The Nominee

by Alan P Woodruff

  The man stepped into the darkness. Only the ash of his cigarette showed his movement. White and Horse followed. The man from the front seat remained standing beside the limousine.

  Abruptly the man asked, “What do you need?”

  White was suddenly aware of a sense of unease. The darkness, and the mysterious stranger, he understood. But there was something else, something in the stranger’s voice, something he couldn’t explain, that told him he had to be careful.

  No sense playing games. “I need to know about any drug connections involving a lawyer in West Palm Beach.”

  “What kind of drugs?”

  “I don’t know. I suspect someone may be dealing in heroin or cocaine, but I’m not certain.”

  “You talkin’ ’bout dealing or distributin’?”

  White understood the difference between dealing and distribution and was suddenly struck by the fact that he had not been making the distinction. He knew that “dealing,” the so-called ‘street’ level selling to users, was at the bottom of the drug distribution chain. But distributing occurred at many levels as drugs moved from the importer through various middle-men until they reached the street dealers. He knew that people who had been arrested on drug charges were being killed after they had made plea deals and been released on bail. But he didn’t know if they had been merely users or street dealers or distributors. White thought about the distinctions but couldn’t decide if the difference was of any significance to his case. All pleas involve trading up. Everyone, users, dealers and distributors alike, make deals by providing information on someone higher in the chain. Whoever was doing the killing would only be concerned with someone who had information about them.

  “It could be either… or both.”

  “You should ask Mr. Barlow,” the man said, without hesitation.

  White was surprised by the suddenness of the response. Are Barlow’s activities that well known, or did the mystery man make inquiries before our meeting? It probably didn’t make any difference, but little things had a way of being important.

  “Ask him what?”

  “He the ‘go to’ man if you got a legal problem ’bout drugs. You’re the attorney. You’ll think of the right questions.” There was now something cold and sinister about the man’s voice. There’s something personal between him and Barlow.

  “Do you know him?”

  “I know what you need to know. That’s all that’s important.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Mr. Barlow used to get people into the country. People bring certain products with them.”

  “You said he ‘used to get people into the country.’ Has he stopped whatever he was doing?”

  “He’s moved on.”

  “Before he ‘moved on,’ how long had he been doing what he was doing?”

  “That isn’t important.”

  Or you don’t want to say. White sensed he was close to something important, and dangerous. “When did it start?”

  “That isn’t important either.”

  If it isn’t important, why aren’t you telling me? “How is it distributed?”

  The man paused. In the dark, White could only guess at his expression, and what he might be thinking. Whatever the answer was, it was significant enough to require some thought.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  What am I getting close to? What are you hiding? “I need to understand how large his operation is.”

  “Large enough.”

  “Is he still in business?”

  The man stopped walking and turned toward White. In the darkness, the cigarette ash, which had been tracing the movements of the man’s hand, stopped moving. “Things change.”

  White waited for more. When it became apparent that the man wasn’t going to offer anything else, he changed the subject. “Does Barlow have a Cambodian working for him?”

  For a moment, the man said nothing. Even in the darkness, White could visualize him thinking. There’s something important about the Cambodian. “You’re well informed.”

  “Is that a “yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “He has many names.”

  “What do you call him?”

  “The Cambodian.”

  “Do you deal with him directly?”

  “Sometimes.”

  The mystery man kicked at the gravel. It hit something a few feet away and bounced harmlessly to the ground. The man took one stepped, turned and sat down. “Sit with me,” he said. Oddly, it sounded more like an invitation than a command.

  White moved cautiously forward, feeling his way with the toe of his boot. When he felt something solid, he reached out and touched what felt like canvas tarp coving a stack of something. It could have been anything but White concluded that it was lumber. White sat and resumed his questioning. “Where can the Cambodian be found?”

  “Miami.”

  “Not West Palm Beach?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “What do you know about the Cambodian?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What does he do for Barlow?”

  “Whatever needs to be done.”

  “And what does Barlow do?”

  “Barlow looks out for him.”

  “For the Cambodian?”

  “For everyone.”

  “‘Everyone’? That doesn’t narrow things down very much.”

  “Ain’t supposed to.”

  It was evident that the man was not going to volunteer any information, and a direct approach was required. White found himself wishing that there was at least enough light to make out the man’s face. He didn’t need to be able to identify the man, but he did need some visual clues about the man’s reaction to his questions. If he didn’t know the truth, or wouldn’t share what he knew, Manny would never have suggested the meeting. But the truth comes in many degrees, and facial expressions, and the look in the man’s eyes, often convey more than his words. These were things that White relied on when examining a witness, and the darkness deprived him of this information. But there was nothing he could do about it.

  “Is Barlow involved in fixing drug cases?”

  “For some people.”

  “Who?”

  “The folks who are willing to pay his price.”

