Chasing Justice

by H. Terrell Griffin

  “Was there something you didn’t understand about my ruling, Mr. Swann?”

  “I understood it, Your Honor, but—”

  The judge cut him off again. “Then sit down, Mr. Swann. I’ve ruled.”

  I smiled to myself. Old Wayne Lee hadn’t changed. He ran a tight courtroom. Most good trial lawyers appreciated that. Nonsense wasn’t allowed, and woe be unto the lawyer who engaged in it. Thomas would cut him off at the knees and not worry a whole lot about the mess a couple of bloody stumps would leave in the jury’s mind.

  “You may proceed, Mr. Royal,” the judge said.

  “Thank you, Your Honor. How did you come to be assigned to the case, Agent Lucas?”

  “I was already in Sarasota on another matter, and my supervisor called me and asked me to get involved.”

  “What time of day did you decide to arrest Abby Lester?”

  “After we reviewed all the evidence and had agreed to rule out the other people whose fingerprints were in the condo. About mid-afternoon, I’d say.”

  “About three o’clock yesterday afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, by then, the fingerprints had been identified as belonging to Abby,” I said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Had you found the emails by then?”

  “Sarasota PD had those. Yes, sir.”

  “Who made the decision to arrest Abby?”

  “I did.”

  “And that was based on the fingerprints and the emails?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did the technicians find any other fingerprints in the victim’s condo?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Of how many people, Agent?”

  “About ten.”

  “Have you identified any of those?”

  “Yes. Most of them, I think.”

  “Did you arrest those people?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why would we?”

  “Well, you ordered Abby’s arrest based on the fingerprints, didn’t you?”

  “And the emails.”

  “Did you find Abby’s finger prints anywhere in Mr. Bannister’s condo other than on the wine glass in the bedroom?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Didn’t you find that odd? Wouldn’t you have expected to find her prints in other parts of the condo?”

  “Not necessarily. With the exception of the glasses Mr. Bannister and Mrs. Lester were drinking out of, all the glasses and dishes had been washed. There were no prints of anyone on them.”

  I switched gears. “How did you know the emails came from Abby?”

  Lucas couldn’t help himself. He chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe because she signed them?”

  “You mean she had an electronic signature attached to them?”

  “No. She just typed her name at the bottom of the emails.”

  “Including the email that contained the threat to kill Mr. Bannister?”

  “Yes.”

  “Couldn’t someone else have done the same thing? Typed her name in?”

  “Why would anybody do that?” Lucas asked.

  “Why would anybody as smart as a high-school history teacher like Abby put her name at the bottom of an email threatening to kill the man she was supposedly having an affair with?”

  “You’d have to ask her,” Lucas said.

  I let the silence hang for a moment. “I have,” I said.

  I shuffled some papers, letting the silence run on for another few seconds. “Agent Lucas, why did you wait twelve hours, until three in the morning to arrest Abby?”

  “It’s safer to arrest somebody in the middle of the night.”

  “Safer than going to her house at a reasonable hour in the afternoon, or the next morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you afraid she was going to shoot you? Maybe beat you up?”

  “You never know, Counselor.”

  “No, I guess not. Not when you’re after a hardened criminal. Or a history teacher. Did you confiscate Abby’s computer?”

  “There was only one computer in the house, and we got it.”

  “Were you able to determine if Abby used that computer?”

  “She did.”

  “Did you look at her emails? The ones she’d sent from her computer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you find copies of the emails she’d supposedly sent to Mr. Bannister?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t you find that odd?”

  “Not particularly. She could have erased them.”

  “Do you know who her Internet service provider is, Agent Lucas?”

  “Verizon.”

  “And any emails she sent from her computer would have gone through Verizon, right?”

  “That’s my understanding.”

  “And wouldn’t Verizon have had all that information stored somewhere?” I asked.

  “Supposedly.”

  “Did you reach out to Verizon to see if they could track the emails?”

  “One of the technicians did.”

  “And did Verizon have that information?”

  Lucas looked over at Swann, as if waiting for some direction. He got nothing. He looked back at me. “I’m told that Verizon had no record of any emails between the defendant and the victim.”

  When one is ahead, one sits down and shuts up. “Nothing further, Your Honor,” I said.

  “Redirect, Mr. Swann?” Judge Thomas asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you have any witnesses, Mr. Royal?”

  “Perhaps, Your Honor. I’d like to put my client on the stand to testify about her ties to the community, which goes to the risk of her fleeing the jurisdiction of this court and which is germane to your decision on my motion for bail. However, I’d like a stipulation, or better yet, an order from you, that the only testimony elicited from my client would have to do with her residency and such and that this would not prejudice in any way her right not to testify at trial, if she decides not to take the stand.”

  “Will you so stipulate, Mr. Swann?” the judge asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I rule that the defendant can testify and no prejudice will attach. Mr. Swann, you may not examine on the merits of this case.”

  The judge swore in my client. I stood and directed my questions to Abby. “State your name for the record, please.”

