An Absence of Principal

by Jimmy Patterson

  “Garrison, come on, have you not been listening? These people, whoever they are, know all there is to know about me. They know it when I go to the farmer’s market to buy tomatoes. They knew when I needed to get from Argentina to Chile. They’ll know it when I hop aboard a flight to Tulsa.”

  Trask swallowed hard. He was hoping he could talk some sense into her, but Alex wasn’t ready to hear it.

  “You have to go and see what you can find. We have to get Tony Nail off, and I need Doggett if we hope to do it. Besides, you have to come back. You’re not through telling me this wild story of yours.”

  “Believe it or not,” Alex said, “there’s not much more. I lost the trail after Juarez. When I got out, I took a couple of weeks off and came to your office looking for work.”

  “C’mon, Alex. Really?” Trask said. “Something else had to have brought you here.”

  “I was hoping to pick up the scent again, that’s all,” Alex said, less than convincingly. She regrouped quickly.

  “In Midland, Texas?” Trask asked.

  “The drug corridor is extensive, Trask, I don’t need to tell you that. It runs both east and west out of Juarez, and it runs into the heart of the Southwest. Both ways. I’m sure you must have noticed, any traffickers that head east out of Juarez on the interstate, the first population center worth anything to these terrorists is Midland-Odessa. It’s a substantial drop point in the narco-terrorism industry, Trask. People need to stop fooling themselves and open their eyes. Scores of traffickers pass through your nice little comfy-cozy hometown every week. You can ask your sheriff about it. I bet he could tell you some stories.”

  Trask wondered exactly how far removed his investigator was from narco-terrorists? Or was she working with them? Had she led them right to his office? Right into his hometown?

  He was incredulous but decided that saying anything at this point would only make matters worse.

  “Get home and get yourself on that plane to Tulsa first thing in the morning. I’ll take care of the forensics report. We’ll talk more about this mess when you get back.”

  Trask’s discomfort in hiring Alex was growing. But he had always had a keen sense of right and wrong when bringing in someone new. He felt good when he hired her, and he would spend the next few days trying to convince himself again that he had made the right decision, even if now, deep down, he had real questions with his decision.

  Alex headed to her apartment. She was there long enough to book her flight online and make a hotel reservation near Midland International for the night. It was only fifteen minutes to the airport from anywhere in Midland but Alex couldn’t be too safe or take a chance missing her flight the next morning. Besides, staying at home might prove unwise.

  When Alex left her apartment, the Latino man stepped out from the broom closet in her entryway. He had cracked the lock on her garage door by using a high-powered scope and watching her enter the passcode once after returning from her morning walk. He flipped open her MacBook and navigated to her last page.

  Southwest.com

  To: Tulsa, Okla.

  From: Midland

  Departs: 9 a.m., July 15, (Change planes Dallas Love Field.)

  Arrives: Noon, July 15

  The man looked at his watch. He would have just enough time to hop in his Escalade and drive the night through before waiting for her outside the Southwest gate in Tulsa. Just to make sure she had arrived safely.

  As Alex prepared to line up in her typical, last minute, B49 pre-board passenger spot, her normal obsessive-compulsive tendency kicked in. She felt like Pavlov’s dog. It was eerie the way every time the ticket agent called for B group boarders, that she was suddenly overcome with worry that she had forgotten to unplug her curling iron, or didn’t turn off the stove, or the oven, or the iron, or the coffee machine.

  “Michelle?” she said as her next-door neighbor picked up the phone.

  “You must be about to board. Which appliance that is already off, or door that is already locked can I double check for you this time?” the woman asked Alex.

  “Can you run next door and just make sure I locked the back sliding glass door? I’ll wait.”

  “Sure thing, hon,” Michelle said.

  Michelle walked into Alex’s apartment and to the back door.

