Chasing Justice

by H. Terrell Griffin

  “I don’t think I did.”

  “Why not? Would that not have been of some importance to your investigation?”

  “Yes, it’s important, but I had Ms. Madison’s testimony that she saw the scar, and that should have been enough.”

  “Would it have been enough if you had found out that Abby Lester has no such scar?”

  “I don’t understand your question.” He was playing for time, hoping to get an objection from Swann or come up with some plausible answer. He apparently wasn’t going to get either one.

  “Agent Lucas, if there is evidence presented in this court showing that my client does not have a scar on her left hip, or her right one for that matter, will you still stand by your answer that you first heard about the scar the day after the investigation began? Subject yourself to a charge of perjury?”

  “Objection,” Swann said. “Mr. Royal is badgering the witness, he’s argumentative, and there’s no evidence that his client doesn’t have such a scar.”

  “I’ll present the evidence at the proper time, when I put on my case, Your Honor.”

  “Overruled. You may answer the question, Agent Lucas.”

  “I think that’s when I heard about the scar, but I couldn’t swear to it.”

  “As a matter of fact, you never heard about the scar until the break we just finished.”

  “That may be so.”

  “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

  Swann said, “No redirect, Your Honor, and at this time the state will rest its case.”

  I wasn’t too surprised at Swann’s calling it quits. He’d done a professional job of presenting his case without trying to embellish it. I thought I’d defanged him a bit with the last two witnesses, but he’d put all the building blocks of his case into evidence, and in the absence of my being able to pick it apart or show the jury that other people had as much or more motive and opportunity to kill Bannister, he might convince the jury that Abby committed the murder. My case was about to begin, and all I had to do was plant reasonable doubt in the minds of the jurors. I didn’t have to prove Abby’s innocence.

  “Okay,” the judge said, “Do you have motions, Mr. Royal?”

  “I do, Your Honor. May we approach the bench?”

  He waved us up. “Judge, I only have one motion and I can be very quick with it. But I would like to ask the court’s indulgence and recess until tomorrow morning. Mr. Swann has finished more quickly than I had anticipated.”

  “This is quite unusual, Mr. Royal.”

  “I know, Your Honor, but so is the entire case. I’ll be ready to go first thing tomorrow.”

  “Okay. I’ll release the jury.”

  “On another issue,” I said, “I have Agent Lucas under subpoena and would ask the court to instruct him to be available for recall.”

  The judge gave the jury the usual instruction and recessed until nine o’clock on Thursday morning. On the way out of the jury box, the attractive fragrance executive shot me a quick smile.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Once the jury was out of the courtroom, I made a perfunctory motion for a directed verdict of acquittal, which is granted only when the judge thinks there is not enough evidence put on by the state to give the case to the jury. It is a finding as a matter of law that there is not enough evidence to proceed. Swann had put on a pretty good case, hitting all the bases he needed to hit. I’d suckered him on the scar issue, but at this point, it was still a question of fact for the jury. I didn’t expect to win the motion, and the judge ruled against me without even giving Swann a chance to argue.

  I drove the few blocks downtown to meet with Bob Crites and review once again the contracts and other documents that Bob had found in Bannister’s safe deposit box. This was one of those exercises that the trial lawyer knows is probably a waste of time. I most likely wouldn’t need the documents at all, but in case I did, I wanted to be ready. We were spread out in Bob’s conference room, and when we finished with the documents, he left me to prepare for Thursday.

  I had a lot of work to do, other than the documents. I had already been over everything, all the depositions, and the evidence that had been admitted so far in the trial. I went over them again. I worked on the questions I would present to the witnesses, making sure I didn’t leave anything out, and being careful not to make the biggest mistake the trial lawyer can make, asking a question to which he doesn’t know the answer. The trial lawyer’s fear of getting caught on something he had not anticipated, or had not prepared for, was nagging at me. I went over everything I could think of one more time. I expected a lot of fireworks from Swann over the next two days, and those days would be the most crucial since Abby had been charged.

  When I was as prepared as I was going to get, Bob and I walked the couple of blocks to the Two Senoritas Mexican restaurant. I’d missed lunch and my growling stomach would welcome a couple of big burritos. They probably wouldn’t do much for the acid that was rumbling around in my gut, but a cold beer or two might cool it off.

  * * *

  The sun was sinking into the Gulf as I drove onto the key. I decided one more beer wouldn’t hurt me. I called J.D. “You in bed?”

  “It’s not even eight o’clock.”

  “Want to meet for a quick one at the Haye Loft?”

  “Now?”

  “I just crossed the New Pass Bridge.”

  “I’ll meet you there. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a surprise. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  “Meet me in the parking lot. I need a hug.”

  She laughed. “You’re on, sweetie.”

  The last light of the day was moving over the island as I parked under the trees behind the building that housed the Euphemia Haye restaurant on the first floor and the Haye Loft bar on the second. The trees that arched over the shell parking lot blocked most of the waning light. As I parked, another car pulled into the lot and parked facing the road. I locked the Explorer and waited by the car for J.D. to arrive.