  “Abigail Lester.”

  “Where do you reside?”

  She gave her address on Longboat Key.

  “That’s in Sarasota County?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I went through a litany of questions and elicited that she had lived her entire life in Sarasota County, graduated from Sarasota High School and gone to college at the University of South Florida’s Sarasota campus. She had taught in the Sarasota County school system for seventeen years and had been married to Bill Lester, the Longboat Key chief of police, for fifteen years. Her father was dead and her mom lived in Sarasota in the house where Abby had been raised.

  When I finished, Swann said that he had no questions.

  Judge Thomas looked at his notes for a moment and then said, “I’m going to grant bail of one hundred thousand dollars with conditions. Mrs. Lester, you will have to wear an ankle monitor that will alert the sheriff’s office if you go more than one hundred feet from the base unit that will be in your home. If you need to leave your home for any reason, such as meeting with your attorney or going to the doctor, you will need to get permission from the probation officer who will be assigned to you. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Abby said.

  “Anything else, gentlemen?” the judge asked.

  “Your Honor,” I said. “Can you order the sheriff’s department to set up the monitoring system today so that we can get my client released?”

  “I’ll transmit the order within a half hour or so. You should be able to take her h
ome today.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “Anything further?”

  Swann and I both said no.

  “Court is dismissed,” the judge said, and the TV screen went blank.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was almost five o’clock when J.D. called the Haycock home. Lyn answered. “It’s good to hear from you, J.D.,” she said. “How have you and Matt been?”

  “We’re fine, Lyn, but I need to come by and talk to you and Mike.”

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s part of an investigation I’m involved in.”

  “Well, sure, J.D.,” Lyn said, a bit hesitantly. “You’re always welcome. You know that. Mike just called to tell me he’s on his way. He should be home in a few minutes. Come on over now, if you’d like. Is this about Linda Favereaux?”

  “It’s not a big deal, but I’m just trying to get a little background on her and her husband. Sammy told me you’d had dinner together recently, and I thought maybe you could shed some light on them.”

  “I’m not sure how much we can help, but I bought a bottle of Villa Maria Sauvignon Blanc from Publix this morning.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  * * *

  Mike and Lyn lived in a bayfront townhouse not far from the police station. They were gracious hosts who threw Super Bowl parties that had become legendary. Mike, who was nearing retirement, was an executive with a multinational company with offices in Bradenton. He and Lyn had lived on the island for a number of years and had no plans to leave.

  “Sit down, J.D.,” Lyn said. “I’ll get you a glass of wine.”

  “I shouldn’t. I’m still on duty.”

  “We won’t tell,” Mike said.

  “Well, then,” J.D. said, “you talked me right into it.”

  “Lyn said you’ve been talking to Sammy.”

  J.D. nodded. “Everybody on the island knows if you need to know something about anyone, Sammy’s the source.”

  Mike laughed. “You can say that again. I’m afraid we can’t be much help. We didn’t really know the Favereauxes that well.”

  “How long have you known them?” J.D. asked.

  Mike looked at Lyn. “A year, maybe?”

  “That’s about right,” Lyn said. “We met them at the bar at Pattigeorge’s one night, but they weren’t regulars. We saw them a few times after that, and a couple of weeks ago, Jim invited us to dinner. That’s how we ended up at Euphemia Haye.”

  “Did they tell you anything about their backgrounds?”

  “No,” Mike said. “I did ask what he did, and he told me he was retired. When I asked what he’d done before, he just said he had been an investor. He sounded sort of guarded, but that might have been my imagination. I didn’t push it.”

  “How did they seem together? Any animosity, that sort of thing?” J.D. asked.

  “There was quite an age difference,” Lyn said, “but I didn’t see that there was a problem. Linda said they’d been married about twenty years, so I guess it was working. But, well, I probably shouldn’t say anything.”

  “You never know what might help,” J.D. said.

  “I just felt like there was some kind of barrier between them. I can’t put my finger on it, but there seemed to be, maybe not a barrier, but some distance or something. You know how married couples are. There’s an easiness between them, something unspoken. I can’t explain it, and I probably ought to keep my mouth shut, but it left me feeling like I was out with two people who were friends, not mates. Does this make any sense?”

  “Actually, it does,” J.D. said. “I’ve met people like that. You just know intuitively that something’s not right. Like maybe it was more of a business proposition. He needed or wanted a trophy wife, and she liked his money.”

  “That could be,” Lyn said, “but it seemed a little more than that.”

  “Have you heard anything about Linda having an affair?” J.D. asked.

  Mike laughed. “That didn’t exactly come up at dinner.”

  J.D. smiled, “I guess not.”

  “But, that might explain my feelings about them,” Lyn said. “Like maybe their relationship was a bit strained.”

  The Haycocks had nothing else to add. The conversation moved on to mutual friends, Sammy’s new job, and his most recent girlfriend, the latest in a long line of beautiful women.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  J.D. and I were having a quiet dinner on the sunporch of her condo overlooking Sarasota Bay. It was nearing eight o’clock and we were both tired. The sun was setting over the Gulf, its dying rays reflecting off the low-lying clouds to the east, painting the still waters with a patina of liquid gold.

