The Eye of the Tigress

by Paul Coggins

  He caught up to her at the elevator bank. “What gives? You were supposed to cover my trial.”

  “Sorry.” Skyler didn’t sound sorry at all. Her blue eyes never settled on him but continually swept the horizon, always searching for someone higher on the food chain. It wasn’t personal. She treated everyone and everything as a bump on the road to a bigger story.

  “My editor pulled me off your trial to cover the fireworks in Judge Ferguson’s court.”

  Cash slumped. Rocket’s latest headline-grabber had drawn a gaggle of reporters, meaning the media whore had scooped Cash again. What’s worse, he couldn’t blame the reporters for bailing on him.

  Rocket’s radioactive client, Toby Fine, ranked about a hundred rungs higher on the buzz-o-meter than Tina Campos. The internet mogul had created the Backdoor—a fast-exploding website for sex ads. Even Tina advertised on it.

  Both Fine and the site stood accused of aiding and abetting the sex trafficking of minors. Fine had drawn heat as the owner on paper of a Delaware company, whose sole asset was the Backdoor. The real owner was no doubt safely out of the country and outside the reach of the law.

  “Sorry, Cash. Gotta run.” Skyler boarded the elevator. “Four o’clock deadline.”

  With the door closing fast, Cash said, “How’d it go for Fine?”

  “Rocket crashed and burned.”

  The news lifted Cash’s spirits.

  No sooner had the elevator swallowed Skyler than the crowd from Ferguson’s courtroom flooded the hallway. A scrum of mangy media types surrounded Fine and Rocket, shouting out questions.

  Blades of red hair bobbed above the churning press of bodies, a painful reminder that despite Rocket’s dismal results in court today, he still commanded the center of attention.

  In contrast, Fine all but disappeared into the crowd. Cash caught only glimpses of the bald, doughy defendant, who couldn’t have looked less like a mastermind or more like a bean counter.

  Rocket lifted both hands to still the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, much as I would love to bestow upon you the precious gift of a sound bite or two, Judge Ferguson—in his infinite wisdom—has slapped a gag order on the parties and their counsel. As a result, I cannot speak with you until after Mister Fine is acquitted of these bogus charges and fully vindicated.”

  Cash smiled. While the gag order prevented Rocket during the trial from speaking to the press on the record, he would leak like a sieve until then.

  Rocket oozed smugness. Despite rough sledding in court and Ferguson’s shut-the-fuck-up order, he had planted his name in every story for the next two to three news cycles.

  Fine turned even paler than usual. He looked scared. Spooked to the point of second-guessing his choice of counsel.

  Cash had seen that look before, and it didn’t bode well for Rocket.

  ***

  After the break, Eva and Cash beat Goldberg and the client back to the defense table. On a cane since the stroke, Goldberg had slowed down, physically and mentally. His frequent trips to the bathroom tested the limits of the breaks and the judge’s patience.

  Eva whispered to Cash, “You need to give Goldy a bigger role in the trial. His feelings are hurt.”

  Cash tensed. Like he needed more shit to deal with on the brink of the make-or-break cross of the agent. “I’ve got to do what’s best for the client.” His words came out harsher than intended.

  “I’ll remind you of that in a few years,” she said, “when you’re Goldy’s age.”

  “In the classic words of the Who,” Cash said, “I hope to die before I get old.”

  “It’ll get here in a blink.”

  Goldy and Tina returned to the courtroom. Goldy doffed his trademark black Stetson at the door, revealing a comb-over as translucent as cotton candy. He tucked the cane under his arm, as if it were there for show, not support.

  With no time to debate Eva, he settled for shooting her a steely glare. She shrugged it off and gave back in kind.

  ICE Agent Sam Dobbs retook the stand. He must’ve spent the break fixing his hair, which had been teased to new heights. The sweeping pompadour added an inch to his six-four frame.

  Judge Tapia reminded Dobbs that he was still under oath. Tapia’s fine features, delicate and soft in her youth, had become striking and aristocratic in her mid-fifties. She came from old money, had married into megabucks, and it showed. The black robe hid a body that would be the envy of women half her age.

