The Nominee

by Alan P Woodruff

  The offices of Lucius A. White & Associates were located in a converted warehouse on the edge of the Caloosahatchee River and four blocks from downtown Fort Myers, Florida. The warehouse had been built late in the eighteenth century — land title records were not clear as to the exact date, and it was largely irrelevant to all but the title company — to store goods shipped by boat into the small community on the site of what had once been a frontier fort maintained by the Union Army during the Civil War. Until early in the twentieth century Fort Myers remained isolated from the main populations of Florida — by the Everglades to the east and by Charlotte Harbor and the Peace River to the north — and the waterfront was an active part of the town. In the 1920s, the railroad arrived in Fort Myers, and ship-borne trade began an immediate and precipitous decline. Over the next sixty years, the waterfront warehouses slowly succumbed to the ravages of time, neglect and decay. By early in the 1980s, only the warehouse that now housed White’s offices and apartment survived. Eventually, it had become the property of the city, seized for unpaid property taxes, and was scheduled for demolition as a public nuisance. The city was more than happy to sell the derelict building to Lucius White.

  After more than a year of restoration, the warehouse had been completely gutted and refurbished. All that remained of the original warehouse were the red brick walls and the giant oak beams that supported the original floors and ceiling. The remainder of the building had been painstakingly restored using the same tools and construction methods used to build the original. No detail had been overlooked. A blacksmith’s furnace had been built on the site to make nails the way they had been made in the early frontier days. Floor planks had been cut on an original steam-powered saw that White acquired for his project and later donated to the city historical museum

  The first floor of White’s warehouse was occupied by his firm’s main reception area, the offices of White’s associates, the conference room and the file storage room. The clerical staffs worked in the center of the first floor under a two-story atrium.

  The offices of Lucius White and his partner, Harry Harris, and their administrative assistants were located on the mezzanine. A wide balcony extending from the mezzanine and surrounding the atrium contained the rows of shelves that made up the firm’s law library. Most legal research was now done on computers, but White had a special fondness for his library. For him, the library was more than a place to research the law. He loved the rows of books, the mahogany tables with their Tiffany shaded brass table lamps and the quiet that embraced the library. It created a link to the past when the practice of law was still a noble profession.

  Between the offices of White and Harris was a windowless conference room, generally referred to as the War Room. It was here that they met as a team, the attorneys and their clients, when analyzing the complex facts of major cases or preparing cases for trial. The War Room was the beating heart of the firm.

  In the middle of the room was an oval oak conference table surrounded by eight leather chairs. At one end of the room was a white marker board. The side walls of the room were covered with corkboard. Early in every case, seemingly random facts were recorded on white cards and posted on the corkboard walls. As patterns later emerged, facts were transferred to colored cards, each color representing facts that related to different events.

  #

  When White and Brochette stepped off the elevator onto the mezzanine, they were met with a clutter of assorted boxes and loose tissue paper. Leslie Halloran, with whom White shared the apartment that occupied the entire third floor of the warehouse, was busy helping Grace Matthews, White’s administrative assistant, hang the office Christmas decorations in preparation for the firm’s upcoming gala.

  Brochette could not avoid smiling whenever he saw Leslie. Few men could. But few men stopped at a smile. Brochette was nothing if not a complete gentleman; a graduate of the ‘look but don’t drool’ school.

  Leslie wore her thirty-nine years with style. Five-feet-six-inches tall and one hundred twenty lithe pounds of Irish womanhood. Shiny brick red hair that cascaded recklessly in soft curls over her shoulders and halfway down her back. A crème brulee complexion was the perfect setting for her large hazel eyes. A trim body with full breasts and shapely legs, honed by years of competitive tennis, and a Nordic-Trac ass. But the first thing people recognized about her was that she radiated happiness. It was a quality so different from White, who, to all but his closest friends, always seemed serious, almost dour. He could be open and caring, but it was a side of him that reserved for only a few.

  Today Leslie was wearing a halter top and short shorts that accentuated her best qualities. Even by the casual standards of White’s office, her attire was extreme — but the holiday season was made for exceptions. Leslie stood, kissed White, and greeted Brochette cheerily. “Graham! Happy holidays. What brings you down here?”

  Brochette forced a smile. “I have a little business to discuss with Lucius.”

  “Oh. What kind of business?”

  Brochette ignored the question and changed the subject. “I heard that they closed most of your clinics.”

  Leslie stepped back and looked at Brochette. The look on her face suggested she wasn’t sure what he meant. Leslie had spent the last five years as a public interest lawyer representing AIDS clinics who were suing the federal government for funding that was always promised during election campaigns but was never delivered.

  “It’s too bad. I hear you were doing a great job.” She had never opposed Brochette in court; he was far too important to be bothered with a case that only presented a question of administrative law. But she was well known to the attorneys in his office, and he had genuine respect for her and the work she was doing.

  “I’ve been helping out at the legal-aid office since the clinics were forced to close down.”

  “I’m surprised Lucius hasn’t put you to work for him. According to my staff, you’re a fearsome litigator.”

