay, Rimes. What’s the deal with the gun? In a federal courthouse for Christ’s sakes.”
“I’ve read about all the crime down here. That gun’s gotten me out of a lot of tight spots.” Rodger stated as he looked Turnbull square in the eye.
Turnbull picked up the old revolver and carefully turned it over in his hands. “I expect this firearm saved a lot of boys’ lives then, didn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. And took a lot of boys’ lives. Too many I expect.” Rodger countered.
Suddenly Turnbull sat up in his chair and his face seemed to redden. “See, Rimes, that’s the problem right there. You didn’t think so much on the battlefield, because you knew if you did it would get you and your buddies killed. And that was right. Goddamnit, that was lack of thought by necessity. But then you went and thought too damn much after the fact. And that will drive you crazy. Maybe it did. You should be proud of your valor. And not think so damn much.”
The two men studied each other, but neither said anything. Finally Tillis spoke up. “He did try and leave the gun with the first available uniform, Judge.”
Turnbull tapped his fingers on the leather blotter as he studied Rodger’s blank expression. Then stood up and left the room without explanation. In a few moments he returned with his bailiff in tow. “Dave, you remember Tillis, don’t you?”
‘Yes sir,” the bailiff replied as he nodded in Tillis’ direction.
“Dave, I’d like to introduce you to Rodger Rimes. An honest to god American hero and citizen soldier. They don’t make ‘em like him anymore. And I’d like to introduce you to the Colt Peacemaker.”
Turnbull again picked the gun up and studied it admiringly. Almost caressing the cold steel with his eyes. “They don’t make them like this anymore either. Mr. Rimes will be attending our hearing this morning. I’d like you to take very good care of this firearm. And return it to Mr. Rimes when he leaves the courthouse.”
He knew the doorman’s schedule well, and had entered without being noticed. He’d left the lights off. He didn
’t want to attract attention. Now the four walls of his penthouse condo were closing in, and he had nowhere else to go. Marc Mason was trapped. A skulking animal in a cage.
The events of the last few hours had been overwhelming. His father’s revelations had caused him to question everything that he thought he knew. His self-image had crumbled under the weight of those revelations.
But some things hadn’t changed. He’d been thinking about the Guatemalan girl again, and craving some real stress relief. Eventually he’d accepted a fate of something less, and grudgingly retrieved a box of hard-core porn gathering dust on the top shelf of his closet. Almost immediately he remembered that he’d thrown out his VCR - the tapes were now relics of an outdated technology.
Marc’s sexual hunger was unabated, but his anger soon pushed aside even that well-nurtured obsession. His newfound heritage had been stolen before he could claim it as his own. He thought he knew who was responsible, and his deduction required an admission. An admission that he’d misjudged and miscalculated. That he’d been wrong. Even that he’d been outsmarted.
It was an admission that ignited a volatile anger. A rage that was feeding on itself and combining with a seething resentment toward the one who’d outwitted him. As this fog of anger clouded his thoughts, he lurched to an ill-fated conclusion. A conclusion grounded in the new regard he had for family.
He’d heard many stories about his great-grandfather. He was a man of action, and Marc was like his ancestor. Now he needed to avenge the wrong that had been done. To him. To his family. And to his heritage. Now it was up to Marc Mason to make things right. It was up to him to act.
CHAPTER 40
Sam was facing in excess of 25 years in a federal penitentiary. As a defendant charged with such a serious crime, he was entitled to appear in person. For lesser crimes, the defendant never left the detention facility; First Appearance was by video. Jefferson Davis Brown always preferred good theater to bad, and he was pleased that Sam would be at his side.
Still there was no jury whose subconscious might be affected, so Sam was not allowed to wear a suit and tie. He was delivered to the courtroom in his detention facility attire. The Mouth did, however, threaten litigation alleging a series of Constitutional transgressions. Consequently, he arrived without restraints.
As he entered the courtroom, Sam immediately locked eyes with Sandi. He was stoic, but she nearly lost control before he’d even taken his seat next to the dapper and confident Brown. Sam had a pasty grey complexion; he seemed to have aged years since she’d last seen him. Rodger Rimes firmly grasped her forearm, and she barely regained her emotional balance.
Rodger looked down at Dustin. Expecting a similar reaction. But he was wrong. Dustin’s attention was not fixed on his surrogate father. His steely gaze was directed toward the other side of the regal courtroom. He was staring at the man scribbling on a yellow legal pad. At the man sitting alone at the long walnut table across the aisle from where Sam was being seated next to The Mouth. If looks could kill, the body of U S. Attorney Franklin Pierson would have already been cold.
The large courtroom was filled to capacity and alive with energy. The spectator gallery contained a large contingent of press, as well as several attorneys and other members of the legal community. Somehow this group had found time in their busy and over-committed schedules to observe the almost certain drama that followed the celebrity attorney in their midst. And then there were the odds and ends of society. They’d also come to see Jefferson Davis Brown. To see The Mouth in action.
“All rise. The Honorable Marshall Turnbull presiding.” The bailiff called out with deep-voiced authority, drowning out the background hum of the courtroom.
The U.S. Attorney had yet to develop a poker face, and a look of surprise and regret flashed across his smooth-skinned features. He’d expected a magistrate judge to preside. Someone cowed by his God-given authority, even if unimpressed by his youthful experience. Judge Marshall Turnbull would have been his last choice for this matter.