  We had gone over my day, and she was telling me about hers. I was fascinated by this wondrous creature who loved me. She was tall, about five-seven, and her daily workouts kept her slender and shapely. Her dark shoulder-length hair framed a face that in another time would have graced a Grecian urn. Her green eyes twinkled with good humor, and when occasion demanded, flashed with anger. Her smile was a high-wattage killer, her laugh big and contagious.

  My cell phone rang. I answered. “This is Matt Royal.”

  “This is Matt Walsh.”

  “Hello, Matt.”

  “Hello, Matt.”

  It was our shtick, a silly greeting between old friends. He often reminded me that he was older than I, and thus had seniority in the use of the name. Matt Walsh was an old-school journalist and the publisher of one of our local weekly newspapers, the Longboat Observer. “I’ve just had a troubling telephone conversation with Stan Strickland, the agent in charge of the Tampa FDLE office,” he said.

  “Troubling how?”

  “One of my reporters called him earlier today about the Abby Lester case. He wouldn’t talk to her because he would be breaking all kinds of rules if it got out that he was giving a reporter any information. So he called me.”

  “Why call you?” I asked.

  “He’s an old acquaintance. We met several years ago through Kiwanis, and we run into each other occasionally. He said there was some funny stuff going on with this case, and he’s tired of the pressure he gets from people in high places. That, and the fact that he trusts me to keep my mouth shut on what he called deep background.”

  “And you’re calling me?”

  “I told him that you and the Lesters were friends of mine, and if what he had to tell me would have an impact on Abby’s case, I would want to be able to discuss it with the three of you. He wouldn’t agree to let me talk to the Lesters, but he said I could pass it on to you. He said he’d be protected by the attorney-client privilege, and you couldn’t talk about what he had to say.”

  “Actually, the work-product privilege would protect the information, but it serves the same purpose. I can keep it all confidential. What did he have to say?”

  “He’s not happy with the agent investigating Abby’s case.”

  “Wes Lucas,” I said.

  “That’s the one. Apparently, there’s some bad blood between Strickland and Lucas.”

  “Then why assign Lucas the case?”

  “Lucas told Strickland he wanted it, and Strickland felt he had to give it to him. It seems that Lucas has some highly placed friends, and what Lucas wants, Lucas gets. Strickland is sick of dealing with it, and thinks that maybe a little publicity about how Lucas barged into the Lester case might have some effect on the higher-ups who are pulling the strings.”

  “Highly placed in FDLE?” I asked.

  “Higher than that.”

  “Did he tell you who?”

  “He doesn’t know, but he’s had pressure before when he tried to discipline Lucas for stepping over the line in cases he was working.”

  “Lucas said he was in Sarasota working on another matter when FDLE was called in. That’s the reason he was assigned to Bannister’s murder.”

  “Strickland says that wasn’t the way it happened. Lucas called him on the morning the body was discov
ered and said he wanted to be the lead investigator. The thing is, Lucas called before Strickland even knew there was a murder.”

  “That’s strange. I wonder if Lucas was in Sarasota and heard about the case and Abby’s possible involvement.”

  “Don’t know, but Strickland said Lucas was very insistent that he get the assignment.”

  “Are you going to follow up on this?” I asked.

  “Maybe. But, Matt, I won’t be able to keep you informed on what we find. If I can print it, you’ll see it, but I can’t let my people become part of your investigation.”

  “I understand, and I appreciate your calling me on this. Do you think it’d be okay for me to talk to Strickland?”

  “I don’t see why not. He specifically gave me permission to talk to you.”

  “Thanks, Matt.”

  “You’re welcome, Matt.” The line went dead.

  I told J.D. what Walsh had said. “Lucas must have a direct line into Sarasota PD. Somebody’s leaking him information.”

  “Maybe not,” she said.

  “I don’t know of any other way he could have known about the murder so soon.”

  “Unless he was part of the murder and the framing of Abby in the first place.”

  I hadn’t thought about that possibility. “You have a devious mind. I wonder, though. You might be onto something. I’ll look into it.”

  “I’d like to know who is protecting a scumbag like Lucas,” she said.

  “So would I. What were we talking about when Walsh called?”

  “My murder case. I haven’t heard back from New Orleans on my record request. I don’t know if the files on Darlene Pelletier even exist, or whether everybody out there is just too lazy to look for them.”

  “What are you hoping to find?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just stirring the pot, hoping some bit of information will float to the top. I have nothing at this point, except that the husband has disappeared. We’ve tagged his credit cards, but there have been no hits anywhere. Late this afternoon, Tampa PD found his car in a long-term parking lot at Tampa International, but nobody named James Favereaux has taken a flight out of there since last Friday. And we know he was home on Friday afternoon when the maid left for the day.”

  “Nothing else from the DEA?”