Dark Money

by Larry D. Thompson

  “Now, tell me again what we are looking for?” he asked.

  “We’re looking for this number. That should be the person who called you about the contract.”

  As he scrolled through September, J.D. said, “Stop. There it is twice. Someone at that number called you and you called back two days later. Do you see a call to or from Crossmore?”

  By now Bernard was all in. “No, that’s not his regular number. See here.” He scrolled to July and August. “That’s the number I would call when I had, uh, something I wanted him to look at.” He scrolled back to September. “Just a minute. Now I remember. He said he bought one of those burner phones. I think that must be it.”

  “Okay, let me check these phone records for that burner phone number,” J.D. said. He flipped through several pages of paper until he found September. “Son of a bitch, there it is. We’ve got our suspect calling you twice and twice to Crossmore’s burner phone.” He glanced at his watch and turned to Ike. “It’s too late to call my dad. He’s had a long week. Besides,” he smiled, “I’d like to see the look on his face when we show him what we found. Bernard, pack clothes for about four days. You’re spending the night with us at the Marriott. Oh, and print off those cell phone records. We’re flying to Fort Worth in the morning.”

  “I don’t need to stay at the Marriott. I’ll be right here.”

  J.D. shook his head. “Look, Bernard, We’ve already had too many killings, two right here in New Orleans. I don’t want to take a chance that we’ve been followed and find you dead in the morning. Get your stuff.”

  73

  Jack turned his pickup into the RV parking lot at 9:30, figuring that Cecil would have the information delivered at the last minute. Getting there thirty minutes early should be plenty of time. He checked his rear view mirror and noted that Hartley was behind him. Might as well have the press witness the occasion. As he parked, he looked on the steps of the RV. No package. No surprise. He presumed that someone would have to sign for it. He climbed down from his pickup, took his cane from behind the seat and patted Lucille on the fender like she was a member of the family. In fact, she was.

  Hartley was walking toward him when it happened. The RV was hit with an explosion that lifted it off its wheels. The front windows blew out. The armor panels were blown away like missiles. He and Hartley had to duck as a large piece of one flew at them. A second explosion erupted, strong enough to lift the RV off the ground several feet and lay it on its side. The second blast knocked Jack and Hartley to the ground with more pieces of debris clattering around them like a giant hail storm.

  Jack moved to a sitting position and removed a piece of metal from his leg. “Dammit. That was my good leg.”

  Hartley sat up, his face bleeding from a nasty cut on his forehead. They both struggled to their feet. Jack’s cane was nowhere to be found. “Here, let me look at that cut,” he said to Hartley. He wiped the reporter’s hair away and pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, to wipe the blood from his forehead. “I saw a ton of these in my army days. Forehead wounds bleed even when they’re not serious. You’ll be okay. Here, hold this handkerchief over it for now.”

  “You okay?” Hartley asked.

  “I’m going to have a sore shin for a few days, but that’s all. Sure could use my cane right about now.” Jack limped over to survey the RV. “Shit. Damn thing is destroyed.” He bent over to pick something up. “Look here.” He showed Hartley the cardboard sign that seemed to be the only thing that survived intact. LAWYER; NO FEE. “Looks like I’ll be out of the pro bono business for a while. Takes months to outfit one of these damn things with armor.”

  “Jack,” Hartley asked, “what about the SOS contributor information?”

  “I suspect that’s the reason for the explosion. Someone didn’t want us to have it.”

  “Only, you just said that someone would probably have to sign for it.”

  “Maybe I’m wrong. That’s how I would have done it. Christiansen might have thought differently. Maybe he had it delivered to the mail slot beisde the door.”

  “How would they know it got here?”

  “Haven’t figured that out. I suppose the delivery service could report it was done by cell or text.”

  “Christiansen?”

  “No. He’s a tough bastard, but he wouldn’t do this. Someone on that list didn’t want to be known.”

