by Greg Iles
Nevertheless, our story resulted in a flood of obscene email to the newspaper, much of it to my inbox. But at 8:40 a.m. I received a different kind of message. The heading read: personal for marshall mcewan, not troll mail. The sender was listed as “Mark Felt.” Mark Felt was the real identity of “Deep Throat” during the Watergate investigation. Intrigued, I opened the email, even though it had a file attached. The file turned out to be a lengthy PDF containing more than fifty different documents. A ten-minute perusal told me either I had been sent part of Sally Matheson’s data cache, or a member of the Bienville Poker Club had gifted me priceless evidence. The former explanation seemed far more likely. Had the person Sally entrusted with her most dangerous bequest finally decided to make a move? If so, why?
I stored the PDF in my personal Dropbox folder, which moved a copy of the file to a server farm somewhere in the cloud. Then I used my personal office printer to produce a hard copy, which covered several different matters that would certainly result in scandals, if not legal indictments. Finally, I called in our IT guy—a twenty-four-year-old Texan named David Garcia—and asked him to trace the source of the email that had delivered the PDF.
While Garcia worked at my computer, I sat in the corner and read through the hard copy. The first twenty-six documents detail a scam that exploited advance knowledge of Bienville’s site selection for the new paper mill to defraud more than three dozen homeowners of their property. These citizens of Bienville and Tenisaw County had lived in three areas: on land contiguous to the industrial park, along a secondary road that leads to the industrial park, and along the proposed corridor of Interstate 14. On the day the governor announced that Bienville had won the Azure Dragon mill site competition, all that land tripled in value.
The emails and deeds contained in the PDF establish that real estate developer Beau Holland coordinated the effort to buy those homes and lots for bottom dollar. The last home to sell closed thirty-four days prior to the governor’s public announcement. Some of those houses are only a mile from my own, but at the time of these sales, I—like everyone else—merely assumed that cash-rich investors were taking a gamble that Bienville would get the new interstate. Emails in the PDF file prove that Beau Holland and at least seven other Poker Club members knew four months before the official announcement that Bienville would get both the paper mill and the interstate. The primary investors in Holland’s scheme are Claude Buckman, Tommy Russo, Dr. Warren Lacey, Arthur Pine, and Max Matheson. Astonishingly, their source of information about both site selection and the interstate decision was a “Mr. Chow” from “Mai Loc Incorporated.” That last name hurled me back to Sally Matheson’s sapphire necklace with the “MaiLoc1971” password stuck to its backside.
The second set of documents includes emails between Wyatt Cash, Tommy Russo, and Max Matheson. The exchange discusses problems surrounding the hiring of illegal immigrant workers for specific jobs at the companies belonging to those men. All apparently use illegal workers on a regular basis, and pay them far below minimum wage. A couple of “Mexican troublemakers” are mentioned frequently in the correspondence—labor brokers, apparently—and Wyatt Cash refers to a private detective agency being hired to surveil those men. Tommy Russo makes reference to having “some of my guys straighten those goddamn beaners out.”
But the most explosive set of emails reveals behind-the-scenes machinations that helped get former Tenisaw County circuit judge Avery Sumner appointed to the U.S. Senate seat vacated by the senior senator for Mississippi. The writers of these emails used coded language when describing political moves, but the messages are filled with personal insults about three other candidates favored by the state Republican Party. Most damning, there are multiple references to Avery Sumner being “malleable” and “enthusiastic about pursuing our private agenda.” One sentence in a message from Arthur Pine to “Mr. Chow” sticks with me. It read: Avery fully understands the debt of gratitude owed to your friends, and also the principle of reciprocity. The “Avery” referred to in that email is now a U.S. senator. In the same email was a reference to the Royal Bank of Seychelles.
As I reflected on all this, it struck me that the Azure Dragon paper mill deal has become a scandal of national proportions.
“Marshall?” David Garcia said from behind my desk. “Whoever sent this PDF used the Proton mail program. I don’t have the technology to penetrate to the original source.”
“Does that mean the sender was some kind of hacker?”
Garcia looked up from my computer. “No. You can get hold of that program commercially.”
“Is there anybody who could trace the sender for us?”
He shrugged. “The NSA.”
“Anybody local?”
Garcia laughed. “No way.”
I thanked David and asked him to keep quiet about the PDF and the work he’d just attempted. After he closed my door, I went back to my desk to think long and hard about what I’d read.
Except for the mention of Avery Sumner’s Senate seat, none of the potential crimes described in the PDF involve either Azure Dragon Paper or city, county, or state government officials. It’s as though whoever sent me the file was giving me ammunition to hurt members of the Poker Club while risking as little damage as possible to the paper mill deal itself. The “Mr. Chow” correspondence hints at some sort of tit-for-tat arrangement between Avery Sumner and the “friends” of Mr. Chow, but nothing is spelled out in sufficient detail to prove a crime. I know reporters in Washington who would cream themselves over a lead like that, but right now I’m more interested in the fact that Max Matheson figures in all three sets of documents. Beau Holland does, too, but I can’t imagine anyone related to Holland leaking damaging information about him. Sally Matheson, on the other hand, put together information exactly like this in order to destroy her husband. And it’s Max who holds my future—and possibly my life—in the palm of his hand.
