The Nominee

by Alan P Woodruff

  © Alan P. Woodruff, 2019

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recordings or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the copyright holder.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Friends too numerous to mention have generously contributed to this work as readers and providers of critiques of its many drafts. Special thanks is given to my cover designer, Shelly Savoy, and especially Kimberly “Hitch” Hitchens of booknook.biz without whose assistance this work would still be a manuscript in my word processor.

  PROLOGUE

  Pellets of rain the size of birdshot and driven almost horizontal by the hurricane wind hammered the Angler Lounge. The shutters, battened against the storm, rattled as each new gust assaulted the popular gathering spot overlooking the marina. The late-season tourists, and most of the residents of the Florida Keys, had complied with the evacuation order. Inside the lounge, two dozen hardy residents of Vaca Key continued their time-honored tradition of ignoring both nature and the government. The violent timbre of the storm, roaring like a locomotive, was lost in the gaiety of the hurricane party.

  An old man, pale and gaunt, stumbled through the weathered wooden door and leaned stooped against the wall, fighting to catch his breath. Water from his yellow slicker and scraggly gray beard gathered in a pool at his feet as he struggled to stand erect.

  A large man, one of the local charter boat captains sitting at the end of the bar, nudged his companion and motioned to the old man with a tilt of his head. His companion glanced toward the old man, shrugged a message of no recognition and returned his attention to the game of liar’s poker.

  At the pier outside the lounge, the old man’s decrepit commercial fishing boat crashed against the pilings. The two men in the wheelhouse were thrown violently against the bulkhead as the crashing waves battered the boat. One of the men held a powerful flashlight that illuminated the cabin deck where the other man was hammering a pry-bar between the worn timbers. At any moment a wave could obliterate the cabin, but the smuggled cargo they sought made the risk worth taking.

  Inside the lounge, the old man shuffled slowly across the room. He was bent forward and rocking slightly from side to side as if still fighting the storm on the deck of a boat. On the other side of the room, he reached for the back of the booth to steady himself before collapsing onto the bare wooden seat.

  A waitress dressed in shorts and a halter top reluctantly left the crowd at the bar and approached the booth. The old man moaned and wiggled a finger of his gnarled hand, signaling the waitress to come closer.

  “Hey, Diane,” someone shouted from the vicinity of the pool table.

  “Hold your horses,” the waitress shouted back as she leaned closer to the old man and asked, “What’s it gonna be?”

  “Ayuda,” the old man muttered, barely more than a whisper, as if the act of speaking required considerable effort.

  “I can’t understand, sweetie.”

  “Ayuda me,” the old man muttered again before his head fell forward, his chin resting on his chest.

  The bartender shouted, “What’s he want?”

  “Beats me,” Diane responded as she turned and headed back toward the bar. “I couldn’t understand what he said. But whatever he wanted, he’s had enough. He’s passed out.”

  #

  Eight hours later, the worst of the storm had subsided. Beside the pier, the battered remains of the old man’s fishing boat rose and fell with each wave. The last of the partiers stumbled out the door and lounge, and the bartender began turning off the lights. The waitress approached the old man and tapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go, old timer. Time to leave.”

  The old man remained motionless, slumped against the corner of the booth.

  “Come on, fella. I’m tired, and I wanna go home,” she pled, gripping the old man’s slicker and pulling him toward her.

  The slicker slid off his shoulder and opened across his chest.

  “Oh, God!” she screamed at the sight of the old man’s blood-soaked shirt.

  1.

  The bailiff knocked twice on the door to the judge’s chambers and boomed, “All rise.”

  Judge Jason Caldwell, his black robe flowing behind him, took his place behind the polished walnut bench that occupied half the width of the courtroom. “Be seated,” the judge said.

  On the side of the courtroom beside the jury box, a door opened and the somber-faced jurors filed in. Some of the jurors looked at the judge. Others looked at the floor. None of them looked in the direction of Lucius White and his client.

  A faint smile formed on the lips of State’s Attorney, Paul Parker. Lack of eye contact with the defendant is usually a good sign for the prosecution.

  The government’s case was strong, but it was based entirely on circumstantial evidence. The defendant, Howard Marshall, was in financial trouble. He had recently purchased a million-dollar policy on his wife’s life, and he had fought with his wife on the night she was murdered. The murder weapon was never found, but the State’s ballistics expert testified that the gun was of the same make and model as a gun owned by Howard Marshall — a gun the defendant couldn’t account for.

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” Judge Caldwell asked in a deep voice that echoed in the stillness of the courtroom.

  For Paul Parker, it was more than just another trial. After a series of losses in high profile cases, Parker needed a conviction. The victim was a prominent woman from an old family. Old money and a socialite victim meant volumes of press coverage, and, with an election coming up, Parker wasn’t taking any chances. Over White’s objection, Parker had called eleven witnesses to prove what could have been established with three. But that only gave White more opportunities to raise doubts about the prosecution’s case.