  The agent’s eyes locked on Cash, until the jurors returned to the box. At which point Dobbs’ focus shifted to the twelve. Hours of agency training on the fine art of testifying hadn’t been wasted on him.

  On direct examination, the agent had laid out the elements of the crime. He testified that—while acting in the scope of his duty—he had apprised the defendant of who and what he was. After which, she had pummeled him with her purse. He pointed to Tina as his attacker and identified photos of the defensive bruises on his arms.

  To make matters worse, Dobbs came off like the Eagle Scout he had been and would always be. Brave, honest, trustworthy, with liberty and justice for all. Any attempt to bloody him on the stand would surely backfire. The jury couldn’t love the witness more if he were made of Blue Bell Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream.

  Cash took a different tack. “Agent Dobbs, when you approached the defendant, did you know she was transgender?”

  The witness blushed and said no.

  “Did you even suspect her of being transgender?”

  Dobbs’ blush deepened. “N-n-no.” He sounded less certain. Good chance the prosecutor hadn’t prepped him for this line of questioning. Probably assumed Cash would steer clear of the defendant’s sexual orientation.

  “Would you have approached Miss Campos differently if you had known or even suspected her of being transgender?”

  The prosecutor raised a relevance objection. Judge Tapia frowned. “Mister McCahill,” she said, “I’m not sure where this is headed.”

  “Permit me a few more questions, Your Honor,” Cash said, “and I’ll tie it all together.”

  “See that you do,” the judge said.

  The witness claimed he wouldn’t have acted differently had he known the defendant’s orientation. Probably even believed it, as did the jurors.

  “Will you tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury what Operation Doubtfire is?”

  Dobbs went white. “That undercover investigation has nothing to do with this case.” He sounded rattled, confirming Cash’s suspicion that the prosecutor hadn’t prepped him for this.

  “Move to strike as nonresponsive, Your Honor,” Cash said.

  The pimply-faced prosecutor stood. “That operation is ongoing and, therefore, confidential.”

  Judge Tapia rolled her eyes. “Not any longer.” She turned to the witness. “Answer the question.”

  “We have a task force working with the FBI and the Dallas Police Department to apprehend a serial killer,” Dobbs said.

  “A killer who is believed to impersonate an ICE agent, right?”

  The witness looked to the judge before answering. “Y-y-yes.”

  “A killer who specifically targets trans women, correct?”

  Dobbs spoke so softly that Tapia made him repeat the answer, louder the second time. Another yes.

  “So it would be perfectly understandable if my client feared for her life when approached by someone claiming to be an ICE agent.”

  The judge upheld the prosecutor’s compound objection. Argumentative and calls for speculation. No matter. Cash had planted the seed of doubt in the jurors’ minds.

  “Isn’t it true that your own agency has spent considerable time and money warning the LGBTQ community of a serial killer, possibly disguised as a federal agent?”

  Another soft, affirmative answer, followed by the judge’s admonition to the witness to speak up.

  “What date did your encounter with Tina Campos occur?”

  “August ninth of this year,” the agent said.r />
  “And prior to August ninth of this year, what date did the serial killer last strike in Dallas, Texas?”

  “August sixth.”

  “So three days before you stopped Miss Campos, a trans woman had been killed by someone possibly impersonating an ICE agent, right?”

  The witness nodded, caught himself, and answered verbally.

  “Agent Dobbs, will you tell the jury what this serial killer, who is still at large, does to his victims?”

  Cash thought he heard the prosecutor’s head explode. Instead, it was the judge’s gavel coming down hard. “You’ve made your point, Mister McCahill,” the judge said. “Let’s move on.”

  Mission accomplished. Cash released the witness.

  He would rather lose a finger than give up a minute of the time allotted for the closing argument. Nonetheless, to placate Eva, he gave Goldberg half of their time for summation. To Cash, this was roughly the equivalent of losing all his fingers and toes.