  Jack heard a noise and looked up to see Moe stepping through the debris, coming from the ice house. Sirens could also be heard coming up North Main.

  “Jack, you all right? Anyone hurt?”

  “We’re fine. I banged up my shin and Hartley has a cut on his forehead. All things considered, that’s not bad.”

  “I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks. I’ve been reading about your big trial.”

  “I moved home until that one is over. I came down here today because there was supposed to be a delivery by ten this morning.”

  “Wait, wait. I’ll be right back.” Moe turned to pick through the debris to his icehouse as a firetruck turned into the parking lot, followed by an ambulance.

  An assistant chief jumped from the passenger side. “Anyone hurt here.”

  “Nothing serious, Chief.”

  He asked Hartley to remove the handkerchief from his forehead. “We’ll get a compression bandage on that. You feel light-headed, dizzy? You lose consciousness, even for a few seconds?” He motioned to an EMT.

  “Naw, Chief. I know about concussions. I don’t have one.”

  The other firefighters had pulled hoses from the truck and hooked one up to a hydrant on the corner in front of Moe’s. “If you’ll back up, we’re going to put out those fires, throw water on that gasoline that’s leaking from the back and soak everything to make sure there are no hot spots.” As they did, two cop cars arrived, followed closely by reporters and televisions trucks, the ones with telescoping aerials.

  Moe dodged the spray from the hoses and joined Jack and Hartley. “Here, this was delivered about nine this morning. I was just setting up for the day. The delivery guy said that someone had to sign for it. Asked me to do it.” Moe handed him an envelope. Jack looked at the outside and ripped it open and extracted a flash drive. A smile enveloped his face when he did so. He turned to Hartley. “I’m going to set a little trap for Christiansen. I’ll use the media and then place a call to him. You’re in on this; so, you can’t let on what I have in my pocket.”

  Hartley nodded his understanding as reporters and cameras circled around. “Mr. Bryant, what happened here?”

  “It’s pretty obvious. Someone blew up my RV.”

  “Couldn’t it have been a fuel leak or something?”

  Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Anything’s possible, but some of you were in court yesterday. You know I was supposed to get the information about SOS and Stepper this morning. Now I got nothing but a blown up RV. If you’ll excuse me, the Northside police are waiting to talk to me.” Jack went with them to a police car and sat in the back while they questioned him. After thirty minutes, they excused him. As Jack got out of the car, he could hear one of the officers calling in the bomb squad.

  Jack made his way through the reporters with a series of “no more comments,” climbed in his truck and wove through the maze of firetrucks, police cars, media vehicles and debris to the street. Once on it, he picked up his cell phone and dialed Christiansen’s cell.

  “Jack, you get my delivery this morning?”

  “You’ll be seeing it on the news in a couple of hours. My RV was blown all to hell. Your delivery was probably in it. Can I get you to send me another flash drive?”

  Silence on the other end.

  “I’ve got a text message from the delivery service, saying that someone named Moe signed for my delivery at nine this morning. Once is enough. I’ve complied with the court’s order. If you want to take it up with the judge, do so on Monday. Have a good weekend.”

  Jack grinned. Christiansen had stepped into his trap. Next, he
pulled to the side just as he passed the courthouse. He figured that J.D. was on the way back and didn’t want him to worry once he landed and heard the news. He sent a text. All he said was, “I’m fine. See you at the house.”

  When he arrived home and parked, Colby rushed from the house and wrapped him in a bear hug. “You all right? I just saw it on the news.”

  Jack shook his head. “I have another banged up leg. It should be all right in a few days. Otherwise I’m fine. Boy, those reporters get the news out fast these days.”

  “I saw what was left of your RV. I’m sorry. But, if you had gotten there five minutes sooner, you wouldn’t be standing here.” Tears came to her eyes.

  Jack kissed her. “I’d wipe those tears away, but last I saw my handkerchief, Hartley was using it as a compress on his forehead.”

  “My God, is he hurt?”