  The one thing Parker had been unable to establish was Howard Marshall’s location of the time of the murder. In fact, he had an alibi, but jurors tended to be less than sympathetic to his defense: “I couldn’t have killed her because I was with my mistress at the time.” And since the mistress had refused to testify, even that defense was without value.

  The victim, Susan Marshall, was also having an affair, but putting the victim on trial was never a good idea in a brutal murder case, especially when the victim is active in most of the major charities and civic organizations in the county.

  For Lucius White, Marshall’s attorney, it had all come down to jury selection. An acquittal seemed out of the question. But, with a little bit of luck, one of the three divorced men, one the victim of a bitter divorce brought by a cheating wife, would ignore the evidence and hang the jury. Then he would have a chance to plea bargain for an acceptable sentence.

  White scanned the faces of the jury. Being sequestered in the economy-class hotel down the block from the courthouse, unable to see their families for the duration of the three-week trial and five days of deliberation, could not have been what they expected when the trial began. White could see that the deliberations had taken their toll. The jurors were tired, maybe even angry, and wanted to go home

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the jury forepersons said, so quietly that the judge and gallery had to strain to hear her. She was a small, unimposing woman in her mid-sixties. She had gray hair and wore a floral pattern dress that made her seem like everyone’s grandmother.

  For White, she was the ideal foreperson — unlikely to have much influence over the othe
r jurors and lacking in the strength to force a divided jury to reach a verdict. Three times the jury asked for portions of the testimony to be reread, and several they asked the judge for further instructions. Some of their concerns seemed to favor the prosecution, but the majority of them appeared to favor the defense. Those were the makings of a hung jury and a mistrial. White remained cautiously optimistic. But he also knew what it meant when a jury did not look at the defendant.

  All eyes remained on the jury as the bailiff retrieved the verdict form from the foreperson and delivered it to the judge.

  After five days of deliberations, the media had the odds for a hung jury at seven to five. The announcement that the jury had reached a verdict wasn’t a good sign for the defense. A few reporters exchanged excited whispers. White put a hand on his client’s shoulder and whispered something in his ear. His client frowned and lowered his head.

  In the first row of the gallery, the parents and sister of Susan Marshall clutched hands. Her sister said a silent “Yes.” Her father stared at Howard Marshall. His eyes showed a mixture of contempt and revenge.

  Judge Caldwell glanced at the verdict form, without giving any indication of its contents, and returned it to the bailiff. Judges shouldn’t care who prevails in any case they preside over, and Judge Caldwell took that mandate to an extreme. He had a reputation for neutrality and formality.

  The courtroom echoed with the click of the bailiff’s heels on the polished wood floor as he crossed the room and returned the verdict form to the foreperson.

  The gallery grew hush.

  “The defendant will please rise and face the jury,” Judge Caldwell said. The words were so familiar to the judge that he said them with no emotion and no recognition that the rest of the defendant’s life was about to be determined.

  Lucius White rose. At the other end of the defense table, Harry Harris, White’s partner, sat up straighter in his wheelchair. Between them, the defendant bowed his head and uttered a short prayer before standing.

  If the old adage, “juries vote for the attorney they like the best,” was true, White’s client had a chance. At six-feet-two-inches tall and one-hundred-ninety pounds, White was too slender to be considered a physically imposing figure. Nor would he be described as handsome. His leathery face was creased and weathered. His nose, broken in a childhood accident and reset by his father, was not quite centered beneath his dark eyes. His walnut brown hair, now graying at the temples, was worn long and unkempt, in a rugged western way reminiscent of his formative years in Ketchum, Idaho. But he had an intangible presence, a don’t-tread-on-me look, and a voice, deep and resonant, that couldn’t be ignored. Clients never doubted that they were in good hands, and juries knew he could be trusted.

  “Madam foreperson, will you please read the verdict.”

  “We the jury…” she began before pausing and coughing. “In the matter of State of Florida v. Howard Marshall, on the charge of second-degree murder, find the defendant…”

  The forewoman coughed again and cleared her throat.

  Silent tension consumed the courtroom.

  The pause seemed to continue forever as the forewoman looked nervously at the gallery.

  “…not guilty.”

  The gallery erupted, and the spectators immediately began debating the verdict.

  Marshall dropped to his seat and gave a sigh of relief.

  Harris reached around their client and pumped White’s hand.

  Parker dropped his head, stared vacantly at the legal pad on the table in front of him and crumpled the sheet of paper that held the notes for his intended victory press conference. His assistant put a hand on his shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Parker pursed his lips and shook his head.

  The reporters who filled the courtroom rushed for the exit, ready to position themselves with their camera crews for the post-trial interviews on the courthouse steps.

  “Order,” Judge Caldwell demanded, pounding his gavel.

  The juror’s looked at each other. None of them seemed to know what they were supposed to do now.

  “Order,” Judge Caldwell demanded again.

