Shake the Trees

by Rod Helmers

  Turnbull looked over the top of his reading glasses at Jefferson Davis Brown, and offered a stern admonition. “Five minutes, Mr. Brown.”

  The Mouth of the South stood and smiled pleasingly at the Fox News and CNN cameras that stood at the rear of the courtroom. Sentinels on either side of massive double wooden doors that had been locked when the proceedings resumed. Then he strolled into the well - the open space between counsel tables and the bench.

  “I grew up in a tiny little town in South Georgia. Mama and Daddy raised seven children in a two-bedroom shotgun shack with five picnic tables in the front yard. We made a living sellin’ barbeque lunches and Brunswick stew to the white folks.

  “I say we because that’s the way it was. My two brothers and I slept on the screened-in back porch most nights. The pit where we buried the pig was right there in the backyard. Every morning at the crack of dawn, my daddy would pull the palm fronds off the pit and take a deep breath.

  “You see, he could tell by the smell. By that wonderful smell. If the meat was still moist and juicy, but ready to fall apart in your hands. Ready to fall apart at the slightest touch. And if it was ready, my daddy would yell at us boys. And our work would begin.”

  An anticipatory rustling and whispering among the spectators signaled that this particular story was not unknown to the most seasoned of the group. And Judge Turnbull had become impatient for a different reason.

  “Counsel, be forewarned that you’ve made the Court hungry. And when the Court gets hungry, it also tends to get cranky. Inasmuch as the lunch hour is nearly upon us, I suggest that you get on with it.”

  The Mouth grinned. “Surely, Judge.” Then he looked over at Pierson and grinned again. “This morning as I listened to Special Agent Tillis testify, I couldn’t help but think about that pig. This case reminded me of that pig. Of the way it looked so perfect. But fell apart in your hands. Fell apart at the slightest touch. And I thought about my daddy, and what he used to say after he pulled those palm fronds off the pit and took a big deep breath. About what he’d say if everything was right. How he would yell at us boys. In that big sweet voice of his.”

  And then The Mouth slowly turned to face the cameras and pointed his big brown finger at Franklin Roosevelt Pierson. And spoke in a deep and booming voice. “That pig is done.”

  Suddenly the courtroom erupted. Most laughed. Some slapped their thighs, while others stamped their feet. A few let out a rebel yell.

  Turnbull pounded his gavel with all the force he could muster, demanding order and quiet at the top of his voice. All without the least bit of effect. Finally, he pulled the microphone up close to his increasingly red face and yelled. “The arrest warrant is dismissed without prejudice. Mr. Norden, you are free to go. Court adjourned.” Then slammed the gavel one final time before he tossed it aside and left the bench.

  The Mouth remembered the 17.5 million dollar check. He turned to Sam, and explained that the charges had been dismissed. But without prejudice. Not without prejudice to Sam. There was plenty of prejudice for Sam. The charges had been dismissed without prejudice to the government. Without prejudice to the underlying charges.

  The Mouth explained that suspects were often rearrested on the courthouse steps. The same charges could be refiled based on new or additional evidence. Or slightly different charges could be filed. Or a grand jury could indict. Which was how the case should have proceeded from the very beginning. A battle had been won - not necessarily the war. Winning a war required work and preparation. And wars were expensive.

  Sam ignored the warning. He’d heard Tillis testify. He wasn’t going back to the detention center. It was a good day. The first one he’d had in a while.

  Tillis continued to sit in the witness box. His expression running the gamut from amusement to disgust to satisfaction. The Mouth had been rushed by adoring hangers-on, and he was obviously enjoying himself immensely. Sam, Sandi, Dustin and Rodger had come together in a huddle. Sam and Sandi were sobbing. Rodger and Dustin were smiling, but dry-eyed. Soon they began to make their way toward the door. The camera crews had already rushed out to Federal Plaza to set up for the post-game interviews and analysis.

  “You blind-sided me, you son of a bitch.” The words tumbled out of Franklin Pierson’s mouth with a venomous sting.

  Tillis turned to look the young lawyer in the eye. “Look. You put self-promotion ahead of the careful and deliberate pursuit of justice. And it bit you in the ass. Take it as a life lesson learned and move on.”