Am I looking at part of her final cache? I wonder.
A quick soft knock sounds at my door. Lucy Hodder, our receptionist, steps in, looking worried.
“You’ve got a visitor,” she says. “And you might not want to see this guy.”
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Holland, the Realtor. And he is not happy. I told him I wasn’t sure you were here. But I didn’t want to send him away unless you told me to.”
I start to beg off, but something stops me. Two nights ago, Beau Holland had to be physically restrained from attacking me. Has he come back to finish his assault? Given what I saw in the PDF file, I can’t say I’d be surprised. But what would be the point?
“Send him in,” I tell Lucy, wondering if Holland could be under enough financial strain to walk in here and shoot me. Surely not—
“I’m already in, you son of a bitch,” growls a prissy male voice.
Beau Holland pushes past Lucy and plants himself before my desk. “And I’m not alone.”
As I slip the hard copy of the PDF file into my top drawer, Tommy Russo steps into my office, wearing his usual tight-fitting suit.
Lucy looks at me with flushed cheeks. “Should I call somebody?”
I’m about to say no when Dave Cowart pushes in behind the other two. The pilled red Izod shirt he’s wearing makes him look like a human fireplug, and the contractor’s sunburned face is only slightly less red than his shirt. Holland glares at him and says, “I told you I’d handle this.”
“I was smoking outside,” Cowart says. “But when I saw Tommy come in, I figured I’d put in my two cents. I’m the one already got fucked by that Matheson cunt.”
I catch Lucy’s eye, but before I can speak, Russo says, “No need to call the police, hon. I’ll keep these gentlemen in line.”
“I’m all right, Lucy,” I tell her, but she exits with a doubtful look.
“How can I help you guys?” I ask, leaning back in my chair and folding my hands across my stomach.
“You could get hit by a truck,” Cowart says. “Man, what’s with yo
u? You print that goddamn photo like you’re bulletproof or something.”
“I’m confused, Dave. Did you not get enough of prison last year?”
He closes his big fists and steps toward me. “Come out from behind that desk and find out.”
“Oh-kay,” Holland says, taking Cowart by the arm and pulling him back two steps. “I think he got your message, Dave.”
Cowart’s eyes show fear as well as anger. “I’m on probation, damn it! This piece of shit’s gonna get me thrown back in the can.”
“That could happen,” I tell him, thinking of Buck’s body being wrestled from the river. “You want to tell me what you were doing out at the mill site with Buck on the night he was killed? On the record?”
“Don’t say a word,” Beau Holland advises. “Anyway, who says that photo you printed was taken at the mill site? Your story didn’t say that.”
“That’s true. We can’t prove where it was taken. Yet. But whoever sent it to me could probably provide that information. We’ll see what else he sends me.”
All three men freeze for a moment. Then Holland leans forward and lays his hands on my desk. “I don’t think the police or the sheriff’s department will be picking up Mr. Cowart based on your reporting.”
“No. But the FBI might. We’re making sure all evidence related to Buck’s murder gets sent to every agency that might have jurisdiction.”
Tommy Russo has been leaning calmly against my office wall, chewing gum. But at my mention of the FBI, he makes a face like he just bit into something bitter.
“You have no idea what you’re doing,” Holland says. “You’re interfering with people’s lives, their businesses. With this whole town’s future.”
“Am I? I thought I was just trying to solve a murder.”
Cowart grimaces, then shakes his head like all this talk is a waste of time.
“You’re about to get an education,” Beau Holland says with relish. “You keep printing stories like the one I read today, you’re going to find out exactly where you stand in the food chain around here.”
“The bottom, is it?”
Beau gives me his superior smile. “Another thing. Keep this up, and we’ll sue you into bankruptcy. It wouldn’t take much, from what I hear. We’ll own this rag, McEwan. And the day we do, we’ll chain the door shut.”
Russo is watching this scene with his usual expression, that of a languid predator at leisure. Given his background, Holland’s threats must seem about as tame as those from a kindergarten playground.
“I think you’re overestimating your influence, Beau,” I say calmly. Leaning forward in my chair, I turn and point to a tall picture frame on the wall. Under its glass is a copy of the first Bienville Watchman ever printed. “This rag, as you call it, has been published continuously since 1865. Through world wars, depression, civil rights battles, and hurricanes. I think we’ll survive you and the Bienville Poker Club.”
Holland gives me an eerie smile that promises undreamed-of revenge. “Our club’s been around since the Civil War, too. We know what makes the mare go. You ignore my advice, you’ll be lucky if your fellow citizens don’t burn this building to the ground. They know who’s on their side, and it’s not this fake-news mill.”
I let his threat hang in the air, waiting for his smile to fade. When it does I say, “If Dave had come in here alone, yelling and raising hell, I’d have blown it off. But since you two came in with him—a convicted felon—it’s pretty clear he’s still working for the Poker Club. So whatever he did to Buck, you’re all part of it.”