  “Are these people who want to get out of jail.”

  “Sometimes the money comes from people who want out themselves. Sometimes it comes from people who want other people out?”

  “Where is he involved in fixing cases?”

  The man hesitated before responding. “Barlow takes care of things wherever they need to be taken care of.”

  “Does that include both state and federal courts.”

  “It means what it means.”

  “Does Barlow do anything for you?”

  “It isn’t in my interest to say.”

  “Does Barlow work alone?”

  “No.”

  “Is Barlow the head of the operation?”

  “Not anymore.”

  The response startled White and for once he was glad that the man could not see his face. “Who is?”

  “That depends on your definition.”

  “Who makes the final decisions?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “You need to look close to home.”

  White pondered the man’s answer for a moment before continuing. “What do you know about Tom Jackson’s involvement in the business?”

  “He is a fool.”

  “But what’s his involvement?”

  The stranger didn’t seem to hear the question — or chose to ignore it. “Barlow is too smart to do business with a fool.”

  “But the Cambodian did business with Jackson.”

  “The Cambodian used him. There’s a difference.” The bitterness in the man’s voice suggested that his answer was based, at least in part, on some personal experience — probably not a pleasant one.
The tone of the answer cried out for more investigation. But it also carried a warning. Too many questions about the Cambodian and Jackson might end the man’s cooperation. That wasn’t something White was willing to risk.

  “Do you know that Tom Jackson was killed after he was released on bail?”

  “Heard ’bout that.”

  “Do you know why he was in jail?”

  “He needed to be taught a lesson.”

  “What kind of lesson?”

  There was a long pause. White heard the man take a deep breath and felt him move on the stack of whatever they were sitting on. When he answered, there was venom in his voice. “Don’t screw with the wrong people.”

  White was again overwhelmed with the feeling that he was venturing into a dangerous topic. But those were precisely the topics would lead to the most valuable information… or an end of the interview.

  “Who were the wrong people, and how was Jackson screwing with them.”

  “Don’ screw with the people who run things, an’ don’t want what ain’t yours.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Yes, it does. You jus’ don’t know it.”

  White couldn’t understand why the man was being so circumspect. He had agreed to meet with White, but now he seemed to be talking in riddles. Or maybe he was telling White something that he just didn’t understand. answering “Do you know who killed Tom Jackson?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know why he was killed?”

  “Got an idea.”

  “Why do you think was he killed?”

  “He ready to talk to the wrong people ’bout the wrong things.”

  “Do you mean he was about to enter into a plea agreement with the State’s Attorney.”

  “Could be part of it.”

  “Only part of it?”

  “That what I said.”

  White leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he considered what he had learned, or not learned. For a moment he thought about Manny Rodriguez and why he had negotiated a connection between White and this particular man. He concluded that the other man must be someone high in one of South Florida’s drug cartels, but there were many cartels. They co-existed peacefully only when their mutual interests required it. In other matters they were enemies, and their relationships were measured by the body count in the Dade County morgue.

  There was one more thing that White needed to know. He was certain that the man wouldn’t tell him everything he knew. But his reaction to the question White wanted to ask might, by itself, let him know what he needed to know.

  “What is Congressman St. James’s connection to Barlow.”

  For a full minute, the man remained silent, but White could hear his heavy breathing. Whatever the man said, White now knew that Congressman St. James had some involvement in what Barlow was doing.

  “St. James was a crooked cop.”

  It wasn’t an answer to White’s question, but it was enough to increase the flow of adrenaline.

  “Is he in business with Barlow?”

  Another long silence was followed by, “Could be.”

  “How do you know.”

  After only a short pause the man said, “I introduced them.” His voice was firm, but his tone was filled with reticence.

  White was suddenly thankful for the darkness that hid the shock he knew was showing on his face.

  White wanted to pursue the issue, and he was confident that the stranger knew something that would help his investigation. But the tone of the man’s last revelation indicated that his co-operation, at least on that topic, was ended. White was tempted to press ahead, but he wasn’t ready to offend the man and lose future access to whatever information he could provide. When a half-minute passed without White asking any more questions, the man said, “Is that all?”

  “For now. Can I contact you if I have any more questions?”

  “That Depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “Depends on whether there’s anything in it for me.”

  “How will you know?”

  “I be watching what you doing. I’ll know.”

  #

  The limousine waited in the dark corner of the parking lot until Horse turned onto Route 41 and headed west.

  “What do you think?” White asked.

  “I think Manny’s friend is a very careful dude.”

  White nodded. “Probably with good reason.”

  “Uh huh. Do you think he’s in business with Barlow?”

  “He said he does business with the Cambodian.”

  “But the Cambodian works for Barlow.”

  “Maybe he also works for others.”

  “Like who.”