  “Like hell I will. You lying bastard.”

  “No, Franklin. What I e-mailed you was accurate. That the FDLE had decrypted the computer program that transferred the stolen funds offshore. That was and is true. Anything else you inferred. Because you wanted it to be true.”

  “I’ll have your job, Tillis.”

  Tillis chuckled. “Let’s see. You serve at the pleasure of the President. And I serve at the pleasure of? Wait a minute. I almost have it. Oh, that’s right. I serve at the pleasure of me. Kiss my ass, Franklin.”

  “You better watch your step, Tillis. Because I’ll be watching your every move.”

  “Listen, Franklin. The President’s brother and the Governor are coming up to my place in Thomasville to shoot birds in a few weeks. I’m sure your name will come up. And it doesn’t seem right. You not being there to defend yourself. So why don’t you join us. I’m almost positive it will be a day you’ll remember.”

  “Go to hell, Tillis.”

  Pierson stormed past Sally as she made her way thru the milling crowd to the witness box. “I hope you didn’t take any shortcuts on your federal income tax return last year. Because I have a feeling someone’s going thru it line by line as we speak.”

  Tillis waived his hand dismissively. “Wrong man for the job, Sally. To him it’s just a stepping stone.”

  Sally nodded at the entourage surrounding The Mouth. “I guess all that pig talk explains his feelings about barbeque.”

  “Huh?”

  “You remember. Our little dinner party. The Mouth has a problem with barbeque.”

  Tillis stood and smiled. “What do you say we get out of here?”

  Sam walked out of the courthouse and onto the granite steps of Federal Plaza. His left arm encircled Sandi’s midsection, and the other was draped across Dustin’s narrow shoulders. Somehow they’d become separated from Rodger.

  Sandi stopped and looked back toward the building. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to find Dad.” Then she squeezed Sam’s hand and moved away. Sam leaned his head back and looked up at the clear blue sky. He had just closed his eyes to let the sun warm his face as a .38 caliber slug ripped thru the muscle, sinew, and blood vessels of his left shoulder.

  The back of his head hit the granite step hard as he went down, and it took a moment for his vision to clear. The first thing he saw as he looked up was Dustin’s shocked face. And then the pistol that was held to the temple of the young boy’s head.

  “Where’s my money, Norden? Tell me now or I’ll blow the kid’s brains out.”

  Sam immediately noticed his eyes. They weren’t the same. They weren’t the confident even cocky eyes he’d known. The eyes told the story. These eyes weren’t the eyes of a rational being. Sam tried to shake the cobwebs from his brain. He knew he’d need to have his senses about him if Dustin was to survive.

  “I don’t have the money. I didn’t take it. Please. You have to believe me. I had nothing to do with it.” Sam pleaded.

  The gun was briefly lowered as Sam held the stare of those unnerving bloodshot eyes.

  Tillis heard the crack as he and Sally were still down the hallway from the front entrance. He thought it was the retort of a .38. Possibly a nine mil. But probably a .38. Tillis brought his cell to his head as he began to run toward the front entrance.

  “This is FDLE Special Agent Tillis. Shots fired on Federal Plaza. Fire rescue and backup. Now.”

  As Tillis burst thru a set of double glass doors with weapon
drawn, he heard a deep-throated bark echo across Federal Plaza. He knew what that meant.

  Then in the strange way that the mind works, he was eleven years old. On the Tillis ranch. He and T-Bone had been riding and fixing fence all afternoon. They were hot, sweaty, and tired. T-Bone told Tillis to run get the watermelon he’d put on ice that morning. Tillis galloped up the steps of the front porch two at a time, grabbed the melon from the cooler, and began to descend the stairs as he’d climbed them. But his gangly legs and feet became ensnared with each other, and his body gradually tipped forward and the watermelon took flight. As Tillis fell in slow motion, he’d watched the watermelon arc thru the air on its inevitable path to the concrete sidewalk below.

  And in a millisecond, Tillis was back in the present. Watching Sam lying in an ever-expanding pool of blood. Watching Rodger Rimes across Federal Plaza with feet firmly planted and arm fully extended. Watching a small tuft of smoke curl away from the barrel of the Colt Peacemaker he held in his work-worn hands. And watching bits and pieces of Marc Mason’s brain and skull shower across Dustin and the granite steps beyond.