  Strange. As often as Alex had used her neighbor to check her appliances and locks, she had never once actually left an iron on or a door open. Until today. The backdoor, while closed, was unlocked. Michelle turned to leave and noticed Alex had left her laptop open and on. She looked down and discovered her neighbor and new friend was on her way to Tulsa. She decided to power the laptop down just to be safe. Leaving a computer on was asking for trouble these days.

  Michelle picked the phone back up. “First time for everything,” she said. “But you actually forgot to lock the back sliding glass door, sweetie,” Michelle reported.

  “Really?” Alex said, almost surprised at Michelle’s news.

  “But it’s locked up tighter than a Huntsville jail cell now, so don’t worry your pretty little self about it. I got it covered.”

  “Thanks, Michelle, I owe you,” Alex said.

  “No problem,” she said. “Have fun in Tulsa.”

  Michelle had hung up before Alex had a chance to respond. She called back immediately.

  “Yes, dear?” Michelle asked again.

  “How’d you know I was going to Tulsa?” Alex asked.

  “Said it plain as day on your computer screen. Southwest Airlines ticket confirmation page. You better hurry, you’re about to leave.”

  Michelle put down her phone and thought nothing more of the exchange.

  Alex slipped her phone in her purse. I know I turned my Mac off, she thought.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” the man in back of her said with a friendly nudge. The line of people in front of her had long since boarded, her inattentiveness leaving a gap in the stream of passengers that would have embarrassed anyone who wasn’t completely preoccupied.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to the man. Moments after she hung up the phone, the gate agent was imploring her and others to not forget to cease using all handheld electronic devices.”

  “IPhones, iPads, iPods. Anything with an ‘I’ in front of it, needs to be stowed away at this time,” the woman’s voice warned over the intercom. Alex wondered briefly how much longer humans had to wait for airplanes to catch up to technology and be able to take off and land without expecting passengers to give up their Lady Gaga and Grisham.

  It didn’t take long for her to switch her thinking back to her laptop at home.

  I know I turned it off. I remember, Alex thought to herself.

  And the back door … she hadn’t been in or out of it in a week. She hadn’t checked to make sure it was secure in a while either, but she never forgot to lock her doors. Not in her world. To do so would be too dangerous.

  When her flight landed at Dallas Love Field an hour later, she quickly powered up her phone. Four missed phone calls. All blocked. Just as the phone call from a few days ago had been blocked; the one that scared the daylights out of her.

  “We know where you are.” The memory of the voice rang through her head even though she felt secure, at least for now, on an airplane full of people, and about to be in one of the busiest airports in the southwest.

  Alex exited the plane and decided to walk the concourses at Love Field while waiting for her connection to Tulsa. She figured behind all the security trappings of 21st century air travel, this should be about the safest place she could be. A part of her longed to stay here. Love Field was almost its own self-contained city. Banks, shops, a gym, travel at her fingertips. She had everything she needed, plus she would be safe. But she knew it wouldn’t last. She had a life to lead. A life she had chosen at a pace and a danger level sh
e desired, even though it had ratcheted down a notch during her stay in Midland. Receiving a “We know where you are” phone call would scare most sane people. It made Alex’s adrenaline rise almost as if it was a challenge not a threat.

  CHAPTER 14

  As was his routine, Judge Halfmann had taken his place on the bench several minutes before the jury, attorneys and the defendant. He greeted each day with a newfound vigor, happy to be alive after his brush with cancer a few years earlier. Seldom did the judge have a bad day and his bench came complete with the constant reminder that his grandson had carved for him in woodshop class: “This is the day the Lord hath made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” And it was with that reminder every day that Judge Halfmann rarely started his tasks with anything less than a smile. And he never went into a day without the belief that someone would leave the day better for having met him, or that a defendant may just in fact be found innocent and sent back into society to resume his life. It was rare that life worked out that tidily, but it could happen. Anything was possible, Halfmann believed.

  “Morning, judge,” Trask said as he walked into the courtroom with Tony.

  “Morning, gentlemen,” Halfmann returned the greeting.

