Fatal Decree

by H. Terrell Griffin

  The Thursday morning traffic was light as the man known as Ben Flagler crossed the street from the public parking lot. He glanced at his watch. A little after seven. He knew the jail would be busy, the officers trying to get the inmates ready for first appearance before a judge at the judicial center next door. His client would not be among them. He’d been at the hospital for treatment before he had been brought to the jail. He was booked into the system too late for the six a.m. cutoff for first appearances. He would have to wait until the next day for his chance to see a judge.

  Ben walked through the glass doors into the anteroom of the jail. There were two deputies sitting on an elevated platform, walls hiding them almost completely. He assumed the officers were sitting at desks, but he couldn’t tell. A security station manned by a guard in the uniform of a private company was directly across from the deputies. A dismal-looking waiting area was to his left as he entered, a dozen or more plastic chairs bolted to the floor, a flat-screen television mounted on brackets in a corner near the ceiling. Thankfully, at this time of the morning it was turned off. Visitors were not allowed until later in the day.

  Lawyers, however, had twenty-four-hour access to their clients. Flagler handed up his driver’s license and Florida Bar identification card to one of the deputies sitting on the platform. “I’d like to see my client, Fred Bagby.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the deputy. “Have a seat and I’ll have him brought to an interview room. Won’t take but a few minutes.”

  Flagler took a seat in the waiting area. The plastic chair rocked back at an uncomfortable angle. The county had not spent a lot of money making jail visitors comfortable. He watched as a woman of about twenty came through the entrance. Her clothes were shabby, probably retrieved from a Salvation Army bin, a plaid skirt that fell to mid-shin, a ragged old golf shirt with the logo of a country club that she’d never be invited into, tattoos encircling both ankles, flip-flops on dirty feet. She spoke to no one, but walked quickly to what appeared to be an automated teller machine attached to the wall near the security guard’s seat. She put a credit card into the slot, pushed some buttons, withdrew the card, and left the building without a word or even an acknowledgment that she wasn’t alone in the reception room.

  Curiosity compelled Flagler to examine the machine the woman had used. It wasn’t an ATM, but a device that allowed anyone to put money into an inmate’s account for use in the jail’s canteen. You put in a credit or debit card, punched in the prisoner’s number, and the amount was credited to the inmate’s account. He or she could buy toothpaste or candy or whatever was available in the canteen.

  He thought for a minute and went to the deputies seated on the platform. He got his client’s inmate number and returned to the machine. He pulled out a credit card in Ben Flagler’s name. He put it in the machine, punched in his client’s number, and deposited twenty dollars.

  He went back to his seat and waited quietly until a deputy came through the door on the other side of the security station. “Mr. Flagler, your client is in an interview room. I’ll have to check your briefcase. If you’d just put it on the desk and step through the metal detector.”

  Ben set his briefcase on the table and stood to watch the private security guard open it. Security personnel were not allowed to look at any document a lawyer brought into the jail, but they were required to make sure there were no weapons. When the guard closed the briefcase, Flagler walked through the metal detector and retrieved it. The deputy led him into the bowels of the jail.

  A holding cell near the entrance was full of men in orange jumpsuits. There were not enough seats for them, so most stood quietly staring at the deputy and the man in the suit. Ben nodded at one small man wearing a full gray beard. He was ignored.

  The deputy said, “They’re waiting to go over for first appearance. Bagby didn’t get checked in soon enough to make it over today. He’ll be in the bunch going over tomorrow.”

  The deputy stopped at an elevator, pushed the button, and waited. They went to the fourth floor and walked down a narrow corridor, the walls painted in drab institutional green. There were doors on the left that appeared to lead to small rooms. Doors on his right were more substantial and led down hallways lined with individual cells.

  The deputy stopped at one of the doors on the left, opened it, and allowed Ben to enter. The room was small, just enough space for two straight chairs and a two-by-four-foot table. Bagby sat in one of the chairs, his left arm hanging at his side, the wrist encircled by one end of a handcuff, the other end attached to a ring embedded in the concrete floor. He was wearing the ubiquitous orange jumpsuit, his face haggard, hair unkempt, a day-old beard sprouting on his cheeks. His nose was bandaged and what looked like a small metal splint was visible under the dressing.

  “How you doing, Fred?” Ben asked.

  “My balls hurt and my nose is killing me. Every time I cough or sneeze my side hurts like a motherfucker. That bitch broke three of my ribs and my nose, knocked out two teeth, and kicked me in the nuts. You didn’t tell me she could do all that kung fu shit.”

  “I didn’t know about it. Why the hell did you use a knife? Why didn’t you just shoot her?”

  “I wanted to see her lights go out. Up close. As I was putting the blade in her gut.”

  “Geez. You’re some piece of work, Bagby. Tell me what happened.”

  “I followed her from her condo, watched her park in the back of the restaurant, and I waited. I didn’t know she was going to take all night. That pissed me off.”

  “Is that it? You lost your temper and got your ass kicked?”

  “No. I waited until she finally came out of the restaurant and went after her. She was quick, and I wasn’t expecting her to be some kind of commando chick.”