  “Mr. Royal, a minute please.” It was a man’s voice coming from a shadow cast by one of the trees that bordered the street. I couldn’t see him. He must have been in the car that arrived right after I did.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Okay.”

  “Over here.”

  “Show yourself.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then we have nothing to talk about,” I said.

  “I’ve got a nine millimeter pistol trained on you, and I’m a good shot. If you don’t get your ass over here, I’ll prove it. And you’ll be dead.”

  “That’ll cut our conversation pretty short, don’t you think?”

  I just needed a little time. J.D. was on her way, and she was always armed. I reached into my pocket and used the speed-dial setting to call her. The man was too far away to hear her answer.

  I heard the muffled voice of J.D. coming from my pocket. “I’m on my way.”

  “So,” I said loud enough for J.D. to hear through the phone, “you’ve got a nine mil and you’re a good shot. I’m standing here in the parking lot like a staked goat. You’re hiding under a tree. Why don’t we just try to talk this out?”

  “I need some information from you, Mr. Royal, but if you don’t cooperate, your being dead will be good enough, I guess.”

  “Are you working for Mark Erickson?”

  The man was silent for a moment and then laughed. “You’re pretty good. A lot better than I expected from a beach bum.”

  I was facing Gulf Bay Drive, the side street on which the parking lot was located. I saw J.D.’s Camry turn off Gulf of Mexico Drive onto Gulf Bay. She slowed almost to a stop and then continued down the road. Maybe she was going to park farther down and sneak back. She’d better hurry or this jerk was going to take his shot.

  “I have my moments,” I said.

  “Well, those moments are over,” he said. And then, he
screamed in pain.

  “Come on over here, podna. Let’s see who this pissant is.”

  “Jock?”

  “Surprise.”

  The screams had turned into low moans. I walked toward the shadows and found Jock Algren, my lifelong best friend, standing over a large man. The tableau reminded me of those pictures you see of Teddy Roosevelt standing over the big game he’d just shot, usually with his booted foot on the carcass. The man on the ground was no carcass. He was moaning and writhing, holding his right arm, which was twisted unnaturally at the elbow, a bone poking out of his lower arm.

  J.D. came running up, a pistol in her hand. “Looks like I’m not needed.” She hugged me. “You okay?”

  “Yes. Nice surprise. Just when I needed him.”

  “Who is this guy?” Jock asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who is this Mark Erickson you mentioned on the phone?” Jock asked.

  “A name that turned up in an investigation of the trial I’m involved in. Never met him.”

  “This isn’t Erickson,” J.D. said. “Erickson is black.”

  “Who are you?” I asked the man on the ground.

  “Fuck you,” he mumbled through clenched teeth.

  Jock kicked him on his broken elbow. The man screamed. “My friend asked you a question,” Jock said.

  “I need a doctor.”

  “Tell us who sent you and what the hell this is all about,” I said, “and we’ll get you to a hospital.”

  “I ain’t got anything to say.”

  Jock kicked his elbow again. The man screamed, and Jock squatted down and put his face close to the injured man’s ear. He sad, “You need to understand something, my friend. You’re going to tell me what I need to know sooner or later. I can keep kicking your elbow, or break something else, or put one of your eyes out, maybe cut your dick off, but you’re going to tell me what I need to know. You think you’re tough? You’ve never seen tough. Until now.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Tell me what I want to know, and we’ll get you to a hospital.”

  The guy evidently believed Jock. He started talking at about the same time I heard a siren. Within moments, a Longboat Key Police cruiser turned onto Gulf Bay Drive and pulled into the parking lot, his blue lights flashing. J.D. went to meet the officer. They chatted for a moment and both walked back toward us.

  “Hey, Matt,” the cop said. It was Sergeant Doug Coffman, an old friend. “J.D. filled me in. Somebody called 911 and said they’d heard screaming coming from the parking lot.”

  “The guy on the ground threatened to shoot me,” I said. “He ended up with a broken arm, a busted elbow, and a shoulder that looks as if it’s out of joint.”

  Doug chuckled. “J.D. tells me our buddy Jock has shown up on the island. Things always get interesting when he’s here.”

  “He took the shooter out. Can you give me a couple more minutes with him?”

  “J.D.’s in charge. Whatever she says.”

  “Doug, can you get an ambulance over here?” J.D. asked. “Get him a ride to the hospital and put him under guard?”

  “No problem.”

  “Let’s keep this one quiet, Doug,” J.D. said. “Nothing that the press can pick up, a blackout on information going out of the hospital. At least for the next couple of days. I’ll do the paperwork in the morning.”

  Jock walked over. “Hey, Doug.” They shook hands.

  “Good to see you, Jock. Glad you were here to pull Matt’s butt out of the fire.”

  I walked back and spent the next few minutes with the man on the ground. He had become very docile and helpful. I don’t think he wanted to spend any more time with Jock.

  * * *

  The three of us were sitting in my living room. We hadn’t felt like going to the Haye Loft after the events in the parking lot. We had all calmed down, the adrenaline shock wearing off. Jock was the calmest of the three of us. He hadn’t even broken a sweat putting the jerk in the parking lot out of commission. I couldn’t help but chuckle at his comments to the guy he’d put down so easily.

