Blood in the Lake

by Anne L. Simon

  “I hadn’t heard him for months. But one night, about a week ago, I’m moppin’ the floor in the sheriff’s office. I know I’d left the door open. In fact, I’d propped my bucket right there. I don’t like to get shut up in places. I heard him. A swoosh, two doors slammin’ shut.”

  “So you think Honoré’s ghost was there, in the sheriff’s office?” Bonnie asked.

  “I know it. Yeah, I do. Sometimes he’s other places, but dats where I hears him swooshin’ by, in the sheriff’s office. You know why in the sheriff’s office? ‘Cause dat’s right under where they had the trap door. They shouldn’t a done that up there, you know, strung Honoré up over the trap door like dat.”

  “Honoré Migues did a bad thing, Ti-Pop. Putting a bullet into that lady after she turned him down and married Mr. Crawford. And smack in front of the whole lunch crowd at Coleman’s Cafe.”

  “Yeah, I know. My daddy was out on the lawn the day they did the hangin’. I was still a kid in short pants, but I can’t forget when Daddy came home and tol’ me. A hangin?’ Bad business. And no one knows where Honoré got buried. I don’t t’ink he was buried, and dat’s why his ghost just can’t res’, can’t go on to the beyond.”

  “Do you ever hear the ghost say anything?” Bonnie asked.

  “Just moanin.’ In the beginnin’ he scared me, but I’m kind of used of him now. I talk to him a lot, even if he don’t answer. Makes the time pass quick. And, you know, if you don’t make friends with a ghos’, watch out. Heaven help you if you ever get lost up there on the third floor. ‘Go-oo ho-o-o-me.’ That’s what the moaning says to me. Don’t go up dere, Miss Bonnie.”

  “They made a maze of the place when they did all that renovating. Covered up the trap door. Next time they remodel, I bet they’ll find it,” Bonnie said.

  I hoped they’d never uncover the spot, but the story sure was a convenient urban legend for people who didn’t want to work after dark. Bonnie thanked Ti-Pop for talking to us, and I did too. Patience to wait for Tom had been restored.

  Back in the office, Bonnie gave me a nice compliment. “You have the right vibes for this job, Mandy. Mr. Andry left here smiling, and Ti-Pop doesn’t tell most people about what he hears.” Bonnie also had me on board already.

  “Tell me, does Ti-Pop share with you because you also believe?”

  Bonnie flushed. “To be honest, I kinda do.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Wednesday, mid-point in the last week before trial, Tom bounced into my office with his charm in full display.

  “We called your Mom and Bub to come in this morning to talk about their testimony. I’m hoping you’ll join us and give me a hand.”

  We called must have meant Tom had someone else extend the invitation, not telephoned himself. Add that to the number of things about Tom I seemed to find aggravating these days. And I still hadn’t had an opportunity to discuss my concern about our key witnesses.

  I agreed to meet with my mom and Bub. Why was I so reluctant to stand my ground? Maybe because once you let a man get on top of you, it’s hard to take back control. Damn.

  As it turned out, Ti Pierre had gotten word of the invitation. He came also, his obnoxiousness in full display.

  “Look here, Mr. Barnett. I’m now the head of this family. I’m the one who should tell the jury about what happened. You want someone to let them know what the loss means to us? I should do it. The oldest.”

  “I appreciate your willingness to testify. I really do. But—”

  Ti Pierre cut him off. “And putting Bub on the witness stand to talk about the death of his father is one shitty idea, man. How could you ask him to do that? He’s suffered the most.”

  Tom needed me. “Uncle Ti. Let me explain a bit about what we have to do for the first phase of the trial. Right at the start, we have to tell the jury how we came to know PawPaw was missing. Remember how it came down? Bub went over to the house for his usual coffee and biscuits. PawPaw didn’t answer the door so he went to get Mom. She called everywhere. So just the two of them were there at the beginning. After that, law enforcement can take up the story, but for the first part, we need Mom and Bub. You weren’t there.”

  Pierre banged his big fist on the library table. “I know all that stuff. I can do it.”

  “Anything you’d have to say would be hearsay, just repeating what someone else said. The judge won’t allow that. Mom could tell the story without Bub, that’s true, but we’d like the jury to meet Bub right off.”