  The lawyer just shook his head. He’d gotten a call from the controller the morning before that scared the hell out of him.

  “Look,” the controller had said, “I’m tired of you fucking up. I want that detective dead. Today. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t know if we can set it up that quickly,” said Flagler.

  “It isn’t rocket science. Just kill her.”

  “I’ve got to find another woman to be a whale tail victim, and—”

  “What the hell is wrong with you? That first woman was to get the detective’s attention. It did. The second one was to set the trap, but you blew it. We don’t need any other women. Just take this one out.”

  “I never did understand why we needed to make this look like the whale tail murders. Why didn’t we just shoot the detective in the first place?”

  “Worthington,” said the controller, “I take orders just like you do. The difference is that I follow mine. Get this over with, do you understand?”

  “I understand. Consider it done.”

  But he hadn’t gotten it done. Bagby blew the assignment, and the controller was going to hold it against him, Worthington.

  Bagby interrupted his thoughts. “You going to get me out of here?”

  “As soon as we get to the preliminary hearing in the morning. I’ve greased the judge. Won’t be a problem.”

  Bagby’s face twisted into a grimace. “You mean I’ve got to stay here until tomorrow?”

  “Sorry, but that’s the best I can do.”

  “Man, I’m not going to make it.” He held up his hands. They were shaking. The sure signs of a drug addict coming off his meds.

  “I’ve got something for you,” Ben said, “but you have to save two of these until you go to bed tonight.”

  “Let me have them.”

  “I will in a minute, but you have to tell me that you’ll save the blue ones for tonight. I can give you another one on the way to court tomorrow morning, but you need to space this out so that you’ll sleep tonight. Understand?”

  “Yeah. What’ve you got?”

  “Oxy.”

  “I need it now, man.”

  Flagler handed him two small white pills. “Okay. Here’re two. T
ake one now and another at lunchtime. They’ll hold you through the day. Understand?”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Four. Take one of the white ones now and another at lunch. I’ve got some more for you to take at bedtime. Not before. You got that?”

  “I got it,” Bagby said, an edge in his voice.

  Flagler handed him the two white pills and held up a small envelope. “There are two blue pills in this. Take them both when you go to bed. They’ll make you sleep and keep you sharp in the morning. If you need more then, I’ll have some for you before court.”

  “Okay. I’ll hold them for tonight. I promise.”

  Ben knew the promise wasn’t any good. A junkie will take the drug anytime his body starts screaming for it. But he didn’t have a choice in the matter. The white pills were controlled release oxycodone and he thought that would keep Bagby calm until bedtime. He couldn’t come back to the jail later in the day. It might raise some questions.

  “These might make you drowsy today,” Flagler said, “but I don’t think you’ll be expected to do anything but stay in your cell. Don’t forget. You need to wait until lunch to take the second white pill.”

  Bagby put one white pill in his mouth, swallowed and smiled. “Thanks, man.”

  “Remember, the blue pills are for tonight. Take both of them when you’re ready for bed. They’ll hold you through the night. The pills look different, but they’ve got the same kick as the white ones. They look like capsules for indigestion. If the bulls find them, tell them that’s what they are. I don’t think they’ll make a big deal out of it. If you take them before bedtime, you won’t have anything for the rest of the night. If I find you strung out in the morning, I’ll be out of here in a New York second. You’ll be on your own. Do you understand?”

  Bagby grinned. “You won’t do that. I’ll let the cops know who actually killed that woman you and Qualman put in the mangroves. I’ve kind of got you by the balls, Counselor.”

  “You listen to me, Bagby. I can get you out of here if you do what I tell you. If you don’t, you’ll get a shank in your gut. You don’t think I’d let you stay here without some insurance in case you got talkative, do you? You won’t live long enough to talk to the cops. Your only chance is me. And with me, you get a lot of money.”

  “You mean I’m going to get paid, even though I didn’t kill that detective?”

  “Our deal was that you’d get paid when she’s dead. You get out, you go after her again. You kill her, you get paid.”

  “Okay. I’m good. And I owe that bitch.”

  “Hide the envelope and take the pills tonight.”

  “I will.”

  Ben stood and opened the door. The deputy was standing outside, leaning against the wall. “I’m done, deputy.”

  “I’ll escort you out.”

  They went back the way they’d come. Ben was confident that Bagby would not be subjected to a search on his way back to his cell. There was too much going on at this time of the morning for the deputies to be as thorough as they would at other times of the day. Besides, lawyers did not bring contraband into the jail. To do so would mean disbarment. That was not a concern of Ben Flagler, who didn’t really exist anyway.

  He would come back in the morning and get the word from the jailers that his client was dead. The blue pills were instant release oxycodone. The drugs would spread through his system like poison and Bagby would drift off to sleep, never to wake again.

