Justice Lost (Darren Street Book 3)

by Scott Pratt

  “Janie Schofield is terrified. She’s making absolutely no progress. Grandfather wants you to get involved.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What do I need to do?”

  “Meet with the US attorney.”

  Stephen Blackburn had been the US attorney for the Eastern District of Tennessee when the feds put me in jail. But Blackburn was gone. There had been a presidential election, and the new president, as was his right, had fired all the US attorneys. Blackburn had been replaced with a man named Thomas Henshaw. I knew nothing about him other than he was well connected, like all US attorneys, and he had a reputation for enjoying old Scotch and expensive cigars. Henshaw was to the feds what I would be to Knoxville, only he had a hell of a lot more on his plate. He oversaw the office that prosecuted all the criminal cases in federal court in forty-one counties in Eastern and part of Middle Tennessee. He also had many other duties. I didn’t envy the man at all.

  “When are we supposed to meet him?”

  “Tomorrow at two, his office.”

  “So you’ve already made the appointment. You coming?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  CHAPTER 21

  I could tell US Attorney Thomas Henshaw was unhappy that I was in his office. He was unhappy that the granddaughter of the chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee was in his office, and he was unhappy that a deputy director from the FBI office in Washington and a deputy director from the Department of Justice had gotten him on a conference call and basically ordered him to meet with us and devise a plan to end the corruption that was going on in Knox County, and to find out what happened to Gary Brewer in the process.

  Henshaw was a husky man, around sixty, with silver hair, brown eyes, and bushy, dark eyebrows. He had the jowls of a bulldog. An unlit cigar dangled from his lips, and deep lines etched his forehead. He was scowling. His eyebrows were arched and his thin lips were tight, almost pouty.

  The office was typical of a US attorney—a framed photograph of the president hung on the wall behind his desk, American and Tennessee flags stood in the corners, there were shelves of law books, photos of dignitaries, and a large seal of the Department of Justice with its Qui Pro Domina Justitia Sequitur motto, which means “who prosecutes on behalf of the Lady Justice” on the front of Henshaw’s desk. I looked at the seal for a few minutes, studying it. It depicted a bald eagle rising above a shield of red, white, and blue and holding an olive branch in its right talon and thirteen arrows in its left. I supposed the significance of the olive branch and the arrows had something to do with tempering justice with mercy.

  Also in attendance was Bradley Kurtz, Special Agent in Charge of the FBI office in Knoxville. All the agents who were there when I was framed and convicted of murder had been reassigned to other parts of the country. Kurtz was around forty-five, tall and lean, and looked like his face should be on a recruiting poster for the Gestapo. He had crystal-blue eyes, blond hair, and a face that was all sharp angles and thin lines.

  “Thank you for meeting with us,” Claire said after everyone settled in and it became obvious that Henshaw wasn’t going to say a word.

  “I didn’t vote for your father, Ms. Tate,” Henshaw said. “I hold this office by appointment of the president, but I’ve been told that you need our assistance and that I am to be at your service. I’m not accustomed to being at anyone’s service.”

  “We don’t want you to be at our service,” Claire said. “You serve the people of the Eastern District of Tennessee, correct?”

  Henshaw snorted.

  “They need your service because their public officials are allowing criminals to ply their trade unmolested, with one very important exception: the public officials extort money from the criminals in exchange for allowing them to operate.”

  “So?” Henshaw said. “Did you see what the United States Supreme Court did last summer, Ms. Tate? You live in Washington, right? I’m sure you read the Bob McDonnell case. The governor of the great state of Virginia took a hundred and seventy-five thousand in bribes from one man, was convicted by a jury, and the Supreme Court reversed the case. They said the trial judge’s interpretation of a ‘political act’ was too broad. In my opinion, what they did was give elected officials the right to do whatever they want and charge whatever they want to do it.”

  “This case is far different,” Claire said. “And I think you know it.”

  “I don’t know a thing about your case. We live in a dangerous world right now,” Henshaw said. “Mr. Kurtz here concerns himself with things like terrorism and making sure some crazy person with a gun doesn’t go into a school and shoot a bunch of kids. He deals with all kinds of human trafficking, people selling babies, people selling young girls for sex. He deals with cybercrime, which is probably the fastest-growing area of crime in the world right now. He deals, on occasion, with large amounts of narcotics. And he does this in not one, but forty-one counties. I help and advise him. I prosecute the cases he and his agents bring. We’re all very, very busy. And now you’re asking us to . . . What exactly do you want us to do?”

  “Build a case against the sheriff of Knox County, the district attorney general of Knox County, and their associates. Prosecute them and put them in prison.”

  “For what?”

  “Official misconduct. They’re extorting money from criminals. Are you deaf?”

  “I hear quite well, Ms. Tate, and you can keep the sarcasm to yourself. How much are we talking about?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but they’re getting a piece of the proceeds from illegal gambling on cockfights, dogfights, bare-knuckle boxing, and unlicensed casinos. They also get a cut of all the prostitution that goes on in the county and almost all the drugs that are sold in the county. My understanding is that it started when a former employee of this office, Ben Clancy, was the district attorney, so it’s been going on for quite some time. I’m sure we’re talking about millions of dollars.”