  Slowly, the remaining spectators returned to their seats. Judge Caldwell surveyed the gallery, glaring fiercely at anyone who wasn’t moving fast enough to satisfy him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Judge Caldwell said. “the Court thanks you for your service. The defendant is released and free to go.”

  Another swing of the gavel and it was over. A year of preparation, three weeks of trial and five days of jury deliberations, and just like that, it was over.

  The empty feeling of finality that always overwhelmed White at the conclusion of a grueling trial, like the feeling of Christmas morning after all the presents had been unwrapped, would come later. It always did. For now, he was all smiles as he received the renewed hugs of his client and the congratulations of well-wishers.

  As the crowd cleared the courtroom, Parker walked to the defense table and extended his hand. “Congratulations, Lucius. It was a good fight.”

  “Thanks, Paul. You did a good job.”

  “Apparently not good enough,” Parker said without humor. “Maybe next time.”

  “Maybe,” White said. There was no emotion in his voice, just an acknowledgment of what Parker had said. Parker turned and headed for the door.

  #

  As was his custom, Lucius White waited until the courtroom was empty before preparing to leave. He was returning the last of his papers to his briefcase when a voice behind him said, “That was a hell of a closing argument, Lucius. Maybe the best I ever heard.”

  White immediately recognized the voice of Graham Brochette, U. S. Attorney for the Middle District of Florida. He turned and extended his hand. “Coming from you, I take that as a compliment.”

  “I mean it, Lucius,” Brochette continued. “I never thought you’d get the guy off.”

  “It helps that the U. S. Attorney wasn’t prosecuting the case.”

  Brochette frowned and responded with uneasy silence. He knew what White meant. It was no secret that White believed that most of the federal prosecutors had the ethics of reptiles.

  “Parker was more concerned with how his case was being reported in the press than with how it played to the jury.”

  “I’m sure he did what he thought was right.”

  “He did what was right for himself, not what was right for the State.” White put the papers he was holding into his briefcase and leaned forward with both arms outstretched and his hands on the edge of the counsel’s table. “Nothing pisses me off more than an incompetent government prosecutor.”

  “You should like that. It makes your job easier.”

  “I’m not interested in making my job easier. I only expect them to play by the rules.”

  “And you don’t think the government plays by the rules.”

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Yes, you did. Everyone in my office knows how you feel about the ethical lapses of government prosecutors.”

  White decision to become a criminal attorney, and his loathing of the government, were the almost inevitable product of the experiences of his youth. He was only sixteen when his father, an outspoken opponent of all government, was arrested on dubious charges of conspiracy and criminal trespass on government property. White wasn’t allowed to attend the trial, but everyone in the community knew about the fabricated testimony by paid informants and others who had made deals to avoid prosecution. His father died in prison two years later, stabbed in the back by a drug dealer. There was no investigation of substance, and the drug dealer was released less than six months later, almost two years before he was first eligible for parole.

  White, by then an eighteen-year-old high school senior, knew it was more than a coincidence. He knew, as an article of faith, with the certainty that a devout Christian believes in the Holy Trinity, that the Government was responsible for his father’s death. It was a memory
that haunted and drove him. It was with him every moment when he was preparing for a trial. He tried not to think about it, but it was now too much a part of him to be ignored. After a minute he realized what he was thinking and returned his attention to Brochette.

  “I noticed you in the back of the courtroom,” White said, acknowledging Brochette’s presence during closing arguments. There didn’t seem to be any reason for the U.S. Attorney to be observing a state court proceeding, but there hadn’t been time to think about it during the trial. Now the strain of the trial was replaced by another thought. Why is Brochette here? Whatever the reason, it wasn’t likely to be good news. The question was, who was going to be on the receiving end of the bad news.

  “Congratulations on your nomination to be Deputy Assistant U.S. Attorney General,” White said, filling the silence while he searched for something in Brochette’s eyes that would explain this obviously intentional encounter. “They couldn’t have chosen a better man.”

  Brochette nodded an acknowledgment of the compliment. For a moment, he didn’t say anything as his eyes moved around the empty courtroom. White knew that Brochette had something important on his mind. It wasn’t like him to avoid an issue, however sensitive it was, with a meaningless conversation such as the one they were having about the trial and Brochette’s nomination. White sensed the whatever Brochette had on his mind was painful for him to discuss and he couldn’t be rushed. White sat on the end of the counsel’s table with his arms folded across his chest and waited.

  Finally, Brochette took a deep breath and faced White. In his eyes, there was a look of distressed angst. “I need your help. My son has been arrested.”

  2.

  Lucius White was not given to excess in his personal life, but his success allowed him to enjoy a full measure of comfort at work and home. His physical environment was a reflection of his personality. He was as passionate about preserving the symbols of cultural history as he was about protecting the dignity of the law — both of which he feared were falling victims to social change. He was especially proud of his offices which, as a result of his efforts, were listed in the National Registry of Historic Places.