  Goldy rose to the occasion. “On the fifteenth day of July, in the year of our Lord 2021,” he began the closing. By the time he reached the third “in the year of our Lord,” the two black jurors were smiling and nodding.

  The old man was giving the choir some of that good old time religion.

  Eva flashed an I-told-you-so smile to Cash. His turn to shrug it off.

  ***

  Early in day two of the jury’s deliberation, Judge Tapia called the lawyers and the defendant back into court. “This is dragging on too long,” she said. “I’m considering giving the jurors an Allen charge, in an attempt to break the deadlock. Any objection?”

  “None from the government.” The prosecutor no doubt banked on the odds—the government won about 90 percent of its trials, so anything to hasten a verdict probably redounded to its favor.

  “No need for a dynamite charge,” Cash said. “We’ll have a verdict any minute now.” He had a premonition that the jurors had reached consensus yesterday afternoon, but wanted to sleep on their decision.

  “How can you possibly know that?” the judge said.

  Before Cash could respond, the bailiff entered the courtroom. “Your Honor, we have a verdict.”

  Tapia turned back to Cash. “Lucky guess, Mister McCahill?”

  Goldberg patted Cash on the back and said, “They don’t call my co-counsel the jury whisperer for nothing.”

  ***

  Flush with victory, Cash rounded the corner on the fifteenth floor of the courthouse and came upon the sore losers. The pimply-faced prosecutor pretended to walk with an invisible cane, while his asshole supervisor laughed and clapped. Pimples said in a shaky voice, “In the year of our Lord.”

  Cash kept his temper in check, barely. “That old man has forgotten more about trials than you two will ever know. You’re not worthy of carrying his briefcase, so treat him with the respect he deserves.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Asshole said. “You two fought like an old married couple throughout the trial.”

  “We’re family,” Cash said. “That’s what families do.”

  “Fucked-up families maybe,” Asshole replied.

  Cash stopped at the elevator. “Is there any other kind?”

  He pushed the down button and turned back to the prosecutors. “Besides, the old man played—”

  The elevator arrived with a ping. Cash swallowed the rest of his sentence. Smarter not to taunt the prosecutors with the news that Goldy could get by without a cane, which served simply as a prop to generate jury sympathy. The old man might go there again.

  Cash entered the compartment, and the door closed behind him. Besides, he might be in the market for a cane himself.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Rob “Rocket” Rhoden prided himself on his prize pecs and awesome abs. Thursday night meant a ninety-minute training session at the Equinox Club on Cedar Springs, followed by a dinner of steak and potatoes at Eddie V’s next door.

  Cash worked out at the same health club at 6:00 a.m. on weekdays, mostly because he was a morning person, but partly to avoid running into Rhoden. Bad enough to keep bumping into the windbag at the courthouse.

  Tonight, however, Cash went looking for Rhoden and found him face down on a padded table. Based upon his moaning, he was enjoying the cool down stretch a little too much. Sweat speckled his gym shorts and muscle shirt.

  State-of-the-heart exercise equipment, tons of free weights, and scores of cardio machines surrounded five massage tables in the center of the high-end club. Outside the island of tranquility, dozens of trainers in black uniforms barked orders to clients, who paid dearly for the abuse.

  No surprise that Rhoden had hired the hottest trainer in the gym: Julie something. An All-American swimmer who had recently graduated from the University of Texas. A decade younger than Rhoden, two decades younger than Cash.

  She kneaded her client’s shoulders, while he purred like a pervert on a playground. Cash would bet his Porsche that Rhoden had popped a boner.

  “After you finish the rubdown,” Cash said to Julie, “better wash your hands. Then wash them again.”

  Rhoden turned his face toward Cash. His eyes blinked open. His complexion, ruddier than usual. “And here I thought they kept out the riffraff at night.” Rhoden rolled onto his back. Erection confirmed.

  Julie must’ve noticed it too. She rolled her eyes.

  “I certainly understand why you need a massage,” Cash said, “after getting your ass kicked in court all afternoon.”