  James Mason had been unable to concentrate on his work, and had the tiny television on his desk tuned to CNN. He’d watched the unexpected dismissal of the arrest warrant for Sam Norden, and the pandemonium surrounding his resulting release. And he’d watched the whole horrible scene on Federal Plaza unfold live and unedited. He immediately realized that he’d made a horrible miscalculation. That he’d given Marc far too much credit. He reached for the disposable cell phone, and hoped that he wasn’t too late.

  “Hello?” Elizabeth answered through her tears.

  James bowed his head in relief and took a deep breath before he spoke. “It’s me again, Elizabeth.”

  “I was just trying to compose myself. So I could call you, James. To tell you that I love you. That I’ll always love you. To apologize. And to say goodbye. One last time.”

  “Elizabeth, you need to help me make things right.” James paused, searching for the right words. “Before you go.”

  “What do you want me to do, James?” Elizabeth asked with resignation and sincerity.

  “You need to tell me, Elizabeth. You need to tell me what happened to the money.”

  “What?” Elizabeth stuttered plaintively.

  “You need to tell me what happened to the money. So I can try and make things right. After you’re gone.”

  There was a very long pause. Finally James spoke again. “Elizabeth, are you there?”

  “Read the note.”

  “What?” James asked with confusion in his voice.

  “You heard me.” And the connection went dead.

  James looked at the cell phone oddly. He thought those final words didn’t sound like Elizabeth. The voice was deeper and huskier. But she’d been crying. And she was upset. So he pushed the thought from his mind.

  CHAPTER 43

  Tillis watched Sandi run to Dustin and take him into her arms. Rodger laid the Colt Peacemaker on the granite and quickly made his way to Sam in a few large strides. As Rodger gently lifted Sam’s shoulder and plumbed the wound with his fingers, Tillis recovered the discarded firearm. After apparently having found what he was probing for, Rodger leaned forward and applied pressure. Sam moaned in pain.

  “Medic,” Rodger yelled in an old man’s voice. Then looked over his shoulder at Tillis. Tillis nodded at the EMT truck that had just pulled over the curb and onto the plaza. After he tucked the Peacemaker into his belt, Tillis held his FDLE badge and identification over his head and waved the emergency personnel over. Indicating that it was safe to approach.

  Rodger looked up at the two young men as he continued to lean over Sam’s left shoulder. “Thru and thru, but he has a bleeder.” One man nodded as the other gently nudged Rodger aside and took control of the situation. Very quickly the wound was packed, an IV started, and Sam was transported. Fortunately, Tampa General Hospital, a major trauma center, was only a few blocks away.

  Rodger stood aside awkwardly, unsure of what to do next. Tillis placed a hand on Rodger’s shoulder and looked into his eyes. Wondering if he was in shock. Or about to experience some type of cardiac event.

  “Are you okay, sir?” Tillis asked with concern in his voice.

  Rodger’s chest heaved twice, and then he seemed to regain control of his emotions. He studied Tillis for a moment. “Damn it, Tillis. I’m nearly eighty years old. I thought the killing was over.”

  “I know, sir. But you did what you had to do.”

  Rodger’s chest heaved again, and the two sat down next to each other on a granite step. Rodger reined in his emotions once more. They sat in silence and watched Sandi clean blood and tissue from Dustin with a handkerchief someone had given her. Finally, Tillis nodded down at the Peacemaker.

  “You know I’m going to have to keep this for a while. Just until the investigation is over. But don’t worry about that. It’s routine. Florida has a ‘stand your ground’ law. We’re not like some of those Yankee states.”

  Rodger shrugged. Indicating that the state of the law was irrelevant to his decision to act. “I don’t want it back. You can have it. I appreciate what you did in there today. For Sam. And for me earlier.”

  “I can’t accept this, sir. I know what it means to you.”

  Rodger was now back to his old self and he stood. “Yes, you can. I insist. Now I need to go talk to my grandson.”