  Joe Midkiff walked into the courtroom, avoiding any and all similar pleasantries. Midkiff was all business, and today his business was to begin breaking down the façade that Trask planned to build about his client.

  It wasn’t that Midkiff was mean or rude. He was a firm in the courtroom, especially when the safety of the general populace was brought into question. He considered it his moral duty to send anyone and everyone up the river who he felt remotely deserved it. And Midkiff firmly believed that Tony Nail had taken out Junior Walker with a single shot. Midkiff even drew up his own motive: Nail was not really the nice guy he was being portrayed as by Trask. That was just a ruse. Nail was actually a dealer on the seedy side of town using God as a cover. That’s what he would spend the day selling to the jury.

  “Your honor, we call Coogan Goodley,” Midkiff said.

  Trask scratched the name off his legal pad. He knew it would be Midkiff’s first move. The prosecutor would cut right to the heart of the matter. He couldn’t help but wonder what the prosecution was offering Goodley in return.”

  “Sir, can you please tell the court your name?”

  “I’m Coogan Goodley. Friends call me ‘Cootie.’

  “Interesting nickname, Mr. Goodley. I think I might stick with the name your mama gave you if that works.”

  “I’ll answer to whatever, long as it’s respectful,” Cootie said.

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Goodley?” Midkiff asked.

  “I’m an automotive detailing professional,” Goodley said.

  “An automotive detailing professional?” Midkiff asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And exactly what is an automotive detailing professional?” Midkiff followed.

  “Pimp up cars, mostly.”

  “Pimp up cars? Mr. Goodley, can you tell anyone in the courtroom who may not know what the term ‘pimp up’ means?

  “Pimp up. Y’know, detail. Stripe, decal the windows, the side molding, whatever the customer wants, man,” Goodley said, sounding somewhat surprised that someone as intelligent as a federal prosecutor didn’t know what he meant.

  “Thank you, Mr. Goodley. Sir, do you have any other jobs?” Midkiff asked.

  “Nah. Automotive detailing takes up a lotta my day.”

  A couple of members of the jury snickered almost audibly.

  “I’m sure it does, sir,” Midkiff said. “Now, Mr. Goodley, do you know the defendant, Mr. Nail?”

  “I don’t know him good, no, but I seen him,” Goodley said.

  “And where have you seen Mr. Nail?”

  “My neighborhood. West Odessa. And I hang out with some friends in South Midland sometimes. I seen him there, too.”

  “What has Mr. Nail been doing on those occasions when you’ve seen him, Mr. Goodley?”

  “I don’t know, man. I don’t get in his bidness. I stay to myself mostly.”

  “I don’t blame you, Mr. Goodley. Mainly, I would just like you to assure the court again that you have in fact seen Mr. Nail more than once in West Odessa.”

  “And in South Midland both. Lots of times.”

  “What kind of neighborhoods are those?”

  “They’re my neighborhoods. They seem fine to me.”

  Goodley came dressed in a nice navy blue polo shirt and baggy but nice jeans. New sneakers. He was clean shaven and looked respectable.

  “You ever feel threatened in your neighborhood?” Midkiff asked.

  “Nah, nah, man. If I did, I’d just get in someone’s face and —”

  “Um, that’ll be all, Mr. Goodley, thank you,” Midkiff stopped him.

  “Mr. Goodley, thank you for being here today. Cootie. I like that name. Brings back my childhood,” Trask began his cross examination.

  Trask knew that any sense of impropriety, even slight, that he could convey to the jury might ultimately tip the mindset of a juror or two. It was all a game so much of the time. A properly placed word here, a nod of the head or cock of an eyebrow there; a wisely placed request to repeat something. All of it was theatrics, and Trask played this part of his profession to the fullest. And he was darn good at it.

  “Can I call you ‘Cootie?’ Trask asked.”

  “You can call me what you want, Mr. Trask,” Cootie said.

  “Cootie,” Trask began, with a purpose and just enough sarcastic emphasis on his lips, “you ever buy or sell drugs from Tony Nail?”