  Henshaw looked over at me like I was an insect. “Forgive me,” he said to Claire, “but why is this man here?”

  “Because he’s going to be the next district attorney, and he wants to help.”

  “You’re sure he’s going to win the election?”

  “Are you a gambling man, Mr. Henshaw?”

  “Just tell me what you have in mind.”

  “Mr. Street has already been approached by the sheriff. He was just feeling Mr. Street out, trying to discern whether he would allow things to continue as they are if he were to be elected.”

  “And what did Mr. Street tell him?”

  “Nothing, really. He doesn’t trust the sheriff. But my grandfather would like to get Mr. Street involved in this case, and that’s where you come in. After he’s elected, Mr. Street is going to approach the sheriff and tell him he wants a full share of the protection and extortion money that’s flowing to law enforcement in Knox County.”

  “I am?” I said. This came as a complete surprise.

  Claire ignored me and kept talking. “He’s going to record every conversation, turn all the money over to the FBI, and let you gentlemen do what you do. He’ll do most of the work, and you can be the heroes.”

  “I’m not really comfortable with this,” I said.

  Kurtz cleared his throat. “There will have to be an agent, probably two, nearby every time he talks to the sheriff. We’d have to be there in case a dangerous situation developed and to authenticate the tape recordings if the case goes to trial. We have to transcribe the tapes. We have to log and store everything. It’s actually a great deal of work, Ms. Tate, and you’re mistaken when you say he’ll be doing most of it. It’s offensive.”

  “My apologies,” Claire said. “I certainly didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “This isn’t something new to us, you know,” Kurtz said. “We’ve been aware of the accusations and innuendo for quite some time.”

  “It goes far beyond accusation and innuendo, I assure you,” Claire said. “May I ask what you’ve done with the
information you’ve received?”

  “No, you may not. I’m not at liberty to discuss investigations,” Kurtz said.

  “So there is an investigation,” Claire said.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “So there isn’t an investigation,” Claire said.

  “I didn’t say that, either. I’m not going to discuss any investigation with you, Ms. Tate. And as for Mr. Street, there would be concerns. He’s suspected of killing several people, including Ben Clancy.”

  “I didn’t kill Clancy or anybody else,” I said.

  “Well, you’ve also been charged and convicted of murder. You served two years in prison.”

  “And I was exonerated, and Clancy was arrested and eventually put out to pasture.”

  “The point is, let’s say you were able to make a case on the sheriff and perhaps some of his associates. If the sheriff doesn’t buckle and plead guilty, if he goes to trial, Mr. Street will face a vicious attack from the defense. They’ll go after him with both barrels blazing. His credibility will be destroyed, and that doesn’t make for much of a witness.”

  “I can handle it,” I said. “Besides, that’s a long way off.”

  “I think it’s a big waste of time,” Henshaw said. “Let’s say you manage to take this sheriff down. You think it’s going to stop gambling and prostitution and drugs? People have been doing those things since they’ve been walking upright. And what about the district attorney? You say he’s involved? How are you going to get to him if he’s no longer the district attorney?”

  “He lives large,” I said. “Shouldn’t be much problem to prove that he couldn’t have financed his lifestyle on his salary.”

  “You’re chasing your tail. As soon as you take the sheriff out of the picture, the vice trades you’re talking about will just open up. There will be competition. People will get hurt.”

  “So you condone what he’s doing?” I said.

  “I’m not condoning him taking money, but a lot of law enforcement officials allow select people to operate so they can keep some form of control over things. It’s less violent that way.”

  “Fine,” I said, “but let’s at least get the corruption out of the sheriff’s office. And there’s another part to this that I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned. Gary Brewer?”

  “Ah, yes, Gary Brewer,” Henshaw said. “The junkie gambler who took up bare-knuckle fighting to pay for his habits. Probably got himself killed in a fight. We’re supposed to feel sorry for him, though, because he was a marine and his family is wealthy.”

  “Wow, you are one compassionate son of a bitch, aren’t you?” I said.

  “Watch your mouth,” Henshaw said.

  I stood up and looked at Claire. “Let’s go,” I said. “We don’t need these guys.”

  The meeting reminded me of the one I had with Stephen Morris about Dr. Fraturra. Both Henshaw and Kurtz had made up their minds they weren’t going to help us before we’d walked into the room. The only reason they’d met with us at all was because of Roger Tate.

  “Sit back down, Darren,” Claire said. “We can work this out.”

  “Do what your master tells you,” Henshaw said to me. “I don’t like any of this, but I have bosses, and my bosses tell me I have to work with you. So sit down, shut your mouth, and let Mr. Kurtz, Ms. Tate, and me figure out how we’re going to go about it.”

  “Tell your bosses I told you to go to hell,” I said. “I don’t want your help. I’ll take the sheriff and the rest of them down myself after I’m elected. Then I’ll go to the paper and tell them what a huge help you boys were.”

  And with that, I walked out the door.

  CHAPTER 22

  Claire sounded furious over the phone, although I thought I detected a tone of reluctant respect in her voice.

  “I don’t know whether I’ve ever met anyone as pigheaded as you are,” she said.

