The Legal Limit

by Martin Clark

  Mason sat back down, took the knife by the proper end and began poking at his lemonade again. He ran through the possibilities, picking apart his clue: It could be no more than Hoffman warning him generally to watch his step and keep his yap shut, simply a friend reiterating the basics, a reminder that the state is omnipresent, the walls have ears. More likely, though, it meant Mason was being monitored, his office bugged, perhaps his home or car. Because he had a lawyer’s perpetual fear of eavesdroppers and intercepts, he would never discuss his predicament over the phone, but maybe that was it, a warning not to forget how easily the authorities could obtain a wiretap. He knew they’d miked Gates at the prison, but this was too much song and dance for old news, so he discarded that theory. It was a listening device, not a hidden wire or small camera, so it seemed most likely Hoffman was tipping him about a problem in his house or office. And, of course, it was possible that he—nervous, apprehensive, paranoid—was misreading the policeman’s intent, seeing haunts and shadows where there were none, and the forgotten catalog was merely a forgotten catalog. No question, he’d run it past Custis.

  “What the fuck you think it means, Gilligan?” Custis railed when Mason showed him the picture and informed him of Hoffman’s courtesy trip to Stuart. “Mr. Orwell’s probably at your house and listenin’ to your daughter on the phone tellin’ her friends about crushes and math grades. It’s no piece of cake to invade a lawyer’s business, but who knows, maybe they talked some nimrod judge into a warrant for our office as well.” Mason had left the coffee shop, buttonholed Custis at the end of an arson trial and dragged him into a vacant jury room in the old Main Street courthouse. “From now on,” Custis continued, “no conversations unless we’re positive they can’t bug us.”

  “Well, so far we’ve not discussed anything harmful in the office—it’s been the Coffee Break, your house, your car.”

  “Unfortunately,” Custis said, “come to think of it, maybe we have. We were pretty damn loose with our talk after Hoffman and the Righteous Brothers lit the fuse in your office and left. Can’t say I recall the specifics, but we might’ve been a little too careless.”

  “Oh shit. Yeah. I’d forgotten. Jeez. Like I need something else to worry about.”

  Custis concentrated. “Best I remember, it was more along the lines of how inevitable the indictment was. How they were bluffing. Gates’s lying. We’re probably okay.”

  “I’m pretty hazy on it. The promise of a murder indictment will do that.”

  Custis closed his eyes. “Yeah, goin’ over it again in my mind, I’m not hittin’ on anything they could use to snag you.” He opened his eyes, focusing on Mason.

  “Believe it or not, I actually think Ed’s sort of trying to help.”

  “It’s the best of both worlds for him, Mace, the best of both worlds. He can offer you a sweetheart escape as a friend, and if you pass the test, he did right by you and the system. If you turn him down, he’s got himself a little better feel for the case, another reason as a straight-arrow cop to think you’re guilty.”

  “His charity does put me in a jam, doesn’t it?” Mason smiled. “The instant he made the offer, it occurred to me what a porcupine he’d handed me. But you have to give the devil his due—Ed’s smooth as they come.”

  “Can’t help but like him.”

  “I’d never say squat on the phone about anything, but this is a wrinkle I didn’t anticipate. So I guess it’s fair to assume I’m under surveillance—you see it the same way?”

  “Is it a rookie error to buy an entire CD after you hear the one good song on the radio?” Custis broke with habit and answered his own rhetoric: “Yes. A big yes. Hell yes.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Asshole Bingo was the game, and the students had played it in the larger lecture classes when Mason was enrolled at James Madison University. Without fail, the same suck-ups and brown-nosers would—every single class—raise their hands and ask some rehearsed question designed to get them noticed and show the professor how much they cared about the subject, how deeply they’d delved into the assignment. How smart they were. The trick for these grandstanders was to humbly pose what they perceived to be a profound question while seeming simultaneously confused and consumed by learning’s narcotic majesty. First would come the brilliant soliloquy, next the squinched face, then a calculated pause and, finally, the Socratic payoff. You could always count on a tortured inquiry from Gertrude London, José Perez, Steve Ackerman, Joe Fowles, Eddie Nicholson, Walter Post III, Julie Warriner and the king of the assholes, Roger Patel, whom the students called “Hadji” after the character in the Jonny Quest cartoon.