  “We’ve talked about it,” Leslie said, glancing at White to be sure he was paying attention. “I haven’t been able to convince Lucius that women are just as capable of representing criminals as men.” They didn’t teach subtlety at Leslie’s law school.

  “That doesn’t sound like Lucius.”

  Leslie laughed. “Don’t get me started.”

  White wrapped an arm around Leslie and kissed her on the cheek. “Do I have to remind you that I’m standing right here?”

  Leslie kissed him back before returning her attention to Brochette. “You tell him, Graham. Maybe my ever-loving chivalrous pig of a boyfriend will listen to you.”

  Brochette smiled. “I think I’ll stay out of this one.”

  Leslie chuckled. “Coward!”

  Before anyone could say more, the elevator door opened and Harry Harris rolled out.

  “Harry!” Leslie shouted happily as she ran to him and gave him an exuberant hug.

  Brochette watched the display with a look somewhere between curiosity and disapproval. It wasn’t as if his opinion made a difference to anyone present, but as a government lawyer he was accustomed to more decorum. As the scene between Leslie and Harry extended, Brochette became aware that he was about to ask a significant favor of a lawyer whose style was entirely foreign to him.

  “He’s been in hibernation since the trial began,” she said. She seemed to be addressing her remark to Brochette. “He’s my big teddy bear.”

  Harris blushed. “She takes care of me like a daughter.”

  Leslie suppressed the sudden sense of sadness she felt at Harry’s statement. Before joining White, Harris was a highly regarded trial attorney. His practice, and life as he knew it, was cut short when a drunken teenage driver broadsided his car, killing his wife and child and leaving him a paraplegic. The loss of his family — and the realization that he would be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life — sent Harris into a deep depression. He became addicted to painkillers, antidepressants, and alcohol. Eventually, he wa
s abandoned by all his friends and colleagues — all except Lucius White.

  White saw him through rehabilitation and eventually brought him in as his partner. In time, Harris’ physical scars healed, but his mental scars had not. Before the accident, his stock in trade was pure theater, gestures, postures and dramatic movements within the well of the courtroom. One moment he would rant and roar like a revival tent preacher. The next moment he would speak so softly that the jury had to lean forward to hear him. He was Hamlet with a briefcase, but his early attempts at trial practice following his accident only served to remind him of his physical limitations. Although he no longer had the confidence to try cases, Harris was still an extraordinary tactician and investigator. He never forgot a fact and was an expert at managing mountains of documents. These qualities made him the perfect second-in-command for White and mentor and sounding board for White’s young associates.

  Leslie’s reflections were interrupted when White said, “Harry. If you’re finished trying to steal my girl, I’d like you to join Graham and me.”

  Harry followed White and Brochette into White’s office and closed the door.

  A cherry-wood conference table surrounded by four black leather Herman Miller chairs on swivel bases dominated the center of White’s office. The sitting area at the end of his office contained a large, sea green leather sofa and matching love seat, each placed against the walls in one corner. A wood-and-glass corner table and two matching end tables, each with a modern brass lamp, and a glass-topped coffee table framed the sofa and love seat. The floors, like the floors throughout White’s apartment, were hand-laid oak covered with Persian carpets, predominantly maroon in color and in varying traditional patterns. The interior walls were covered in grass cloth. Paintings of seabirds and waterfront scenes, all originals by renowned local artists, adorned the walls. Noticeably absent were any of the diplomas and court admission certificates that adorned the vanity wall of most lawyers’ offices. Such self-aggrandizement was not part of White’s persona.

  Brochette took a seat on the sofa as Harris rolled his chair to his customary position beside the conference table. White crossed his arms and half-leaned against, half-sat on, the edge of the table. “Graham has been telling me about a little family problem. His son was arrested in a drug bust in Matlacha — out on Pine Island.”

  Harris ignored the formality of an unnecessary, and ultimately meaningless, statement of condolences. Brochette could feel sorry for himself, or his son, on his own time. Harris had work to do. He pulled a legal pad to the edge of the table and asked, “What have they charged him with?”

  “Possession with intent to distribute,” White said. His bored tone made it sound like just another fact. He might as well have said “carnal knowledge with two pigs and a goat.” He and Harris had seen it all. For them, criminal charges were no longer about acts. They were merely labels, references to the sections of the penal code that define the elements of a crime, the things the prosecutor has to prove, and the sentences that could be imposed.

  “Cocaine?” Harris guessed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Weight?”

  “Two kilos.”

  Harris made a long whistle. “That’s serious weight. The feds are likely to take jurisdiction, and anything over five grams carries a mandatory sentence of ten years to life.”

  “I know. 21 USC 841. If my son is convicted, he’ll probably get life.”

  “Was the coke pure or had it been cut?”

  “I don’t know. The lab report isn’t back yet.”

  “That’s damned serious,” Harris said. It wasn’t a fact that had escaped anyone else’s attention.

  Brochette nodded in a way that could have signaled either agreement with White’s answers or admiration for Harris’s well-targeted questions.