  “Objection,” Midkiff threw in hurriedly. Trask knew his client would never actually have an opportunity to answer the question, but he knew what he was doing. He had moved the jury down a path.

  “Withdrawn, your honor,” Trask said. “Cootie, have you ever known of my client to buy or sell drugs?”

  “Don’t know him so good, Mr. Trask.”

  “Is that a ‘No,’ Mr. Goodley?” Trask noticeably changed his tone with his question. He was done toying with the witness.

  “I guess I’ve never seen him selling or buying drugs, no,” Goodley said.

  “What do you know about why Tony Nail comes to your neighborhood?” Trask asked.

  “Like I said earlier, I suppose I don’t know why he comes over there,” Goodley said.

  Trask sifted through his notes on his desk. He was pleased at how well this seemed to be going. He knew if he could establish a lack of moral character in this witness, it may lead to something down the road. Trask wasn’t sure, in fact, that Goodley didn’t have something to do with the murder of Junior Walker. He didn’t have undeniable proof at this point, but he might work himself to it as things unfolded.

  “Mr. Goodley, have you ever bought or sold drugs from anyone in Odessa?” Trask asked.

  “Objection, your honor, this witness is not on trial,” Midkiff interjected.

  “Goes to the credibility of the witness, your honor,” Trask said.

  “Go ahead, Garrison, but let’s not go down this rabbit trail too far, understand?”

  Trask nodded yes.

  “Answer the question, Mr. Goodley,” Judge Halfmann told Goodley.

  “No sir, I haven’t,” Goodley said.

  Trask paused for effect. As if to suggest he hadn’t seen that one coming. And then he hit back.

  “How about Midland? You ever buy or sell drugs from anyone in Midland?” Trask pressed.

  “Your honor, there are 254 counties in Texas. Are we going to have to go through every one of them, I wonder? I object,” Midkiff said.

  “Overruled this one last time, Mr. Trask. Answer the question, Mr. Goodley.”

  Goodley shifted in his chair, looking at Midki
ff the whole time. He swallowed hard, seemed to be getting nervous, and wasn’t sure what to do next. So he did what he always did when backed into a corner. He lied.

  “Nah, I ain’t,” Goodley said.

  “Excuse me, Cootie, could you repeat your answer?”

  “No sir, I ain’t,” Goodley repeated.

  “You ain’t never bought or sold drugs from anyone in Midland County?” Trask asked again.

  It was all Trask could do to keep from salivating. Midkiff sunk in his chair, avoiding eye contact with the jurors. He knew they could tell a look of terror when they saw one. Maybe if he looked away the terror wouldn’t be so recognizable. Midkiff knew when he agreed to let Goodley come on to testify, he was facing a major risk in doing so. But the thought that he would outright lie to a jury never occurred to him. Surely Goodley was smarter than that. Surely he knew the federal government had access to his arrest record for drug trafficking in Midland County. Maybe Goodley just wanted to get off the stand and not be a part of this any longer.

  Maybe Midkiff should have taken better care to discuss this tiny detail with his witness before allowing him to single-handedly unravel the government’s particular line of questioning.

  “I’m confused, then, Mr. Goodley. Because I have here in front of me a 10-27, law enforcement slang for Criminal History, that shows you have been arrested on, oh, let’s say more than one occasion, for drug trafficking in Midland County. How do you explain that, Mr. Goodley? And how do you explain that my client, Tony Nail, on the night of May 30 of this year, watched as you conducted a business transaction with a man, a very tall man, in South Midland? You were in receipt of two medium size boxes that, according to my client, looked suspiciously like a drug deal going down, in a place known for its drug deals. How do you explain that, Mr. Goodley?”

  He said nothing.

  “Mr. Goodley, can you answer the question?” Judge Halfmann asked.

  “Yes. Yes, I have a drug history of purchasing drugs in Midland County. I don’t know what your client is talking about concerning the night of May 30, but yeah, I have a history in Midland County.”