White waited as Brochette continued to ponder the Congressman’s interest in his confirmation.
Suddenly, Brochette threw his fork on the table. “But damn it, I haven’t done anything wrong. There’s nothing that says we have to take over the investigation of every drug case.”
White returned his sandwich to his plate and leaned forward. “This isn’t just any drug case. It’s your son.”
Brochette clinched his jaw, a troubled look on his face.
White knew Brochette had something specific on his mind. “What is it, Graham?”
Brochette exhaled deeply before continuing. “Dwight Madison, the Managing U.S. Attorney for the Fort Myers office—”
“I know who he is,” White said.
“Of course,” Brochette said, confirming White’s knowledge of the obvious. “Anyway, Madison has also been asking why we haven’t taken over the case.”
“Does he know David is your son?”
“Yeah. He pointed that out when he made his argument… ‘appearance of impropriety’ and all that.”
“We knew that was going to be a problem.”
Brochette nodded gravely. “I may not have a choice.”
White shrugged.
“It’ll be awkward.”
White nodded his agreement as Brochette continued. “I’ll have to keep my distance, stay completely out of the investigation.”
“You have to do that anyway.”
“This’ll be different. I’ll have someone who is supposed to be reporting to me running an investigation I can’t participate in.”
“Maybe you should ask the Attorney General to appoint a special prosecutor from outside the District.”
Brochette nodded but said nothing.
White knew what he was thinking.
21.
White was leaning against the polished brass railing of the office mezzanine, thinking about Harry Harris when Grace Matthews signaled that he was wanted on the telephone. “Mr. Rodriguez,” Grace Matthews said icily. Matthews had never liked Manuel Rodriguez, but she would never tell White why. Calling him “mister” instead of “senor” was her way of showing her disapproval.
“I’ll take it in my office.” White strode purposefully to his desk and picked up the telephone. “Do you have anything for me?” White asked as the connection to Rodriguez was completed.
“I do not know anything that will assist you,” Rodriguez said. “But there is someone who may be able to help.”
“Who’s that?”
“It is not that simple, my friend. I am going to give you a telephone number. It is a cellular telephone. The person who answers will ask what you want to know. He will pass your request on to someone who may be able to answer your questions. If he is so inclined, you will be contacted and told where you will meet.”
“And if he is not so inclined?”
“You will hear nothing more.”
“Why all the cloak and dagger?”
“The gentleman who may be willing to talk with you is of a different organization than my own.”
It wasn’t necessary for Rodriguez to say anything more. Common interests often required rivals to cooperate, and it was considered good business to maintain open channels of communication, and even exchange favors. But trust was an entirely different matter. Knowledge was a commodity like any other, something of value to be used only when something of value was received in return.
“If the gentleman is willing to assist you, you will be indebted to him.”
“I understand.”
There were times when White thought the people who inhabited Rodriguez’s world watched far too much television. This was one of those times. The only thing that prevented White from laughing was the old adage, often cited to him by Rodriguez, “The fact that you’re paranoid doesn’t mean that no one is out to get you.”
“What’s the number?”
The telephone was answered on the third ring.
“Who gave you this number?” an accented voice demanded.
White couldn’t avoid thinking of an armed sentry pointing a rifle at him and demanding, “Friend or foe?” In the history of man, he wondered, did anyone ever answer “foe.”
“Manuel Rodriguez.”
“Who are you?”
“Lucius White.”
“Your call has been expected. What do you want to know?”
For three minutes, White spoke, uninterrupted, summarizing his situation and the information he was seeking. When he finished, the voice said, “You will be contacted,” and hung up. Don’t call us; we’ll call you.
White counted to sixty and then redialed the number. As he expected, after ten rings, it was answered by a recorded message, “The number you have dialed is not a working number.” These people are serious about their security.
#
White returned the telephone to its cradle and was about to open the file on his securities fraud case when he was interrupted by Grace Matthews on the intercom. “Mr. Parker is calling for you. He’s on line one.”
“Thank you, Grace,” White said as he quickly thought through the possible reasons for Paul Parker’s call. Contacts between prosecutors and the defendant’s counsel were common during the final stages of trial preparation when they were required to confer and attempt to resolve procedural and evidentiary matters between themselves before invoking the powers of the court. But any trial was a long time away.
White pressed a button on his telephone console. “Good morning, Paul.”
“Not for long,” Parker said.
“What’s up?”
“I just got a call from the U.S. Attorney in Miami. They’re taking over your Shephard case.”
For a moment, White remained silent as he reflected on his last conversation with Graham Brochette.
Parker interrupted his thoughts. “Did you know anything about this?”
“I expected it.”
“Do you know why the case has been taken over by the Miami office?”
“Probably because Graham Brochette would have a conflict. It was hard enough for him to ignore the conflict when it was just a drug case. When it became a drug-murder case, he didn’t have any choice.”