  Yes, and see him. I hoped my smile in Bub’s direction told him love motivated my willingness to display his handicaps to the jury. “If you feel you can’t do it, Uncle Bub, Mom can carry the ball.”

  Bub sat up as straight as his curved spine would allow. “Of course I can do it. For PawPaw, I could do anything.”

  I turned to Tom with a suggestion. “Why don’t we see about Uncle Ti testifying in the penalty phase? You know, a bit about how much the family has been devastated. He’d be real good at that.”

  Tom clouded up. When it came time to consider the capital issues, Tom didn’t want some rant from Ti Pierre turning off the jury. I gave Tom a slight lowering of one eyelid, almost but not quite a wink. I was saying, just trust me Tom. When that time comes, I can get Ti Pierre out of the picture.

  Tom’s expression eased as he got my drift.

  “Good idea, Mandy. The penalty phase.” He turned back to Ti. “We’ll see about doing that. But now, let me go over the details of the first day with your sister and brother. We’re a couple of weeks away from the penalty phase of the trial. I’ll be calling you to come in and meet with me when we’re close. I like to review testimony with witnesses near the time they take the stand. Works better that way. We’ll see about having you testify at that time.”

  Tom hadn’t promised Uncle Ti he could testify, just agreed he’d see. I smiled, thinking about how my parents handled my brother, me, and now Taddy, when one of us had a request they had absolutely no intention of granting. We’ll see meant NO. Uncle Ti wasn’t aware of our little family translation, but Tom had picked up on it. He turned back to his original plan—Mom and Bub in the first phase of the trial.

  Ti Pierre swallowed the hook. “All right, Mr. Barnett. Let me get back on my run.” He left.

  Tom had thank you to me all over his face.

  When we finished working with Mom and Bub about their testimony, I tried again to talk to Tom about my witness concerns. No luck. But he did bring up something I hadn’t thought of.

  “Ritchie has a new worry, Mandy. He’s wondering if there’s any possibility our two cases—the death of your grandfather and the death of the CI—could be related. Was it possible a Tennessee man with a connection to the local drug trade could have figured in the Richard events?”

  The same idea had been lurking around in my head. In fact, I believed it was likely.

  Tom continued. “But frankly, I just can’t face thinking about that right now. Anyway, Ritchie and Buddy are in my office waiting to go over the questionnaires returned by our prospective jurors. They’re the locals who know where all the bodies are buried. We’ll be tied up the rest of the day, and again tomorrow. But tonight we can relax. How about dinner?”

  “OK. But I do want to talk to you about our key witnesses.”

  “Tomorrow. We can talk tomorrow. Tonight for dinner the trial will absolutely be off the table. I hear Gino Delafosse is at La Pousierre in Breaux Bridge. Wanna dance?”

  “You bet.”

  Putty in his hands, I didn’t press. My heart wanted to put my relationship with Tom front and center. And like him, I wanted to forget this damn trial, just for a little while.

  Tom did relax. But somehow, when he’d fallen asleep at my side, and I lay awake unsatisfied, I had the feeling I’d been used—solely for his distraction and release.

  PART IV

  Revelations

  I TOOK MY seat next to Tom at the counsel table in the courtroom. Across the aisle, Sarah fidgeted w
ith her papers. She was really going to do it—make her motion to continue the trial because of the death of Remmy’s sister. Tom leaned toward me and whispered a question.

  “How about the issue of reversal for incompetent counsel if Sarah offers no evidence of the defendant’s dreadful childhood? Did you prepare something for me?”

  Damnit again! I’d been so pissed at Tom for not being around when I needed him, and then so high with my Bar results, I’d forgotten to print out the memo I’d spent Saturday putting together. I’d wing it and tell him my conclusion.

  “Sorry, Tom. I did the research, but the assignment totally slipped my mind. I found no cases on point. By analogy, appeal court remand solely because counsel offered no direct testimony about a troubled childhood would be quite unlikely. Sarah’s planned defense, even without anyone from the family to take the stand, will most likely meet the minimum standard for competence, at least as the law is now. We don’t know what the Supremes may say down the road.”