  I was driving toward my apartment, and she’d just left Henshaw’s office.

  “They’re not interested,” I said. “Don’t you understand? If they’re not interested, if they feel like they’re being forced to help us, they’ll screw it up. They won’t be committed. And if they screw up, there’s a good chance I wind up dead.”

  “But you don’t just talk to a US attorney and the Special Agent in Charge of the Knoxville FBI the way you did,” she said.

  “I didn’t start the insolence,” I said. “Both of them were disrespectful to you and to me, and I’m not wired to put up with that kind of crap. I don’t care who they think they are or what their titles are. To me, they’re just men in suits who have the power of the US government behind them. How they use that power is up to them, but I hold them to a higher standard than they obviously hold themselves.”

  The thought crossed my mind that what I’d just said about holding them to a higher standard was pompous, considering what I’d done in the past, but I let it go quickly.

  “So what are you going to do, Darren?” Claire said. “How are you going to get to Corker and these other people? Do you even know the full extent of what’s going on?”

  “I have other friends who will help me.”

  “Who? Ms. Tipton?”

  “That’s a pretty good start. Those are solid people, Claire. They don’t have any political agenda. They’re reliable and do exactly what they say they’ll do. They don’t have bosses and they don’t judge. They’re not afraid. But I have some other ideas, too. I spent years tearing the government’s criminal cases apart. I can figure out how to build one.”

  She paused for a few seconds. I heard her sigh.

  “What?” I said.

  “I’m just afraid you’re going to find yourself beating your head against the wall if you try to go after them the traditional way,” she said.

  “Why? What makes you say that?”

  “It’s been going on for a long time. Something just isn’t right. Believe me when I tell you, Darren, I’ve been around these wars for a long time, and something stinks here. You’re not going to get to these guys using informants and wiretaps.”

  “So what, then?” I said. “Should I just start killing people?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  I paused for a long minute before responding. This woman was different from Grace. Far different.

  She changed the subject by saying, “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

  Her grandfather, Senator Roger Tate, was flying into Knoxville to make a personal appearance with me at the Knoxville Civic Auditorium.

  “Will anyone be there besides us?” I said.

  “I’ve told you, Darren, it will be packed. People will come from hundreds of miles around just to see my grandfather, to shake his hand, to hear him speak. He’s brought billions of dollars into this state through the appropriations committee, people genuinely like him—or at least most of them do—and they’ll want to make a connection. They won’t care much about you at first—no offense—but when Senator Roger Tate tells them he’s flown all the way from Washington because he has such strong feelings about you and what a good job you’ll do as district attorney general, people will pay attention. The story about Morris’s wife slapping the teacher in the face is going to hit the streets in the morning, and then we’ll have the rally tomorrow night. We’ll cruise from here, and then you’ll be in a position to deal with Morris and the sheriff and to find Brewer.”

  Claire had been pretty much spot-on with everything she’d told me up to that point, so I decided to trust her.

  “How about dinner tonight?” I said. “We can talk about tomorrow and plot against Morris and the sheriff.”

  “Where?”

  “My place. I’m a good cook.”

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Claire said.

  “C’mon, I’m not going to hit on you. We’re doing this very unusual thing together. You’ve been a huge help to me, and I’d like to cook dinner for you. I don’t see why we can’t at least be friends.”


  She paused for several seconds.

  “What are you going to cook? I’m a vegan.” I thought I detected a hint of pain in her voice, as though I’d perhaps hurt her feelings when I said I wasn’t going to hit on her.

  “Figures,” I said. “What would you like?”

  “I don’t know, maybe some kind of roasted brussels sprout skewer with a dipping sauce?”

  Brussels sprouts. There wasn’t a dipping sauce in the world that would make brussels sprouts appealing to me. My stomach turned at the thought.

  “Sounds great,” I said. “What time?”

  “Seven thirty?”

  “Wine?”

  “I’ll bring the wine,” Claire said.

  “Perfect. See you tonight.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Claire showed up right on time, looking chic in designer jeans and boots and a peach silk blouse. The more I was around her, the more I noticed how striking she was. She turned the heads of both men and women everywhere we went, and she carried herself with an air of confidence that was just shy of haughty. She had a beautiful smile, though, which I was seeing more and more of, and she was relaxing around me more often. We joked with each other, made wisecracks. I liked her sense of humor.

  I’d found a recipe for roasted brussels sprouts with a lemon-thyme dipping sauce and had done a test run before she came to the apartment. The texture seemed fine, but to me, the taste was disgusting. But one of the first things she said when she walked in the door was, “Something smells divine.”

  “Really?” I said. “You think that’s divine?”

  “You don’t like brussels sprouts?” she said.

  “I’d rather eat canned cat food.”

  “Well, I hope you’re not going to. It won’t go very well with the wine I brought.”

  I’d made some Chicken Marsala for myself, and since she was a vegan, I’d mixed some prosciutto in with it just to taunt her. It turned out really well, and I was hungry. I gave her a corkscrew, she opened the wine while I plated the food, and then we sat down to eat.

  “You haven’t told me much about Grace,” she said about a minute into the meal.