Jefferson Davis Brown, on the other hand, flashed the Judge a brilliantly huge grin. An email had appeared on his BlackBerry moments earlier detailing the background, demeanor, and predilections of Judge Marshall Turnbull; he was exactly what The Mouth would have ordered if he’d been so indulged. After reading the e-mail, The Mouth turned to the side and out of the corner of his eye discreetly found Tillis sitting in the audience. Then nodded ever so slightly in appreciation.
“We are here in the matter of The United States of America versus Samuel Norden. Counsel, please identify yourselves for the record.” Judge Turnbull growled.
“Franklin Roosevelt Pierson for the United States of America, Your Honor.”
“Jefferson Davis Brown for the Innocent, Judge.”
The Mouth’s introduction drew a glare from Turnbull. “We are here for First Appearance. There is no indictment.” Turnbull now glared at Pierson. Then turned his attention back to The Mouth. “Does the Defendant waive reading of the warrant and affidavit?”
The question was a matter of routine. Nobody had the nerve to waste the Court’s time with a reading of the arrest warrant and supporting affidavits. Nobody except The Mouth. “No, Judge, Mr. Norden does not. Mr. Norden chooses to exercise his right to have the warrant and especially the affidavit of the investigating FBI agent read in open court.”
Judge Turnbull studied The Mouth with a penetrating glare. “To what purpose, Mr. Jefferson?”
“Mr. Norden would like to initiate these proceedings with a bit of levity, Judge.”
The audience began to snicker, and Franklin Pierson’s face turned red. Judge Turnbull slammed his gavel down hard. “That’s your first warning, Mr. Jefferson. Three strikes and you’ll be provided free room and board. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal, Judge.” The Mouth replied without great concern. “And given the Court’s displeasure, Mr. Norden is willing to skip the reading of the warrant. But he stands on his Constitutional and statutory rights to have that ridiculous affidavit read out loud in front of God and everybody else.”
Normally Turnbull would have called strike two, but he tended to agree with The Mouth regarding the sufficiency of the affidavit. An affidavit that supposedly established probable cause to charge and arrest Sam Norden, but in actuality was an amalgam of overblown conjecture and supposition held together by legalese.
After a new round of snickering melted away, Turnbull sighed and then spoke again. “Very well, Counsel. Madam Clerk, please read the affidavit in support of the warrant.”
“How do you plead, Mr. Norden?” Turnbull asked Sam evenly.
The Mouth nudged Sam in the side and he rose uncertainly. “I’m innocent, Your Honor,” Sam said pitifully while looking Turnbull in the eye.
Sam had performed exactly as he’d been tutored the day before. Judge Turnbull looked expectantly at The Mouth, who rose and shook his head sadly. “Mr. Norden pleads not guilty, Judge.”
“A plea of not guilty is entered for the record. Are there any other matters to be brought before the Court?”
The Mouth had remained standing. “The matter of pretrial release, Judge.”
Franklin Pierson sprang out of his seat. “The United states of America adamantly opposes pretrial release. The defendant is charged with secreting $150 million in offshore accounts. The risk of flight is overwhelming.”
The Mouth shook his head. “Judge, Mr. Norden doesn’t even have a passport. He’s never been out of the country, for god’s sakes. Confine him to his apartment. Put a GPS transmitter around his ankle. But this man doesn’t belong in a federal detention facility. He was nearly raped by three violent inmates two nights ago. This farce must end. Before it’s too late.”
Franklin Pierson began to speak, but Judge Turnbull motioned both counsel to take their seats. “That’s enough, Mr. Pierson. You too, Mr. Brown.”
Judge Turnbull took a moment to collect his thoughts, and the courtroom became quiet. Turnbull knew that he co
uldn’t release Sam pending trial. Not given the nature of the crime with which he’d been charged. But he was thinking about Rodger Rimes. A man of obviously modest means who’d driven clear across the country. To what he’d thought was a bail hearing. The man had even brought his checkbook. He decided to throw the old soldier a bone. A bone he knew the old man couldn’t digest. He caught the eye of Rodger Rimes and began to speak.
“There is much about this case that troubles me. But we’ll get to that in a moment. First I will deal with the matter of pretrial release. I was a state court judge for nearly a decade before I was elevated to the federal bench. There is much about the state system that commends itself to those of us on the federal bench. While the ubiquitous use of bail in the state system is often unnecessary and an anachronism, there are certain occasions when it is appropriate. This is one of those occasions.”
Franklin Pierson popped up from his chair. “Your Honor!”
Turnbull slammed his gavel down hard. “Strike one, Mr. Pierson. Never interrupt me when I’m speaking. Keep in mind that my offer of free room and board applies to you as well as to defense counsel.”
Pierson looked like a spoiled child unaccustomed to being chastened as he retook his seat. The Mouth was stunned by Turnbull’s comments. He’d decided to forgo an argument for bail as a precondition to release, thinking it was a lost cause. Now Judge Turnbull was granting bail without being asked. But in his next breath, Turnbull would effectively take back everything he’d promised only a few seconds earlier.
“The Court grants bail as a precondition of release pending trial in the amount of $150 million dollars.” Turnbull turned toward Franklin Pierson. “This is the amount the government contends the defendant wired offshore. Correct, Mr. Pierson?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” The relief was evident on Pierson’s face and in the tone of his voice.
“A ten percent cash payment will be accepted in lieu of bond. Any objections?”
Franklin Pierson decided to keep his mouth shut. The Mouth regretted that the issue had even come up. Fifteen million or $150 million. What did it matter?
