The Nominee

by Alan P Woodruff

  “Do you have any theories?”

  Hamilton turned and leaned against a post supporting the roof of the porch. “Harry, you know that recreational weed is as common on Pine Island as ticks on a hound. The law enforcement agencies can’t be bothered with small quantities. But the problem’s been growing for the last couple of years. I don’t know who, but somebody is making it easy to come by. I don’t know if it’s your boys, and I don’t know if it’s not. But dealers have been known to fight over territory.”

  “Do you think that’s what happened?”

  “If it is, someone was willing to spend a lot of money to get the competition arrested. Two kilos of uncut coke are worth a bundle.”

  “So you don’t think they were set up by some other dealer?”

  Hamilton smiled like a child with a secret he was dying to disclose. “Now that’s the question, isn’t it?”

  “And what’s the answer?”

  “You need to look into the tip Paul Parker got. I think that there’s more to it than he wants to let on.”

  “What tip is that?”

  “The way I heard it, someone phoned a tip into Parker about the cocaine. Then Parker sent the sheriff out to arrest your guys.”

  “Wait a minute. Did you say that Parker expected the Sheriff to arrest the Shepard and Jackson based on nothing more than an anonymous tip?”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  7.

  Even before he arrived at the county jail, White had a feeling that something wasn’t right. So far, he knew next to nothing about his client and even less about the circumstances of his arrest. His queasiness wasn’t based on anything he could articulate; just an overwhelming sense that he was getting into something much bigger than a simple drug possession case. It was the same uneasy sensation he had after the meeting with Brochette, only now it was stronger.

  His thoughts returned to Brochette’s son’s case could mean for his nomination to be Deputy Assistant U.S. Attorney General. Leslie was right. Things could easily be blown out of proportion. It wasn’t as if he and Brochette were close, or that he felt an obligation to save his nomination. But he did respect the man and, more importantly, he felt strongly about the responsibilities of the office to which he had been nominated. They made a good fit in an imperfect system, and he sincerely hoped that Brochette’s nomination would be confirmed.

  White’s thoughts returned to David Shepard when he arrived at the jail. He drove into the parking lot, pulled his pick-up truck into a visitor’s parking spot and headed for the main entrance.

  At the reception desk, White showed his Florida Bar membership card, signed the register and handed his briefcase to the desk sergeant for inspection.

  “Who you here to see?” the sergeant asked without looking up.

  “David Shepard.”

  The sergeant said something unintelligible under his breath, consulted a three-ring binder and picked up the telephone.

  “Lawyer’s here to see David Shepard.… Yeah, I’ll tell him,” the sergeant said, making a note in the visitor’s log. “Take a seat. Someone will come to get you.”

  White retreated to a plastic seat in the featureless waiting area. The only interruption in the monotony of the pale gray walls was the cork bulletin board containing job postings and a half-dozen wanted posters. White opened his briefcase and studied his notes of the meeting with Graham Brochette until he was interrupted by the sound of a door opening.

  “Mr. White?” the jail deputy asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m Deputy Lipshutz. Mr. Parker told us to expect you.”

  “That’s nice of Paul.”

  “Did the Sergeant give you any trouble?”

  “I don’t think he’s had his happy meal today if that’s what you mean.”

  Deputy Lipshutz chuckled as he led White through another door. The ominous clang of steel on steel as the jail cell door closed reverberated down the sterile gray hallway.

  The interview room at the end of the hall could have been on the back lot of any television studio. Two chairs faced each other across a steel table bolted to the floor. Bars covered the high window at one end of the room. The walls were the same gray color as the chairs, table, and floor. Two lights in wire-protected fixtures hung from the ceiling, just out of reach of anyone in the room.

  David Shepard sat upright in the metal chair on the far side of the steel table. At six-feet and one-hundred-fifty-pounds, he was taller and thinner than White expected. His face, still showing remnants of a summer tan, wore a two-day stubble. His medium brown hair was pulled back in what passed for the beginning of a ponytail. He stared at White with bloodshot eyes, unsure who the visitor was or why he was here.

  White pulled a chair from the side of the table opposite Shepard and sat down. “My name is Lucius White. I’m your lawyer.”

  Shepard’s eyes shifted between White and the guard who could be seen through the window of the closed door. “You a public defender?” he asked suspiciously, showing none of the false bravado White expected.

  “No. I’m a private attorney,” White said as he opened his briefcase and removed a yellow legal pad.

  The wary look in Shepard’s eyes gave way to an expression that bordered on fear. “Who hired you?”

  It wasn’t a question White expected, nor one he was prepared to answer. “Someone who’s concerned about you.”

  Shepard continued to stare at White as if he was trying to comprehend what he had just heard.

  “Is that a problem?”

  Shepard ignored White’s question as he stood and began pacing around the room. When he reached the wall, he stopped and, without turning, asked, “How soon do I get out of here?”