  It was Emmett Montgomery who invented the game, selling bingo cards with the assholes’ names arranged in squares for two bucks and a chance to win a pot that occasionally went as high as a hundred dollars. Any student could buy a card, and Emmett held the cash and collected a ten percent skim as compensation for serving as czar and commissioner. When an asshole spoke, the corresponding block was marked on the card. Once a player scored an asshole line, he or she had to finish off the win by joining the class discussion and using the word “bingo” in a sentence. As in: “So, like, they find Gatsby dead in a pool and, bingo, all his wealth means nothing,” or “MacArthur fights to the Yalu River and, bingo, he’s done.” The games usually required two or three classes to complete, and the professors had to have known the deal, but they detested Hadji and his gang as much as anybody and never interfered or sought to shut down Emmett’s entertainment.

  He and Mason roomed together their last year at college, and they remained close after graduation, visiting and phoning and showing up for each other’s weddings. Using thirty thousand dollars he’d inherited from his grandmother, Emmett was one of the first people to discover that, hey, wow, there really might be something to this Internet thing and one of the first to also discover that there wasn’t quite as much to this Internet thing as everybody thought. “Pigs get fat, hogs get slaughtered” was his investment mantra, so he dumped his go-go start-up stocks and cyber tulip bulbs well before they crashed, becoming rich enough that he didn’t have a regular job and was able to play tons of golf at pricey courses.

  Not long after Hoffman’s visit, Emmett made the trip from his home in Charlotte to Mason’s farm, bringing with him a month’s worth of research on Caldwell-Dylan. He hugged Grace and made her blush by announcing how gorgeous she was, this despite the “foul, medieval genes” she’d suffered from her father. Emmett was around five eight or nine, and it registered with Mason that his child was almost as tall as his college roommate, a realization that caused him to feel displaced, the victim of a velocity he couldn’t arrest or curtail. The three of them ate together, and after Grace—on her best behavior—cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, Mason and Emmett moved to the den and went directly to business.

  “Looks like a bunch of research,” Mason said, eyeing the thick sheaf of papers on his friend’s lap.

  “Yeah. But I can cut to the chase for you. It’s far more likely than not Mr. Dylan will put on his walking shoes once the grants are exhausted.”

  “Not the news I wanted to hear,” Mason said, truly disappointed. “Damn it.”

  “See, here’s the story. To begin with, even the name of this outfit is candy-coated. Chip-Tech has such a current-sounding ring, suggesting technology and computers and all the bells and whistles designed to make small towns wag their tongues. Truth be told, they will be sort of involved with high-tech operations and basic component assembly. But here’s the rub: guess what they make?”

  “I give up,” Mason said. “I’ve read everything I can lay my hands on, and it seems they make chips and other parts for larger distributors. They claim to have contracts with GE, Whirlpool, two British companies. KitchenAid, I think. I remember sales to twenty or so different countries.”

  “True. Correct. But what they’ll really be doing in Stuart is manufacturing freezer and cooling components, some circuitry, some simple
technical guts to run and regulate various industrial merchandise. Hardly Microsoft.”

  “No surprise there, Emmett. Even I knew the basics from perusing the Internet. This is how you got so rich? Mastering the obvious?” Mason grinned.

  “Here’s what’s not obvious to rookies like you, Slugger. Caldwell-Dylan routinely sets up shop in smaller, distressed towns. Places aching for business, with giant aspirations and whopping grants to spend. The secret is, Caldwell-Dylan’s most noteworthy client is a corporation called Aegis Integrated Systems.”

  “I hope your reservations aren’t political, Emmett. The county needs the jobs, and I’m not interested in taking a quixotic ethical stand. Sorry.”

  Emmett chuckled. “Why am I not shocked? Nope, no worries there. The problem for you guys is simple. Aegis is wholly owned by Caldwell-Dylan. He sells to himself.”