  Without looking up from his legal pad, Harris said, “State or federal?” This was the threshold question in all drug cases. State and federal courts are subject to different procedural rules and have different standards for negotiating plea agreements. But most importantly, the federal sentencing guidelines impose much harsher penalties than are commonly imposed by state courts for the same drug-related offenses.

  “The raid was conducted by the Sheriff.”

  “Is the case going to stay in state court?”

  They all knew that U. S. Attorneys have the authority to take over any drug case, but Brochette exercised his discretion sparingly. Over the objection of the junior attorneys in his office, recent law school graduates who commonly develop their trial skills on drug cases, Brochette maintained a policy of not asserting jurisdiction over state drug cases unless they involved major dealers. But this time things were different. With his son involved, Brochette had a conflict of interest and needed a good reason to leave the matter in state court.

  White glanced at Brochette and saw the troubled expression on his face and understood the need to rescue Brochette from his dilemma.

  “It should stay in state court,” White said. “Paul Parker is up for re-election next fall, and he won’t want to give up what could be a high-profile drug case. Besides, there doesn’t seem to be any aspect of the case that would be of special federal concern.”

  Harris stopped writing and looked at White. They both knew that the case met all the requirements for a transfer to the U.S. Attorney. White shook his head imperceptibly, and Harris understood his message. “Not now, Harry.”

  White and Harris returned their attention to Brochette, whose face was growing increasingly taut and pale. Until then, Brochette had, as any parent would, apparently only thought of the arrest in terms of what it meant for his son. White’s summation forced him to analyze the facts as an attorney. Two kilograms of uncut cocaine was significant by any standards, and Pine Island was known as a place from which high-speed boats traveled to rendezvous with passing freighters and low flying aircraft to pick up shipments of drugs from South America. The potential for smuggling charges was obvious, but smuggling meant automatic federal jurisdiction.

  Brochette hung his head, unable to face White and Harris. Thoughtfulness? Denial? Shame? It was hard to say. It’s one thing to know something intellectually. It’s something else to hear it from another authority. Without looking up, Brochette said, “David claims he didn’t know anything about the drugs. He was sharing a house with another guy, Tom Jackson. Jackson has a record of drug-related arrests. That’s all I got from the arrest report.”

  White waited for Brochette to continue when he suddenly realized the significance of what Brochette had said. He pulled a chair from the conference table and sat facing Brochette. “Let me guess. You haven’t talked to your son.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  White and Harris exchanged puzzled looks.

  Harris returned to his notes and was about to add something when his hand twitched and his pen slid across the table. “Damn,” he muttered, glancing around the table to see if anyone had noticed. As Harris reached for his pen, White studied his face. It wasn’t the first time Harris had experienced problems with his fine-motor control, and White had already discussed the problem with his friend.

  “Sorry,” Harris said, avoiding White’s concerned look.

  White continued to study Harris. He knew something was wrong but was loathe to consider the possibilities. None of the alternatives were good, and he needed Harris as much as Harris needed him. Finally, White returned his attention to Brochette. “When was your son arrested?”

  Brochette seemed to be occupied with an examination of the pattern in the Persian carpet in front of the sofa. Finally, be responded in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper. “Five days ago.”

  White looked up from his legal pad. “Five days!”

  White’s expression made it evident that he had another question in mind. “Why did you wait so long?” White rolled his pen between his thumb and index finger as he waited for an explanation.

  As an experienced attorney, Brochette had to know what
White was thinking, but he wasn’t ready to explain the reasons for his delay. “As I said, it’s complicated. But mostly I waited because I needed you. Jurisdiction will be here, and you know the local players.”

  White ignored the plea implicit in Brochette’s tone. “Tell me about your son.”

  Brochette leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor as he gathered his thoughts. “This isn’t easy.”

  “Take your time.”

  Brochette seemed to be devoting his attention to the carpet at his feet as if it would help him choose his words. “First of all, David doesn’t know I’m his father.”

  White controlled his impulse to catch his breath. Harris stared at Brochette as though he was not sure that he had heard Brochette correctly. Brochette continued to hang his head, seemingly gathering his thoughts, and courage, before continuing. “David’s mother got pregnant my final year of law school. I didn’t know about it until a little more than a year later.”

  White was momentarily startled by Brochette’s revelation and quickly thought through what he knew about the U.S. Attorney. Old political family with social standing and nothing to prove. Honors graduate from the University of Tennessee and Vanderbilt Law School. Started as a state prosecutor; joined the U.S. Attorney’s office and spent five years where he built a reputation as a competent litigator. Transferred to the Department of Justice Office of Public Corruption and spent another five years investigating and prosecuting government corruption. Resigned to take the position as U.S. Attorney for the Middle District of Florida.

  White stored his thoughts away and returned his attention to Brochette.

  “By the time I knew about David, she had married someone else, a guy named Richard Shepard, who thought he was David’s father.”

  White glanced at Harris, hoping to see some indication of Harry’s thoughts about where Brochettes disclosures were taking them. Harris responded with an almost imperceptible shrug. It was obviously stressful for Brochette to talk about his son and the circumstances of his birth. Trying to hurry him wasn’t going to help, so they remained silent as they waited for Brochette to tell the story in his own time.