“Uh-huh. I figured it was something like that.”
“Is he just taking over the drug case, or is he also taking over the investigation of Tom Shephard’s murder?”
“Both.”
“How would he have been able to claim jurisdiction over the murder case?”
“They also claim to have evidence that Jackson was actually killed within the confines of the Southern District, and his body was merely dumped in over here.”
“Which is possible.”
“I suppose I should be grateful.”
“Grateful? Why?”
“It turns out that I was in law school with Jackson’s father. Actually, it was his step-father, Dick Barlow.”
“That’s quite a coincidence.”
“I suppose,” Parker said in a voice that made White think his mind was half a world away. “But I suppose I should be grateful. I hate prosecuting cases where I have any kind of connection to the victim.”
White understood what Parker meant. Personal connections between the victim and the prosecutor were grounds for “rush-to-judgment” defenses. He had used the argument himself and knew how embarrassing it could be for prosecutors.
“When are they taking over?” White asked, changing the subject.
“I just got the call. A guy by the name of Lyle Wilson — he’s the number two guy over there — is taking over the case. He’s sending someone over this afternoon to collect everything we have.”
White suddenly understood the reason for Parker’s call. State law requires prosecutors to disclose all their evidence to the defense attorney, but the federal rules aren’t so liberal. Once a U.S. Attorney gets his hands on the evidence, they tend to keep it secret until the eve of trial. “Can we take a look at what you have before they pick it up?”
; “That’s why I called.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
“Once the feds get involved,” Parker continued, as if he hadn’t heard White, “you never know what’s going to happen.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“This is one of those times we have to stick together.”
“What is he trying to tell me?” White thought as his mind returned to his unusual conversation with Parker at the Christmas party. “Will one o’clock be okay?”
“Fine. I’ll see you in my office at one.”
“One other thing, Paul. Do you know anything about Wilson?”
Parker paused, seeming to sort his thoughts before responding. “He’s okay.”
“Have you ever worked with him?”
“Not really. But Congressman St. James likes him.”
“How do you know Congressman St. James?”
“I worked with him a long time ago. I was with the Miami police department while I was going to law school.”
“I forgot about that. And you’ve stayed in touch?”
It took longer than White expected for Parker to answer, “Occasionally.”
The tone of Parker’s voice suggested that there was something more than an old working relationship that connected Parker to St. James. White thought about pursuing the matter, but decided against it. There would be time to ask about that later.
#
White returned the telephone to the console and, without thinking, pressed the intercom number for Harry Harris’s office. After two rings, he realized his mistake. He leaned back and closed his eyes as feelings of his partner’s absence suddenly overwhelmed him. He was just beginning to come to terms with Harry’s condition. The loss of the law partner with whom he’d shared so much, and on whom he depended, was something else. Without thinking, he turned his chair to the wall behind his desk and looked at the picture of him and Harry fishing for bonefish in the Florida Keys.
White’s reflections on his time with Harry were slowly replaced with thoughts about his appointment with Parker. Almost without thinking, he pressed the intercom button for his apartment.
Leslie answered on the second ring. “Home of the horny bimbo. Blow in my ear, and I’ll do anything you like.”
White laughed in spite of himself. “One of these days, you’ll say something like that and it won’t be me on the line.”
“What makes you so sure I only say that for your benefit? Are you planning on inviting yourself up for a nooner?”
“Regretfully, I must decline. We have an appointment at Paul Parker’s office at one.”
“We?”
“I thought you wanted in on the case.”
“Oh, I do.” White could imagine the smile on Leslie’s face. “Why are we meeting with Paul?”
“The feds have taken over David Shepard’s case. We need to look at Paul’s evidence before it gets taken to Miami.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Paul won’t be expecting you. His guard will be down, and he may let something slip if he’s dealing with you.”
“Then I’ll wear something extra sexy!”
#
Leslie followed White into Parker’s office on the third floor of the Lee County Justice Center. When Parker looked up and saw Leslie, his lips parted, as if he was about to say something, then closed as he thought better of the idea.
Parker pointed to the conference table and sat down opposite White and Leslie. He pulled a stack of folders from a box on the floor and laid them on the table beside him. “These are copies of all the police reports, the crime scene reports and the lab reports that have been finished.”
Parker opened the first folder and studied it briefly before passing it to White. “This may be the most important file. It’s the ballistics report on the gun. The FBI confirms that the gun that killed Jackson was the gun issued to Graham Brochette.”
White took a deep breath as he examined the file, then slid it to Leslie and watched as she read it, shaking her head as her eyes moved down the page.
“I’m sorry, Lucius,” Parker said. “I know Graham is a friend of yours, but it’s looking more and more like his son is involved in the murder.”
White nodded but didn’t respond to Parker’s observation. “If Brochette’s gun was used in the murder of Tom Jackson, Brochette must also be a suspect. Why is Parker only talking about his Shepard?”