  Could Tom say my competence met the minimum standard for an intern? Hardly. I couldn’t think of the name of a single case in support of what I’d just told him.

  “That’s all I need to know,” Tom said without looking up from his papers. He didn’t exhibit a bit of disappointment in me, or much interest either. He’d focused only on the business at hand—Sarah’s latest motion.

  Richie joined us. He stuck close to Tom these days, thank goodness, but for motion days he rarely got involved. This morning he tipped back his chair and raised his eyes to the one silver art deco ball decorating what used to be the balcony of the courtroom before the latest renovation stuffed the area with air conditioning ducts. Tom needed someone like Richie at his side. He was such an old hand at trial work not even a death penalty case raced his motor. Ritchie mused.

  “Did you ever stop to realize how little a judge knows about what’s really going on? In a minute His Honor will sit up there looking omniscient and wise. Not! An empty head, body hidden in a dress. After months of in and out, up and down, we lawyers will produce a spare drama to spread out on the stage before him. He’ll have a few tough decisions to make; I’ll give him that. We’ll let him know a bit more of the background to help with those, but for the most part, the guy’s clueless.”

  Tom loved it. “Ah-ha! Richie’s our philosopher this morning.”

  I appreciated Richie’s ability to ease the tension.

  Sarah took the podium to make her motion. While she spoke, Judge Bonin struggled to wear an appropriately impassive judicial demeanor, but he didn’t succeed. Faced with a choice between disbelief and anger, he picked the first option. His tight mouth and raised eyebrows broadcast his disdain for Sarah’s eleventh hour plea.

  “Mo-tion de-nied.” Two words sounded like four. Judge Bonin gave each syllable the same hard emphasis, and he illustrated his ruling with a sarcastic smile. “Next case,” he bellowed.

  Several attorneys jumped up from their seats and rushed forward to replace us at the counsel tables. Poor guys. They’d inherit SOB’s ill humor.

  We packed up quickly and headed for the exit. Outside the double doors, two men in serious suits flanked a somber-faced, out-of-uniform Deuce. Agent Robert Taylor wore pinstripes and shiny black FBI shoes, not the fatigues and boots I’d seen on him in the field. The other man wore black. Deuce introduced him as Raul Menendez of Drug Enforcement, the DEA. Tom led the group into the DA’s office. On the way, Deuce and Tom had a short exchange I couldn’t follow—something about Buddy being missing in action. I’d ask Tom about that later, if I got a chance!

  We settled down in the library. Deuce placed a notebook, similar to the one he had for the Falgout/Boudreaux investigation, minus the label, on the conference table. He directed his first comment to me.

  “Let me tell you right off, Mandy, we’ve made significant progress identifying the man who threatened your brother. We’ve pulled in more reinforcements from Lafayette, and your house is the center point of maximum security. Nobody can get close to him.”

  I wish I could say Deuce made me feel better. If I closed my eyes, I saw the stunned look on Taddy’s face after he’d stumbled on the body.

  Deuce turned to Tom. “I understand your main concern right now is the trial of Remmy Richard whereas I’m out there working on the death of my CI. But bear with me. You’ll see where I’m going in a minute.”

  Tom looked skeptical. He kept the Richard file under his right hand and from time to time checked his watch. I had a foot in both projects. Deuce’s investigation would be critical to finding out who was threatening Taddy, but my family also chomped at the bit to get on with the trial they expected to bring justice for the death of PawPaw.

  Deuce gave us an account of his activities during the past ten days. First, he made a trip to Nashville, Tennessee, to meet with Jack Alexander. Deuce had two goals in mind: the owner’s permission to search Jefferson House, and finding out if Alexander could give him any help figuring out why odd events kept happening at our lake.

  Tom interrupted. “Traveling on whose dime, Deuce? I heard you were on leave from the sheriff’s department.”

  “Right. My boss refused to fund my investigation into Mitchell’s death because he’s still pissed the FBI has taken the case out from under him. I did better with the Lafayette sheriff. Remember, I’d been on loan to him for the aborted drug bust, and he felt pretty bad about what happened. Guilty even. As follow-up, he gave me cover, and a good chunk of change. I took a leave from Iberia.”

  Tom apologized for the interruption. Deuce went on with his report.