  “What makes you think you’re getting out of here anytime soon?”

  “You’re going to get me out, aren’t you?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Shepard turned to face White. “You’ve got to get me out of here.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Shepard exploded. “Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

  “I’m here to represent you.”

  Shepard stared at White as if trying to understand a complex riddle. Slowly he returned to the table and stood opposite White where he chewed on his lip before announcing, “You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to make any deal to get out.”

  As he considered Shepard’s comment, the foreboding feeling that accompanied him as he drove to the jail returned. “Why would I worry about that?”

  “Jesus Christ. Don’t you know anything?”

  “What am I supposed to know?”

  Shepard returned to pacing the room, shaking his head and muttering. “Jesus. Oh, God.” Finally, he returned his attention to White and repeated, “You’ve got to get me out of here.”

  “You already said that. But that’s not something I control. The judge decides whether to let you out.”

  “But they’ve got nothing on me. I didn’t do anything.”

  “That’s not what the police report says.”

  Shepard swallowed twice before responding. “It’s a frame up. I didn’t do anything.”

  “According to the police report, you had two kilograms of cocaine.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “And I suppose you’ve never done drugs?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  White put down his pen, crossed his hands on the metal table, and stared coldly at his client.

  “What?” Shepard demanded.

  “David,” White began, calm but stern. “Right now, I’m the only person standing between you and the next ten or more years in the state penitentiary. If you want to cop an attitude, that’s fine with me. But if you do, you’d better get used to bending over for someone named Big Bubba.

  “Now, the next words out of your mouth are going to determine whether you get represented by me, or some public defender who graduated from law school last week and already has
fifty cases on his desk. He may get around to you the second Thursday after hell freezes over. So, what’s it going to be?”

  Shepard remained standing, glaring at White and clenching, and unclenching his fists. Anger and panic were fighting each other for control.

  After thirty seconds of silence, White picked up his legal pad, put it in his briefcase and began to close the lid.

  “Wait.”

  White paused and looked at Shepard.

  Shepard stared at the floor and remained silent as he shuffled to his chair and sat down.

  White remained standing by the door.

  Shepard fidgeted in his chair, still refusing to make eye contact.

  White waited.

  It was an old game. The first one to speak loses. White was a master of the game. It was important that Shepard know who was in charge, so the game continued.

  Finally, Shepard looked at White. “What do you want to know?”

  White returned to his seat opposite Shepard. “First of all, I don’t care what you did or didn’t do. It’s not my job to judge you. My job is to keep you from being convicted.”

  Shepard seemed to relax.

  “In fact, I don’t even want to know what you did.”

  Shepard raised his head and stared at White. “Why?”

  “When your case goes to trial, I may have to let you testify. You’re going to want the jury to let you off, and you may be tempted to lie.”

  “But…” Shepard interrupted.

  White held up a hand. “Hear me out. If I know you’re going to lie, I can’t let you testify. That’s why it’s sometimes better if I don’t know the truth.”

  Shepard appeared to be confused.

  “I know it may not make much sense, but you’re going to have to trust me.”

  Shepard responded with a look that seemed to indicate understanding, but he remained silent.

  “Let’s start with how you knew the other guy, Tom Jackson.”

  Shepard drew back and sat up straighter. “How do you know about him?”

  “I read the police report.”

  “Yeah. I guess you would.”

  “So?”

  “‘So’ what?”

  “So how did you meet Jackson?”

  Shepard looked away, seemingly trying to avoid looking at White. “I hooked up with him in Marathon.”

  “Where in Marathon?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Just answer my question.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Shepard looked from side to side, anywhere but at White, as he seemed to search for an answer.

  “It’s a simple question.”

  “I met Jackson in jail.” Shepard spat. “There. Are you satisfied?”

  “It’s a start. Why were you in jail?”

  “They picked me up for smoking grass. The pecker-heads kept me in jail all weekend.”

  “What did you do when you got out of jail?”

  “I just hung around.”

  “With Jackson?”

  “Yeah.”

  White scribbled a note and waited. As the seconds passed, the silence took on a power of its own. Shepard shifted nervously in his chair, waiting for White to say something.

  “How did you end up in Matlacha?”

  Shepard pondered the question as if he was trying to dredge up a long-buried explanation, before responding. “We were tired of the Keys.”

  “But why Matlacha?”

  Shepard paid another brief visit to some secret place in his memory before saying, “Jackson said he used to work here.”

  “Doing what?”

  Shepard erupted from his chair and began pacing. “Jesus, man. I don’t know. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I’m just asking questions.”

  Shepard returned to his chair and rubbed the back of his neck with both hands. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Shepard froze. Either the question was unexpected, or the answer contained something Shepard didn’t want White to know. Either way, it was important.

  “David?”