  Dustin was relieved to see his grandfather. He’d calmed down, but still didn’t understand that Rodger had shot the dead man. Rodger soberly explained exactly what had happened. He explained that Sam had a flesh wound - that he would be okay. Sandi realized that she was superfluous to the discussion, and walked over to Tillis.

  “Is Sam really going to be alright?”

  Tillis nodded and assured Sandi with his calm tone and demeanor. “Sam suffered a flesh wound, and we’re only three minutes from Tampa General. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  “Tell me about my father,” Sandi demanded.

  “What do you know?” Tillis replied hesitantly.

  Sandi nodded at Rodger. “That he’s a good father. A good friend. A good rancher. And that he served in Korea. That’s about it.”

  “I don’t know if it’s my place.”

  “Look, I don’t know how much longer I’m going to have him. I’d like to know who he is. While he’s still here.”

  Tillis studied his hands. Then shrugged as Sally quietly joined them. “I’ll be right back.”

  Tillis approached several converging law enforcement officers from multiple agencies and took control of the crime scene. Everyone was told to back off from Rodger and Dustin. Then Tillis returned to Sandi and Sally, and they took a seat on the granite steps.

  “Your father did much more than serve, Sandi. He was the de facto leader of a small group of Marines that repeatedly pulled a lot of regular guys’ fat out of the fire. A precursor to some of the special ops groups that exist today. It sounds corny today, but remember, it was 1950. Or 1951. They called themselves Rimes’ Raiders. It was said that they came into a fight breathing hell’s own fire. They saved a lot of lives.”

  “And took a lot?” Sandi asked reluctantly.

  Tillis nodded. “And took a lot.”

  “How do you know about him?’

  Tillis smiled. “That’s a whole other story.” He looked over at Rodger and Dustin in deep conversation and continued.

  “On a beautiful April day in 1951 my Dad visited D.C. with the Florida Cattlemen’s Association. The plan was to shake Harry Truman’s hand in the Oval Office, and return home with the photographic evidence. But the President’s schedule was backed up, and the consolation prize was an invitation to attend a ceremony in the Rose Garden. It was a military ceremony in which commendations and medals were to be awarded to several servicemen. As the highlight of the ceremony, the President was to bestow The Medal of Honor upon a young Marine from San Luis, New Mexico. That Marine was your father.

>   “Everything went as planned until that final moment as the ribbon was about to be placed around his neck. Then your father gently took the President’s hands and pushed the Medal of Honor away. He looked the President in the eye and told him that his actions were not rooted in honor, but sprang from hate and a thirst for revenge. And that he could not accept his nation’s highest military award. The President shook your father’s hand, and thanked him for his service.”

  Sandi looked at Tillis big-eyed. “What happened?’

  “To your father, nothing. The military brass was obviously pissed off, but Truman made it clear that there would be no repercussions whatsoever. But that’s hardly the end of the story.”

  “What do you mean?” Sandi asked hesitantly.

  “Well, it may be more than you want to know. And it involves a little history lesson.”

  “Please,” Sandi immediately replied.

  “At the time, Truman was promoting the concept of containment as an alternative to full-scale military confrontation with the communist bloc. It wasn’t a very popular idea in 1951. The military establishment and the hawkish politicians of the day accused him of being soft on communism. The Republicans always had better PR people, and the whole approach was eventually called the Cold War. That went over a lot better. But at the time, containment was a tough sell.

  “General Macarthur had won WWII in the Pacific. And he’d just finished up as emperor in fact, if not in name, of occupied Japan. Now he was running the war in Korea, and he was pushing back hard. Writing letters to politicians. Trash talking his Commander-in-Chief in the press. But he was a very popular figure in post-war America. Truman was tolerating insubordination because of the political cost of confronting one of his own generals.

  “Macarthur had even developed a plan to drop ten nukes to create a corridor between Korea and China. A permanently radioactive no man’s land. Divide and conquer. He felt that war with China was inevitable, and that we needed to fight WWIII while we still had a clear nuclear advantage. He thought containment was lunacy. Of course, we later found out that the Soviet Union was much farther along with the development of its own nuclear arsenal than we’d ever suspected. And that WWIII would have inevitably drawn that nation into a full-blown nuclear exchange. But war is hell, right?