  For a minute White drove on in silence. When he spoke, it sounded more like he was thinking out loud than talking to Horse. “It also sounded like he did business with Barlow independent of what he did with the Cambodian.”

  “So why didn’t he tell us?”

  “That wouldn’t have been in his own best interest.”

  #

  The western suburbs of Miami faded behind them, and they were engulfed in darkness. For twenty minutes, neither of them spoke.

  Finally, Horse interrupted the silence. “There’s something about the Cambodian’s drug dealing that bothers me.”

  “Something has been bothering me, too. But I can’t figure out what it is. Do you have any ideas?”

  “We’ve been assuming the Cambodian started out dealing heroin—”

  “Smuggled into the country by Barlow’s clients.”

  “Right,” Horse said. “But our new friend said the ‘things change.’ What do you suppose he meant by that?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Everything David had to say about offshore drug pickups screams cocaine. Do you suppose he meant that Barlow had changed from smuggling heroin to smuggling cocaine?”

  “The Columbians aren’t generally inclined to let outsiders in on their business.”

  “So someone else has to have brokered an arrangement between the Cambodian and the Columbians.”

  “Or the Columbians are behind everything,” White said.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Maybe the Columbians were trying to get rid of the Cambodian by framing Shepard and Jackson and hoping they’d turn on the Cambodian.”

  26.

  The exchanges with Manny Rodriguez’s contact continued as the subject of the morning meeting of White, Horse, and Leslie. The man’s meeting with White would not have been accepted if he wasn’t willing to provide valuable information, and all agreed that the information he had provided was cryptic at best. But cryptic or not, White was convinced that his information was the key to unlocking some secret. All White had to do was determine what that secret was.

  Leslie finished taking notes and was about to ask a question when they were interrupted by Grace Matthew’s voice on the intercom. “Someone who says he’s a U.S. Attorney in Miami is calling for Mr. White.”

  “Thank you, Grace,” White said. He switched on the speakerphone and answered, “Lucius White.”

  “Mr. White, this is Lyle Wilson. I’m an assistant U.S. attorney in Miami.”

  “Yes. I know. You’ve taken over the David Shepard case.”

  Wilson’s pause suggested that this wasn’t the greeting he expected.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Wilson?” White asked in a tone that said he had no concern for anything the prosecutor might have to say.

  In federal criminal cases, the rules are stacked in favor of the government. U.S. attorneys, and their investigators in the FBI and other federal agencies are accustomed to instilling fear in witnesses and opposing parties merely by virtue of their inherent power. Wilson, for whom White’s apparent indifference was something unexpected, paused again before responding. “Call me Lyle.”

  “Fair enough. Call me Lucius. Now… what can I do for you?” White said, continuing to
assert his control over the conversation.

  “As I’m sure you know, I’ve just taken over the Tom Jackson murder case.”

  Wilson waited for White to make some response.

  White said nothing.

  Wilson gave up and continued. “I haven’t looked into the whole matter yet…” White and Leslie exchanged “Yeah, sure” glances, knowing that Wilson wouldn’t have called before he knew everything there was to know about the case. “But it seems to me that we have a pretty good case.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So you agree?”

  “No. Just letting you know I haven’t hung up.”

  “I see.”

  “Good.”

  Wilson was off balance.

  White repeated, “What can I do for you?”

  “I thought we could talk about a deal.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, as I assume you know, I’m a friend of Graham Brochette’s. I know this is hard on him, and I’d like to see if we can work something out for his sake.”

  “Graham Brochette isn’t my client.”

  “No. Of course not,” Wilson fumbled. “But…”

  “What kind of deal did you have in mind?” White asked again.

  “Look… ah… Lucius,” Wilson began before pausing. “We’ve got enough to indict, and I can probably convict your client of Jackson’s murder. But there may be a way to avoid that.”

  White tensed, not sure he had heard Wilson correctly and unable to believe what he thought he heard. A deal without even an indictment? It wasn’t unheard of, but it was far from conventional. “I’m listening.”

  “Until I go for an indictment, I have a lot of discretion and—”

  White knew Wilson had some ulterior motive for shopping for a deal before he had even charged David. He just couldn’t imagine what it was. “What makes you think you can convict David of Jackson’s murder.”

  “He had opportunity. He was out of jail when Jackson was killed. He had access to the murder weapon — his father’s gun. And he had motive — Jackson had the cocaine that justified his arrest.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase. You need my client for something. What is it?”

  The silence on the other end of the line said Wilson was unaccustomed to dealing with attorneys like White. “We… We think Jackson was connected to a drug distribution network we’ve been investigating. Whoever is behind it has been very careful. Every time we seem to be getting close, our witness disappears. According to Paul Parker, Jackson was ready to make a deal when he was bailed out. With Jackson dead, your client may be the only one who can help us get these guys.”