  “So?”

  “So, he sells to himself cheap. Extremely cheap. He’ll design your plant to manufacture what he needs for his major-market products at the parent company, use your grant money to subsidize the loss at Chip-Tech and run as fast as he can once you’re bled dry. As a result, Caldwell-Dylan can undersell its rivals. For window dressing, he’ll engage in small-potatoes contracts with other firms—probably break even on those deals. Five years from now, one of his minions will appear before your town fathers, invite them to audit the books and whine about losing money. Tough business environment, he’ll say. The numbers will confirm the loss. Then you’re in a bind, Slugger. He’s hooked you. Give him more money, more incentives, or he leaves and the bubble bursts. The employees, now accustomed to decent wages and maybe even basic health insurance, will raise hell with the politicians and the local panjandrums. Can’t blame people for wanting to keep a good job.”

  “So he doesn’t care if we fold?”

  “Not really. Think of it like this: you may as well hand him half the grant in cash and let him pocket it.”

  “Pretty damn clever,” Mason said.

  “Clever, legal, aggressive. After spending a little time with your friend Mr. Dylan, I bought his stock. Thanks for the tip.” Emmett smiled and tossed his papers onto the floor. “By the way, I’ll wager he’s expecting cash from other sources, too. I doubt he’s stopped his panhandling with just the Tobacco Commission request. There’s so much of this money floating around these days. It’s a racket, especially if your training costs and start-up expenses are minimal. Watch the news, Mason. The minute the ink dries on this deal, he’ll padlock an identical plant either in Florida or in South Carolina, truck it here and bring his managers along with it. They’re like a traveling carnival troupe.”

  “So we’re a temporary stop?”

  “Definitely,” Emmett declared. “His plants with long histories in the same place are the terminal producers, much farther down the line. You’re not. The Stuart location will be expendable.”

  “But we’d at least have the jobs for several years?”

  “Oh yeah. He’ll hire your people and pay them okay until the government’s not underwriting him any longer. He wants a competent labor force, which he’ll find here, especially since people are so anxious to have a job. They’ll bust their asses for him. Another reason he selects locales with tons of unemployment. He likes the Loretta Lynn, Pentecostal poor because of their eagerness.” Emmett leaned over and tidied the pack of papers. “Hope I’ve been helpful,” he said when he finished. “Sorry I can’t be any more optimistic.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate all the insight. I doubt I would’ve seen behind the wide-angle shots on the glossy brochure.”

  “The upside, though, is this visit with my home-run-hitting roommate and his daughter. How’re you doing? You seem a little, I don’t know, faded.”

  “Hunky-dory, Emmett. Top of the world.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was near midnight, June, in the middle of the week, and Custis had driven the Caddy to Mason’s farm and knocked-knocked-knocked-knocked on the front door until the porch lit and Mason appeared, disheveled and shoeless, his shirt’s buttons out of sequence and the collar folded inside itself. Custis was wearing a Panama hat, a Grambling football jersey, loose jeans and sneakers. “Sorry to disturb you, Mace,” he announced the instant the door opened. “But I found a major snag in our case tomorrow. Needs your immediate attention, so I brought the file with me. You mind takin’ a look and see if you can offer some advice? It’s in the car, or I can lug it to your kitchen—it’s a gigantic file.” He puckered his mouth and pointed toward the vehicle with a subtle finger laid against his chest.

  “I’ll walk with you to the car. No need to wake Grace. School tomorrow, you know.” Mason rubbed his eyes.

  “Who’s there?” Grace yelled from upstairs. “Everything okay?”

  “It’s Custis,” he told her, gaining on his senses. “A work question. Go back to sleep.” He leaned close to his friend. “Excellent timing, huh?” he whispered, a hand partitioning off his mouth. “We should be in espionage, quick as I am on my feet.”

  They settled into the car, shut the doors and sealed the windows. Custis cranked the engine and tuned the radio to an AM talk show. He was excited. “I wanna hear you say it,” he instructed Mason, the volume in his voice held underneath the gabbing from the radio program. “Say, ‘Custis Norman is Superfly.’”