  “He’s fine. May have a slight scar. That’s all.”

  As they walked across the driveway, Jack’s cell rang. He took a look at the caller i.d. and said, “I’m fine.”

  “I got your text,” J.D. said. “Ike and I just landed. We’ve got Bernard with us. I’m dropping them by Ike’s house. Then I’ll be home. You’re going to be even better when you see what I have.”

  Driving from DFW, which was halfway to Dallas, it was forty-five minutes before J.D. arrived at the house.

  Colby handed him coffee in a giant mug when he came through the back door.

  “About time you got here,” Jack groused goodnaturedly, “I brought your laptop down to the dining room.” He handed him the flash drive and told him what had happened, including his slight lie to Christiansen.

  J.D. took a sip of coffee before he sat in front of his computer. “Wait a minute. Before we start searching for stuff about contributors, look at this.”

  He pulled Bernard’s cell records from a manila folder. “Check early September last year and compare the records with O’Connell’s.”

  Jack studied them, flipping back and forth. He finally looked up with a smile on his face. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Well said. I’ve got Bernard holed up with Ike. We can put him on the stand, if you need him.”

  Jack high-fived his son. “I’ll have to call Joe and work out some kind of plea if we do. Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it. Now, let’s see what we can find on this flash drive.”

  74

  Jack decided to start the day on Monday with Governor Lardner. When called, he strolled in from the hallway, a politician overflowing with confidence, no matter what the situation. He stood in front of Judge Jamison and raised his hand for the oath without prompting and then turned to the jury. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

  The jurors, most of whom voted Republican, were thrilled to be so close to the governor and potential presidential candidate, replied in unison, “Good morning, Governor Lardner.”

  Jack had a more noticeable limp as he walked to the podium, still feeling the effects of the weekend bombing. He took the governor through the events of the day that led up to the fundraiser. Jack didn’t know until he asked a random question that there was a pre-party reception for a number of the high rollers in the governor’s suite on the second floor. O’Connell wanted to make sure that the big dogs got a little face time with the governor, figuring that it would pay off in pledges later in the evening.

  “Governor, what was your reaction when you entered the ballroom that night.”

  Lardner smiled ruefully. “I was overwhelmed. I thought ‘Walt tried to talk me out of this and now look what I’ve got myself in for’.”

  “Were you worried?”

  The governor paused while he took himself back to that night. “All of these people in costumes and masks. I knew some of them had real guns. So, damn right I was, but I couldn’t turn and walk away at that point, so I smiled and started shaking hands as the detail led the way to the stage.

  “Once we got there and I made my speech, I started thinking that these are all fine Republicans. Not likely to be any problem. Boy, was I wrong.”

  “Do you remember much about being hit?”

  Lardner again thought for a few seconds. “Not really. I felt the pain in my left side and then I was going in and out. I remember voices and bright lights and being dragged off the stage. That’s about it.”

  Jack knew the jurors wanted to have an answer to the next question. For that matter, Lardner wanted to make it clear himself. “Have you made a complete recovery from your injuries?”

  No hesitation. “Absolutely. I lost a lot of blood. That was because the bullet went in my left side and punctured my spleen. In case you don’t know, ladies and gentlemen, when the spleen is traumatized, you’re going to lose a lot of blood.”

  Several of the jurors nodded their understanding.

  “I actually lost my spleen, but it’s one of those organs you can do without. So, I still run five miles a day and go to the shooting range every weekend. With my pistol at twenty-five feet, I’m damn near as good as that woman who shot me.”

  “That brings up an interesting question, Governor. Since you’re a marksman yourself, if that woman had wanted to kill you, you figure she could have done so.”

  “In a heartbeat. She was apparently a trained killer and also had studied human anatomy. I suspect she was told to wound, not kill me.”

  Jack said nothing for several moments while the jury absorbed what the governor had just said. “Pass the witness, Your Honor.”