  “Who said I got my ass kicked?” Rhoden sounded groggy.

  “Only every reporter who witnessed you flame out.”

  “Ah, that’s right.” Rhoden smacked his lips. “Today the press showed up in full force for me, but not for you. Here’s a riddle for you, McCahill. When your cases crash in court, but there’s no reporter there to hear it, do they make a sound?”

  Good question.

  Rhoden yawned. “Why are you disturbing my peace?”

  Another good question. Deserved a good answer. Instead, Cash gave him a straight one. “I need to see La Tigra.”

  Rhoden perked up. His moment of zen over, he slithered off the table and onto his feet. Patted Julie on the rump before leading Cash to the dark, deserted spin room. Packed with stationary bikes, the soundproof room reeked of sweat.

  “Why?” Rhoden said.

  “I’ve been asked by our mutual friend to intercede on her behalf.”

  “Does this mutual friend happen to be my client?” Asked as if Rhoden already knew the answer. “And if so, why didn’t she come to me?”

  Cash gave him a get real look.

  Rhoden didn’t insult Cash’s intelligence by claiming the moral high ground or denying the obvious. Though technically Rocket’s client, Mariposa Benanti didn’t pay the bills or command his loyalty. He prospered by protecting her boss and his patrona at all costs.

  That also kept him alive.

  “La Tigra will never cross the border,” Rhoden said, “so you’d have to go to Mexico to see her.”

  “I know that.”

  “I assume you know where she lives. The location of her compound in Sinaloa is hardly a secret.”

  “One woman’s compound,” Cash said, “is another’s fortress. She’s not someone you can drop in on uninvited. I need you to clear the visit for me.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  The obvious questions kept coming, as did the obvious answers. “For starters, if I’m successful in my mission, you won’t have to explain to the feds why another one of your clients met a tragic end while awaiting trial. You’re getting a reputation as the ‘Typhoid Mary’ of the trial bar.”

  “That’s easy to explain.” Rhoden mounted a bike. “Shit happens.” He pedaled slowly. “Or how about this one? Sometimes bad things happen to bad people. If you want my help, you’ll have to do better than that.”

  “If I go to Mexico, there’s a good chance I don’t come back. Be an opportunity for you to remove a competitor.”

>   Rhoden pedaled faster. The wheels were turning, on the bike and in his head. “Not that you’re any real competition, but it would be nice to….” He let the sentence hang and hopped off the bike. “How do I know you won’t try to steal my client while you’re in Mexico?”

  “If you’re talking about Mariposa, I can’t represent her because I’m on the government’s witness list. I’m barred by this pesky thing called legal ethics. I’ll introduce you to the concept someday.” Cash went on. “If you’re worried about losing La Tigra, I won’t go after her business because, unlike you, I don’t have a death wish.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” Rhoden said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rhoden called Cash the next day. La Tigra would see him, but not make it easy.

  Easy would’ve been for her to send a jet to whisk him straight to a private landing strip at the compound. A couple of hours in the air savoring champagne and caviar, his every need served by a former Miss Sinaloa. Followed by a five-minute limo ride to the mansion. The red-carpet treatment.

  Instead, he flew commercial on his own dime. Aeromexico had a daily flight to Culiacán Airport, with a stop in Mexico City. Burned a full day in transit, thanks to the four-hour layover.

  Cash’s friends from the FBI almost made him miss the flight. After clearing security at DFW Airport, he spotted Maggie Burns beneath a massive electronic arrival/departure board.

  What’s she doing here, and how the hell did she know I’d be here?

  He waved to her. She didn’t wave back.

  The reason for her chilly reception loomed at her side. Bill Graves—general counsel of the Dallas FBI and her office rabbi—glared at Cash. An ex-marine and ex-cop, Graves had attended night law school while on the force. He learned the law of the streets by day, book law by night.

  Night or day, he breathed Bureau.

  Not that Cash’s relationship with Maggie was a big secret. Still, she didn’t flaunt it in front of her colleagues, especially not a father figure like Graves.