  Flagler would be devastated, of course. Hopefully, he would be finished with this mess and gone before any toxicology results came back to the medical examiner. That usually took awhile. The toxicologists would no doubt find the poison, but by then Ben Flagler would just be a memory and Jeff Worthington would be a rich man basking in the sun on some Caribbean island.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  It was early Thursday morning and the controller was on the phone with the only other person in the world, other than the crazy don, who absolutely terrified him, the one he thought of as the puppeteer. “If you don’t get your ass in gear,” said the voice on the other end of the line, “things are going to get complicated for you. I’m losing my patience.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the controller, “but you didn’t exactly set me up with brilliant operatives. I can’t be held responsible for their fuckups.”

  “The one we put in as a lawyer is bright as hell. And he knows what happens if he fails. Maybe he needs a little object lesson.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the controller.

  “Think about it,” the puppeteer said, and slammed down the phone.

  The controller slowly put the receiver back in its cradle. He let out a long sigh and shook his head. He didn’t like being in this position, but what could he do? He’d signed the pact with the devil a long time ago.

  Maybe he had assembled the wrong crew. He’d had the man now known as Ben Flagler foisted upon him. He’d argued at the time that he needed a professional to take out the detective. The puppeteer was determined to use Flagler and the men Flagler picked. The argument was that Flagler was a ruthless killer, he was smart, and the puppeteer wanted the detective to suffer before she died. Flagler could make her life difficult, frighten her for even a few hours, and then kill her. A professional would simply take her out. Not much in the way of vengeance if the detective didn’t know exactly why she was dying.

  He stared out his windows, enjoying the view of Biscayne Bay. Some sort of small boat sailing regatta was taking place just offshore. The blue water of the bay, the bright sails in a variety of colors, and the sun glinting off the fiberglass hulls gave him a sense of well-being. He would take care of this mess and get the puppeteer off his back. He just needed to come up with a plan to impress Flagler with his resolve.

  His thoughts moved to taking the puppeteer out. That would solve his immediate problem, but then the crazy don might get wind of the controller’s part in any such action, and the consequences for the controller would be too horrible to contemplate. The puppeteer was too close to the don and his vengeance would be swift and brutal. Even a very small chance that the don would find out that the controller had any part in the puppeteer’s demise was simply too big a chance for the controller to take. He shrugged off the idea, and moved on, his mind sweeping through many scenarios before he landed on one that just might work and would never cause any blowback to him.

  The controller smiled and his mind wandered on to the island where his new life would begin if he had to shuck himself of this one. He just needed a few more days to have everything ready. The money was already in place, hiding in secret bank accounts around the world. New identity papers, done by one of the world’s foremost forgers, were in a lockbox in a bank in Orlando, the forger now sleeping with the angels after a well-placed gunshot to the back of his head. The controller had stashed a pickup truck in a parking garage in North Miami, using a fictitious name. Not the one on the papers in the bank in Orlando, but one that would pass the cursory inspection of the people who ran that parking garage. He’d arranged for an illegal Mexican farmworker to drive the truck every other Sunday, keeping it in working order and full of gas. If he had to run, he’d drive to Orlando, retrieve his documents, and park the pickup at the airport. He’d rent a car, using yet another set of papers, drive to New Orleans, and catch a plane to Atlanta. Each leg of his trip would be with false papers, each set different from the others. Even if his pursuers somehow were able to trace him to the pickup and thus to Orlando, the trail would run cold there. Or maybe in New Orleans. He didn’t think they’d ever be able to trace him further. From Atlanta, he’d use the master forger’s documents and the credit cards that he’d set up with false identities over the past five years. They’d never find him on the island where he’d spend the rest of his life.

  It was a good plan, one that he had been putting in place for a long time. He understood that nothing was completely foolproof, but this one was as close as it got. Life was full of gambles
, and he only bet on almostsure things. This plan was as near perfect as he could make it. If it didn’t work, then he would die. But he had set up trip wires that would let him know if he was being closed in on. If his discovery was inevitable, he’d simply kill himself. He would maintain control of his destiny and his death would be painless, not the gruesome end orchestrated by the crazy don.

  The controller chuckled to himself. No matter how good his plan was, or how long he was able to maintain his secret life, the end result would be his death. With any luck, the Grim Reaper would sneak in and take him during his ninetieth year while he was asleep in a comfortable bed in his island refuge. Maybe with a nubile native girl lying beside him, sated after a night of wild sex. Did ninety-year-old men still have sex? He didn’t know, but he smiled at the thought of someday discovering the answer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I awoke a little after eight the next morning, a Thursday. We had not gotten home from the hospital until almost four a.m. Chief Bill Lester had stayed in the ER to make sure that J.D. was okay, and then drove us home. He and I talked J.D. into staying at my cottage for the night, or what was left of it. I have three bedrooms, each with a private bath. I had the one overlooking the bay and one was Jock’s room, where he left what he called his island clothes when he went home to Houston. The third bedroom was my guest room, and that is where J.D. had crashed.

  I didn’t want her unprotected during the night, and I wasn’t sure she might not need some help with her bandages. She had reluctantly agreed to stay, but said she would be going home first thing in the morning. She had to work. Bill told her that if she showed up at the office, he would arrest her. “Take a few days,” he said. “This is the third time in four days somebody’s tried to kill you.”