  Christiansen tapped his pen on the table while he thought. This was the governor. No way should a lawyer attempt to impeach him. “No questions, Judge.”

  Jack called his retired Texas Ranger next. Bart Scurlock removed his ten gallon white hat as he entered the courtroom. He was not long and lanky. In fact, he was somewhat overweight, for which he apologized when he took the stand. He blamed it on too little activity in retirement and his wife’s good cooking. He did have that bushy white mustache that Jack had visualized.

  Jack had him describe his forty years in law enforcement, the last twenty-five as a Ranger. He was a captain, overseeing South Texas when he retired. When asked his opinion of the events of the night in question, he turned to face the jury, his sky blue eyes and demeanor capturing their attention. In fact, if asked, most of the jurors would have had a difficult choice as to whether it was more exciting to see the governor or a real, live Texas Ranger up close and personal.

  He explained that no member of the protective detail or, for that matter, the Fort Worth cops or even the security guards should bear any responsibility for the tragic events that unfolded that night. Whoever arranged for the shootings had to have known it was going to be a costume party. Whoever made the decision to have all those people crowded into the ballroom with masks and even some carrying guns, that was the person to blame. Once the decision was made to hire an assassin, the die was cast.

  His words carried the authority of a Texas Ranger. In the eyes of the jury, his opinions were powerful. Christiansen knew he had to do something to attack his credibility. About all he could do was establish that the Ranger was being paid $300 an hour for his time as an expert and, as a Ranger, he had also been a member of the DPS. The Ranger conceded both points, shrugging his shoulders and saying that neither impacted his testimony. As he stepped down from the stand and picked up his hat that had been carefully placed in front of him, something happened that Jack had never witnessed.

  He walked past the man in the first chair on the front row of the jury. The juror stood to honor one of the most revered lawmen in the state. The man behind him did the same. And as he walked past the rest of the jury, they all stood in silent homage to a Texas Ranger.

  Jack shook his head and said to himself, “Take that, Cecil, you son of a bitch.”

  After the mid-morning break, the jurors were escorted to their places by Ernie and stood until the judge took her bench.

  “Your Honor, our next witness is in a wheel chair in our conference room. May J.D. g
o with the bailiff to bring her into the courtroom.”

  “That’ll be fine, Mr. Bryant. You mind telling us the witness’s name?”

  “My apologies, Judge. We call Miriam Van Zandt.”

  Suddenly, there was a buzz of whispers in the jury box and among the reporters and others in attendance. Wasn’t she dead? Wasn’t she in a coma? Do you think she will remember anything?

  “We’ll have order in this court. Any more such outbursts and I’ll clear the courtroom. Is that understood?”

  J.D. followed Ernie out the doors. When they opened again, Ernie held one of them while J.D. wheeled Miriam down the aisle. They were followed by a nurse who was there to lend assistance to her patient, if necessary. The nurse stood at the back of the courtroom. As she was wheeled down the aisle, Joe Shannon stepped into the courtroom and stood next to the nurse. Van Zandt looked tiny in the wheelchair. She wore a simple black skirt and white blouse. She had a black wig to hide the indentation in her skull from the shrapnel and surgery. Her only make-up was a hint of lipstick. She looked straight ahead, but her eyes were darting from side to side. J.D. wheeled her to the front of the bench. When the judge administered the oath, she answered in a voice almost too quiet to be heard. J.D. turned her chair to face the jury and then returned to his seat.

  “Miss Van Zandt, are you able to hear and understand my questions?”

  Pause.

  “I can hear you just fine. If I don’t understand, I’ll tell you.”

  Jack nodded. “Excellent. Let’s get some information about your current condition.”

  “I’m still a patient at Methodist. I’ve been there since the attack on our compound several months ago.”

  “Did you have brain surgery?”

  “Yes, sir. And I was mostly in a coma for a long time after that.”

  “Are you doing better now?”

  “I’m awake more. And I’m starting to do some physical therapy. I hope to be walking soon.”