  “You’ve never seen tough until now?” I said. “Who do you think you are? Arnold Schwarzenegger?”

  Jock grinned. “All the bad guys watch those action movies. They like that kind of stuff. Makes them think I’m badder than they are.”

  Jock Algren was the toughest man I’d ever met. He and I had grown up together in a small town in Central Florida, two boys from difficult homes who clung together trying to survive the perversity of teen angst and the dysfunctional families who raised us in poverty. We’d stayed close as our careers took us in different directions, Jock into government service and I into the law. Jock was a regular visitor to our key and he’d made a lot of friends on the island.

  Jock had gone straight from college into the U.S. government’s most secretive intelligence agency. He was a spy and a sometime assassin. He did things for the good of our country that often disgusted him, but he was good at what he did, and he understood that in our world there was a need for men like him to protect us all. So he did his duty, and when it was done for a while, he’d come to my cottage on Longboat Key and reset his life. He’d let the horror of what he’d seen and done ooze out of his system, knowing that he was among the people who loved him the most, J.D. and me. We were his family and the key was his place of refuge, a place to recharge and gather the strength to go back to the dark world where he plied his trade.

  “How did you end up here?” I asked. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “I didn’t, either. I got a call this morning from a local cop who had been in touch with a man who needed to be escorted from Houston to Sarasota. He needed to get here quick and in total secrecy. I agreed to help. Can’t very well turn down the local law.”

  If I were in a cartoon, a light bulb would have appeared above my head. “Favereaux?”

  “Yep.”

  “And the cop didn’t happen to be a little cutie from Longboat Key?” I asked.

  “Watch your mouth,” J.D. said. “Favereaux called me this morning and told me that he had followed his wife’s murder case in the papers and knew I’d hit a dead end. I told him I knew she was his daughter and explained to him the DNA hits we’d gotten on Linda and Connie.

  “He told me he was holed up near Houston. He’s been hiding out because he thinks somebody in Homeland Security has been feeding information to the South Florida drug cartels, and he’s afraid they’re looking for him. He’s been following Abby’s trial, and he says he knows what actually happened, and he can’t watch an innocent woman get railroaded. He wanted to testify, so he took a chance and called me. He said he’d come to Sarasota, but he was concerned about his safety. He thinks he knows who the rogue agent is at Homeland, and the rogue’s high enough in the food chain that he would have access to all Favereaux’s aliases. He could also have a watch placed on airlines, so that if Favereaux used his own name or any of the aliases, he’d place himself in great danger. The rogue would be instantly notified and alert the druggies. So, I called Jock. He worked a little magic, and here he is.”

  “Where’s Favereaux?” I asked.

  J.D. grinned. “My condo.”

  “How did you do it, Jock?” I asked.

  “I called Favereaux at the number he’d given J.D. and told him I could get him to Sarasota. I told him my name and asked if he knew Dave Kendall, my boss. He did. I suggested he call Dave. He did and called me back. Dave sent an agency jet for us. Favereaux met me at Hobby airport, and here we are.”

  “Do you think he’ll stick around?” I asked. “He won’t just up and leave?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Jock. “It’s taken him all this time to figure out that there’s a rogue in his agency. He wants to find him and take him out, but he wants to clear up things for Abby first. He’ll be here.”

  “The rogue will disappear as soon as Favereaux shows up to testify,” I said.

  “My
boss is working on that,” said Jock. “He knows the Homeland Security director and they’re having dinner this evening in Washington. Favereaux gave him the name of the man he suspects is the rogue. Homeland will lock him down, and the first move he makes when he finds out that Favereaux is testifying, they’ll have him.”

  “I need to talk to Favereaux,” I said.

  “Let’s go to my place,” J.D. said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Thursday morning, the fourth day of the trial, and it was my turn at bat. This would be the day that would make or break my case, determine the fate of Abby Lester, and perhaps that of her husband and J.D. If Abby were convicted, Bill Lester’s career as a cop would be finished, and depending on how he reacted to me as the one who lost the case, J.D.’s career might go down with Bill’s.

  Jock, J.D., and I had spent a couple of hours the evening before with James Favereaux and then talked late into the night, trying to sort out what we’d learned from Kent Walker, the man who had threatened to shoot me in the Haye Loft parking lot, and figure out how it might play into what we already knew and how I might use it in the trial.

  Walker had told me he worked for Mark Erickson, the University of South Florida professor. Walker’s duties had nothing to do with the university. He was employed by a charitable organization called Unlimited Futures, founded by the Ericksons. J.D. Googled it. The charity’s stated purpose was to assist poor children in Sarasota County with private school and college tuition and to support other charitable organizations that assisted poor children in nearby counties.

  “Did your boss think I was standing in the way of children going to college?” I’d asked Walker as he lay on the parking lot.

  “Guess again,” Walker had said.

  He’d assured me he wasn’t sent to kill me. His job was to bring me to his boss, and then, if necessary, kidnap J.D. and use her as leverage against me. They wanted me to throw the trial. Apparently, my cross-examination of Tori had rattled Erickson. He was afraid that I was moving toward exposing his operation in which Tori played a major role. He thought I knew more than I probably did.