  “Mr. Alexander seemed really affected by what happened to your grandfather, Mandy, and he wanted to cooperate any way he could. You know, I guess, he has Jefferson House on the market.”

  I did know, and I knew who I hoped would buy the place—the man who’d done such a fantastic job recreating the plant nursery destroyed in the catastrophe. Many of the original plants couldn’t be replaced—they’d been gathered from all over the world—but a lot could be done.

  Deuce continued. “Alexander quickly signed off on permission for us to search his house, the grounds, and the dock, the search to be conducted in cooperation with any law enforcement agencies we chose, with or without the drug dogs. Then he helped me think through possible explanations for the events that kept taking place out there. We explored a lot of ideas, but came back to the most common reason for criminal activity—drugs. Either the trade or pursuit for money to buy the stuff. We figured that while the house stood empty, someone familiar with the area had been using the place. I asked Alexander to tell me about every family member and every guest who had occasion to visit Jefferson House in the past year.”

  At this point Deuce patted his notebook. Alexander had given him a long list of names and supplied good information on most of them, but until Deuce asked, Alexander didn’t include his troublesome nephew on his list. To Alexander’s knowledge, Mickey Brown hadn’t been in Louisiana for over a year, but he’d reached for the phone and called his sister for verification. He got through to her right away.

  Deuce spoke more quickly now, and his eyes sparkled. A couple times his words stacked up in his mouth until he had breath enough to get them out. We caught his excitement.

  “Alexander’s sister, half sister, actually, said a while back her son briefly had a job in Louisiana—night work for some warehouse. Smooth talker, he had no trouble getting jobs, but they never lasted long. He just couldn’t stay away from drugs. But the sister didn’t give up on her son. Over this past Christmas she got him to go to a farm in Minnesota for aftercare from his most recent treatment program.”

  Deuce now had an address for the farm and vital stats on Mickey Brown, enough information to run him down.

  “Are you with me so far?” Deuce asked Tom.

  “I’m with you.”

  Not totally. Tom checked his watch again. Deuce looked at me, inviting my reaction.

  “Mickey Brown would have a Tennessee ac
cent, I suppose.”

  “Bingo, Mandy.” Deuce took a breath, visibly trying to calm himself. “I knew I was onto something, could almost taste it, but I didn’t want to head for Minnesota on my own. I checked back with the Lafayette sheriff. With his OK, I brought the FBI and DEA into the investigation. These guys.” Deuce gave Agent Taylor and Agent Menendez a nod and a smile.

  “Together, we three conducted a thorough search of Jefferson House. The dogs didn’t light on anything inside, but they went crazy in a couple of the outbuildings and under the dock. No solid drugs, but they must’ve picked up on residue. Your story from here, Agent Taylor.”

  FBI Special Agent Robert Taylor took over.

  “You’ve heard how we put together Operation Rough Romaine?” he asked Tom.

  “Not in detail. Go over it for me.” Tom still had his hand on the Richard file.

  “Last winter, in a joint investigation with our counterparts south of the border, our agents witnessed cocaine being loaded onto an airplane in the mountains of Columbia. In northern Mexico, they watched the cocaine being repackaged, then strapped to the underside of pallets of lettuce and loaded onto eighteen-wheelers for the trip to the U.S. Our agents in Texas picked up the same rigs being checked at a trucking company in Houston where the rigs were rerouted to grocery warehouses all over the south. You know, the cartels that run these operations make billions. They can start with a kilo of cocaine that cost $2000 in Columbia; when the same kilo finally hits the US streets at retail, it could net $200,000. The ultimate user pays through the nose—literally—for the risks taken by everyone along the way.”

  And we think we’re going to stop the flow of drugs? For a cut of that kind of money, people will continue to take risks no matter how many agents we put on the payroll, how many walls we build, or how high we build them.

  “So how did we pull off Operation Rough Romaine? We identified bit players in northern Mexico and in Houston, put them under pressure, and offered them incentives to cooperate. They gave up bigger fish. At this end, at the produce warehouses all over the south, we set up undercover agents to meet the special pallets of lettuce and accompany them to the area distributors. When we got our ducks all in a row, we had cooperating individuals in place all along the route.