  “Custis Norman is Superfly,” Mason repeated dully.

  “A little call-and-response before I dazzle you with my wisdom. Shout it righteous. Let me hear you proclaim it. Say, ‘Custis Norman is Superfly.’”

  “Custis Norman is Superfly,” Mason intoned.

  “Say, ‘He’s a genius, smarter than Dr. Carver, slicker than Clinton, more mojoed than Miles.’”

  “Could we do that one in segments, Reverend?” Mason asked, playing along. “You’re asking me to remember a whole lot of new material.”

  “I’ve conquered the Gates issue,” Custis informed him, his tone enthusiastic, straining at the seams but still contained within the sound of the radio conversation.

  “No shit? Really? How?” Mason wiggled himself higher in the leather seat.

  “Okay. Here we go. This would be me earnin’ that heavy-duty fifty-buck fee you paid me. Remember Otis Jernigan, the dumb cracker we sent to the joint for all those burglaries?”

  “Yeah. Mean, worthless, lazy. Been in jail most of his life. Always claims to be cheated by the system and never accepts responsibility no matter how guilty he is.”

  “Exactly,” Custis said. “And remember what he promised you last he was in court? How he’d never rest till he got even with you for prosecutin’ him?”

  Mason grinned. “He says that every time. Does the same diatribe as they drag him away kicking and screaming.”

  “This afternoon I received a call from an assistant in the Powhatan Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office. Seems our boy Otis decided to make good on his threat. About a month ago he discovered your brother was servin’ time with him, and he—dumb shit that he is—sticks Gates with a plastic fork and bashes him with a lunch tray.”

  “Shame we didn’t know in advance. We could’ve upgraded his arsenal.”

  “Obviously, Otis isn’t aware you and your brother despise each other. This was his big payback.”

  “I thought they took steps to keep Gates away from our convicts.”

  “Generally they do, Mason. I asked the very same question. But let’s not forget we’re dealin’ with the Department of Corrections, and he’s been there for years. Shit happens. I mean, hell’s bells, Corrections ain’t much more than DMV with Tasers and riot batons. How huge a surprise is it they make a mistake?”

  “So why’s this helping me?”

  “Patience, my man. They’re tryin’ Otis soon for the assault. Gates will be a witness. They called here to confirm the threat. Naturally, they want to show Otis’s motive, why he selected your brother. They’ve agreed you and I can do an affidavit so we won’t have to trudge to Powhatan.”

  “Even if
we volunteered to go in person,” Mason said, anticipating Custis’s plan, “I doubt we’d have a chance at Gates without setting off every alarm and trip wire known to man. I suppose there’s a slim possibility they might sequester the witnesses and we’d all end up together, but most likely they’ll keep him in a holding cell, have him testify and return him to the pen. Not to mention there’ll be other people around—cops, inmates, lawyers.”

  “Here’s the Norman stroke: My cousin’s husband is a deputy in Henrico County. They’re next door with business in Powhatan several times a month, no big thing. Regularly in and out of both the courtroom and the jail. He slips Gates a cell phone. Maybe in the holding area, maybe as he’s visitin’ the john, maybe as he’s standin’ around waitin’ for the prison van. Gates hits redial and you’re on the other end. You probably won’t have too long, but at least you can take his temperature.”

  “Phone records?” Mason asked.

  “We use Inez’s phone and my brother’s. I’ll arrange it.”

  “Can we trust your in-law?”

  “Yes, we can. And supposin’ we can’t, the worst he can do is say he handed your brother a phone at my request.”

  “Hmmm.” Mason extended his arms toward the roof, stretching as much as he could in the interior. “Maybe.”

  “It’s not all the way uptown, but it’s not Baltic Avenue either. He won’t be wired, I doubt he’ll have a minder and we’ll catch him by surprise. Even if Minter or Hoffman should somehow learn where he’s goin’ to be, they won’t be hangin’ around in the holding cells.”

  “Why’re you so confident of a distant in-law’s loyalty? A cousin’s husband?”