A shadow passes over Holland’s overbred features, but Tommy Russo still looks as though he wandered in here by accident. Beau straightens up and puts his hands on his hips, a vaguely feminine gesture. “Picking friends is an art, Marshall. But picking your enemies is survival. You’d better keep that in mind.”
“Got a lot of friends, have you, Beau?”
“More than you, after today.”
I fight to suppress a powerful urge to stick the knife in and twist it. In the end, I can’t resist. “I think I know one of your friends,” I tell him. “An interesting guy.”
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
“Say hello to Mr. Chow for me the next time you see him.”
Holland blanches. Dave Cowart looks blank, but Tommy Russo has stopped chewing his gum.
“Where did you hear that name?” Beau asks in a near whisper.
I turn up my hands. “Here, there—it’s hard to say with the way things are popping since yesterday.”
Holland fixes a superior smile on his face. “You have no idea what you’re fucking with. You’re not long for this world, my friend.”
I should keep my mouth shut, but all I can think about is Buck’s open skull on Denny’s drone video. I want to make Beau Holland squirm. “I think you and your buddies are one jury verdict from the penitentiary. People can’t wait to give you guys up. This morning somebody told me how you ripped off a bunch of homeowners on the I-14 corridor, using inside information. Somebody else told me about Tommy and Max and Wyatt Cash threatening illegal workers. Best of all, though, is how you jammed Avery Sumner into that U.S. Senate seat. I’ve got contacts in D.C. who’ll eat that shit up. All those insults about the other candidates? We might hijack the news cycle for a full twenty-four hours. So buckle up, Beau. You’re about to have a bumpy week.”
“I need to speak to Marshall alone,” Tommy Russo says softly.
Beau starts to protest, but before he reaches his third syllable Russo says, “Give me the fucking room.”
After Holland and Cowart shuffle out, Russo closes the door, then walks up to the edge of my desk. The predator-at-leisure expression is gone. The casino owner looks like a lion that could bare his claws and snatch me up by the throat any time he feels like it.
“You’re in the business of printing news,” he says, his Jersey upbringing suddenly evident in his voice. “I get it. You made your bones on some big political scandals. National stuff. But you need to think hard before you take your next step.”
“Tommy—”
“Let me finish, Doc. I’ve only known you five months, but I like you, okay? I respect what you do. We both know the future of this town depends on that paper mill. Also the interstate and the businesses coming in behind it—my new casino, for example. Bienville’s gonna be a showplace, while the rest of this state shrinks and sinks. I know a hometown boy like you don’t want to hurt the town he came from. What the old neighborhood is for me, this town is for you.”
“Tommy . . . I think this town can survive a lot. And I think the Azure Dragon deal can survive you guys taking a few hits.”
He sniffs and looks around my office. “Yeah? Well, maybe what you don’t know is a lot. What you got in your pocket? Some emails?”
“Yeah. Plus bank transfer records, deeds . . . It’s impossible to ignore.”
“That sounds like private information to me.”
“I didn’t steal it. A whistle-blower sent it to me. Fair game.”
“A leaker, you mean.” Russo makes an expression with his mouth that looks copied from Robert De Niro, circa 1974, then tilts his head to one side. “Sounds like maybe I need to call a plumber.”
“I’m not your problem, Tommy. Whoever’s throwing you to the wolves is. I think it’s one of your Poker Club buddies. Now, I need to get back to work.”
He stares down at me awhile longer, then walks to my door and opens it. Before he goes out, he looks back and says quietly: “I don’t fuck with a man’s livelihood if I can help it. I’m in a competitive business, but I don’t hurt nobody unless they come at me first. You’ve come to a fork in the road, my friend. You go one way, life is good. You see your old man out in style, sell this newspaper, head back to the city. But—you take the other road, things maybe don’t turn out so good.”
Russo rotates his flattened hand back and forth. “Anyway, the point I want to leave you with is this: It’s up to you. I’m not telling you which ro
ad to take. I’m just saying that whatever happens at the end of it, you got nobody to blame or thank but yourself.” He interlocks his fingers and cracks his knuckles so loudly that I start in my chair. “You have a good day now, Doc. I’ll see ya round the place.”
Then he closes the door.
Tommy Russo should record a master class on how to threaten people. Three minutes after he leaves my office, I still feel like I might throw up.
When the door opens again, I jump. But it’s only Ben Tate. “What the hell did those guys want?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Did they threaten you?”
“Be glad you didn’t hear it.”
“That short guy looked like he wanted to strangle you with his bare hands.”
“He was the comic relief. Look, I want you to find out everything there is to know about Tommy Russo. His crime family links. Actual crimes he’s been tied to or suspected of.”
“I’ll get on it. Has your secret admirer delivered any more goodies today? More trail camera pics?”
I think about the PDF sent to me by “Mark Felt.” Then I remember Russo’s expression as he talked about the fork in the road. “I haven’t been out to my car yet. I’ll know when I get coffee.”
Ben has the gleam of ambition in his eyes. “We need to keep this story going, man. People are sharing it all over the place. It could go national.”
“I don’t think there’ll be any shortage of developments today. We’ll talk later.”