  Shepard said something to himself before responding. “He just hung out here when he was doing dope. He said no one would bother us here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He said everyone here uses something, and the cops don’t care unless you’re dealing.”

  White suddenly changed the topic. “Tell me about the arrest.”

  Shepard stared at White. “What do you mean?”

  “Where were you when you were arrested?”

  “At home.”

  “Whose home?”

  Shepard continued to pace. “Jackson rented the place.”

  “What happened when the sheriff came to the house?”

  Shepard ran both his hands through his hair. When that didn’t yield an answer, he shrugged.

  “Did they knock, or break in?”

  “They knocked.”

  “Who let them in?”

  “I don’t know. I guess maybe I did.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They grabbed me and said we were under arrest.”

  “Just like that. As soon as you opened the door?”

  “Yeah. Maybe. I don’t remember?”

  “Did he have a warrant for your arrest?”

  “I don’t know. I was so surprised by everything?”

  “Did they read you your rights?”

  Shepard fidgeted, looking at the table, walls, and doors, anywhere but at White. Finally, he answered. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “What did they do then?”

  “They went into Jackson’s room and came back with the stuff.”

  “The cocaine?”

  Shepard hesitated, as if he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge what had been discovered. Finally, he nodded and, in a weak voice, said, “Yeah.”

  “Did you see where the deputies found the drugs?”

  “We were all in the other room.”

  “Are you sure you were placed under arrest before the drugs were found?”

  For half an hour White continued to ask Shepard questions about his time in Matlacha and the circumstances of his arrest. When it became apparent that Shepard’s concentration had been exhausted, White placed his legal pad in his briefcase, closed the lid and stood to leave.

  Shepard watched him pack. He seemed to want to say something, but he didn’t know what it was. As White knocked on the door, signaling the guard that he was ready to leave, Shepard blurted, “What do you think?”

  White turned and, for a moment, thought about David’s question. Whatever he said would be meaningless. He simply didn’t know enough. Maybe after the next interview he could give Shepard an answer. But that depended on how cooperative, and honest, Shepard was. If he expected Shepard to tell him what he needed to know he would need an incentive. Finally, White said, “You’re in deep shit, David. I’ll get back to you.”

  8.

  White returned to his office shortly before noon. He crossed the mezzanine and picked up a handful of telephone messages and the cup of coffee that Matthews offered. No matter when White arrived in the office, Matthews had a fresh cup of coffee waiting. Perhaps it was a special kind of telepathy that had grown out of their years together. Or maybe it was true, as Matthews claimed, that it was part of the juju she brought with her from her native Jamaica.

  Eric Gaustad, one of White’s newest associates, trudged up the open stairway from the first floor to the mezzanine.

  “Have you got a minute, Lucius?”

  White looked up from the pink message slips.

  “Judge Carlin’s office just called. He’s set an emergency hearing for 2:30 on the Donaldson case. I have a deposition that’s going to run all afternoon. No one else is available, and I was wondering if…”

  White groaned. This was the kind of office problem Harry Harr
is usually handled. The fact that Harris could no longer try cases didn’t stop him from covering routine hearings, most of which concerned nuisance motions filed by opposing counsel for the primary purpose of increasing their billable hours. Gaustad’s request was a reminder of how much they all depended on Harris to keep things running smoothly and allow White to concentrate on their most significant cases.

  “Sure, Eric. Come into my office and fill me in.”

  #

  White laid his briefcase on his conference table, dropped the handful of pink message slips on his desk and wearily sank into his leather chair. He was leaning back in his chair, rubbing his eyes, when Harry Harris rolled into his office, followed by Horse McGee. Harris carried his ever-present coffee cup bearing the words “Hell on Wheels.” Strangers, seeing Harris with the cup for the first time, assumed it was someone’s idea of a bad joke. In fact, Harris had the cup made for himself as a sort of declaration of his recovery.

  Harris rolled to his customary place by the conference table.

  Horse folded himself onto the sofa in the corner of White’s office.

  “How’d the hearing go?” Harris asked.

  Still rubbing his eyes, White said, “Judge Carlin is a judicial moron.”

  “That good?”

  White continued, shaking his head. “Ten years on the bench and the man still doesn’t understand the meaning of a controlling precedent.”

  “And you’re just now finding that out?”

  “I never had a case with him before.”

  “You’ve gotten too accustomed to dealing with federal judges.”

  “At least they know the law.”

  “Now you know what the lawyers downstairs have to deal with,” Harris said, referring to White’s associates and the other lawyers who shared his office, all of whom had offices on the first floor of the converted warehouse.

  “The state court judges can’t all be that stupid,” White said, more a question than a statement.

  “No,” Harris agreed. “Carlin is in a league of his own.”

  “At least I know what Eric is up against,” White said. “I was beginning to have my doubts about him when he started complaining about Carlin. Now I understand.”