Leslie realized that White’s delay must mean that he was thinking about something, so she asked, “Who knows about the ballistics report?”
“So far, only I do,” Parker said. “But I have to give it to Lyle Wilson.”
White nodded and rejoined the conversation. “What else do you have?”
One by one, Parker opened the files, slid them in front of White and Leslie and summarized their contents. When he reached the last file, he hesitated, looking first at Leslie and then at White. “Are you sure you want to see the see the photos of Jackson’s body?” He was facing White, but his eyes were on Leslie.
“Let’s have them,” White said.
Parker slowly spread the pictures on the table. Leslie stifled a gasp.
“The bullet to the back of his head blew away most of his face. We’ve confirmed the identity from his fingerprints.”
White bent over to examine the pictures. “It appears that they burned him with a cigarette.”
“Seventeen burn marks,” Parker said without looking at the pictures. He continued to watch Leslie, waiting for a reaction.
“And the rest of these marks,” White said, pointing to a series of fine bloody lines. “Knife wounds?”
“Or razor,” Parker said. “Whatever it was, it was very sharp. But they’re all superficial. They were intended to inflict the maximum pain without killing.”
“Whoever did this is a vicious bastard with no conscience.”
As Parker returned the pictures to the file, Leslie asked, “What’s your theory of the murder, Paul?”
Parker looked from White to Leslie and back to White. He seemed to be asking why Leslie had suddenly taken over the discussion.
White responded by inspecting his fingernails. He understood Parker’s expression, and the challenge it appeared to convey. Paul Parker was “a good old boy” in a community still primarily controlled by the old boy network. The real power in Lee County still rested in the hands of leaders born and raised locally, and Parker was as “old boy” as you could get. As often as not, significant decisions concerning the community, funding for parks, permits for new developments and appointments to important boards and commissions, were made over beer and bourbon at a fishing camp in the Everglades. Women were still not welcome at fish camps.
Leslie smiled at Parker, but her eyes, which never left Parker’s face, had a coldness that conveyed a different message. When Parker didn’t respond, her smile faded, and her expression grew sterner. “Paul?” she said in a tone that was not yet demanding but nonetheless conveyed her growing impatience.
“Uh…” Parker returned his attention to Leslie after apparently concluding that she was in charge. “I’m sorry. What was the question?”
“What’s your theory of the murder?”
Parker opened the middle drawer of his desk and removed a bottle of chewable antacid tablets. Ignoring Leslie, he opened the bottle and removed two tablets. He returned the bottle to the drawer and continued to stare at the tablets in his hand before placing them in his mouth and returning his attention to Leslie. “Everything seems to point to your client.”
“That’s the evidence,” Leslie said. “I’m interested in what your gut tells you.”
Parker leaned back in his chair and found a spot on the ceiling that, for thirty seconds, demanded his attention.
“I have to go with the evidence,” Parker finally said.
“But the gun is the only evidence pointing to David.”
“It’s what we call good evidence.”
“Have you even considered a
nyone else?”
Parker shifted uneasily in his chair. “Like who?”
“It was Graham’s gun. Why isn’t he also a suspect?”
Parker seemed to think about the question before responding. “I don’t think anyone believes that Graham would have killed Jackson. What motive would he have?”
Leslie ignored the question and White rejoined the conversation. “I understand the body was found as a result of a telephone tip.”
“That’s right.”
“In fact, it was you who received the call, wasn’t it?”
Parker hesitated before responding. “That’s also right.” His voice has a suspicious sound to it, something that White noticed and recorded for future consideration.
“Did you do anything to find out who called in the tip?”
“I dialed star-sixty-nine.”
“And?”
“Nothing. It was from outside the area.”
“Didn’t you think it’s a little unusual for someone to call you with the tip?”
Parker moved uneasily in his chair. “What do you mean?”
“Isn’t it more common for people with tips to call the sheriff?”
Parker adjusted his tie. “I suppose so.”
“And you also got the call tipping you off to the drugs in the house in Matlacha, didn’t you?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Oh, nothing,” Leslie said. “It just seems like someone wanted to make sure that you knew about the tips.”
“So?”
Leslie ignored his implied question. “I’m sure you get tips on cases all the time.”
“Not as often as we’d like, but it’s not uncommon.”
“But is it common for you to get two tips, disclosing two different crimes that are apparently related and involve the same people?”
Parker looked from Leslie to White and back to Leslie before responding. “I don’t suppose so. But that’s no longer my problem, is it?”
“No, Paul,” White said. “It’s the fed’s problem now.” White stood and concluded, “Thanks for the help. We’ll call you if we need anything else.”
“Any time,” Parker said. The tone of his voice indicated that he meant something else entirely.
#
As they walked from Paul Parker’s office in the courthouse to their office, Leslie looked straight ahead, suppressing her smile and waiting for White to make some comment on their meeting with Parker.
The Nominee Page 16