by Rod Helmers
When Elizabeth had navigated the warren of streets leading to the efficiency apartment, she’d noticed several sailboats tied off along a web of canals that led to the open ocean. The sailboats indicated that the canals were deep. Some of the canals traveled parallel to the streets, and some dead-ended perpendicular to the streets. A very few dead-ended against a dead-end street. Reflectors on rotted wooden posts warned motorists of the hazard. Some of the old posts had already fallen as a consequence of their decay. The rest wouldn’t withstand a good kick, much less being struck by a vehicle.
Elizabeth finally found a satisfactory dead-end street butted up against a dead-end canal. She didn’t want to have to worry about boat traffic. About the keel of a sailboat getting hung up on the roof of the old station wagon. A dead-end canal was a necessity. As was a dead-end street to allow for acceleration.
She brought the vehicle to a stop about 100 feet from the slumping wooden posts, and opened all of the windows several inches. The idle of the old vehicle had been turned up to overcome the need for a long overdue tune-up. Elizabeth stepped out of the car and watched it accelerate down the street and into the canal. It disappeared from sight within minutes.
Elizabeth turned to begin the long walk back - thinking about another night and another death a long time ago. And hoping to arrive before the sun.
The early hours of Wednesday morning found Rodger Rimes behind the wheel on I-40 somewhere in eastern Arkansas. Sandi was asleep in the back seat of the extended cab Ford F-150 pickup, while Dustin rode “shotgun” as he preferred to call it.
“Are you going to die, Pappy?”
The question surprised Rodger, and his surprise was not only due to the nature of the question. He was also surprised that Dustin had apparently been awake as he sat uncharacteristically silent in the front passenger seat. “Everybody dies sometime, Dustin. It’s the circle of life.”
“What’s that?”
“We’re born. We grow up. Get married. Have babies. Get old. And eventually we die. So everybody gets a chance.” Rodger explained.
Dustin was silent for a long time before he spoke. “My Daddy didn’t get his chance. He didn’t get his circle.”
“No, he didn’t. And that’s a sad thing. Some people don’t get their circle. But your Daddy was my best friend, and I know he’s in heaven watching you. Watching you get your circle.”
“Is Sam going to get his circle?”
“Yes, Dustin, I think Sam is going to get his circle. But only God knows for sure.”
“If that attorney tries to hang Sam until dead, will you kill him?”
“What attorney?” Rodger asked with confusion and surprise in his voice.
“That us attorney.” Dustin grimly answered.
“You mean the U.S. Attorney?”
“Yeah.”
“No, Dustin, I won’t. And nobody is going to hang Sam. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“They do that sometimes.”
“Not this time. And why would you ever think I would kill somebody?” A perplexed Roger questioned.
“We’re having a war to get the bad guys. Dead or alive.” Dustin wore a serious expression that clashed with his youthful features.
“The U.S. Attorney isn’t a bad guy.”
“Yes he is.” Dustin responded in a defiant tone.
“No, Dustin, he’s just wrong.” Rodger explained evenly.
Dustin folded his arms across his chest and set his jaw. “I wish he was bad.”
Rodger studied Dustin and thought to himself that the genes had passed from father to daughter and back to the son. “And so it goes.”
“What’d you say, Pappy?”
“Nothing, son.” Rodger answered softly.
Her eyes had always given her away. Sometimes they signaled anger, or at least that she was upset. Controversial subjects were best avoided. But not tonight. Tonight they summoned him. Her mouth moved, but Sam couldn’t hear the words. He rose and placed his ear next to her faded lips and waited for whispered words. The word came with a strength and conviction that belied her frail appearance. “Ratso.”
Sam sat straight up in the prison cot that passed for a bed. His breathing was fast and he was covered in sweat. He had no idea what time it was. Or even where he was. He took in his surroundings and his heart sank. He remembered. He’d been waiting for the guard to come for him again, even though Jefferson Davis Brown had assured him otherwise. But the guard didn’t come. His mother did. And she spoke.
Only one word. After seven years of the same dream. One word. The name of his childhood pet. A rat terrier he’d named Ratso. The long-lived terrier had been his companion for 14 years, and then died in its sleep the summer before he went off to college. Ratso.
CHAPTER 38
”First Appearance is an opportunity for you to enter a plea. Your plea will be not guilty, of course.” It was around ten Wednesday morning. The Mouth had arrived at the federal detention facility a few minutes earlier, and was prepping Sam for the hearing the next day.
“I’m not guilty of anything. Except stupidity.” Sam replied.
“I know.” The Mouth answered reflexively, and then looked up at Sam’s mournful expression. “I mean about the not guilty part.”
“What about bail?”
“Bail as a precondition of release pending trial is pretty much a state thing. It’s rare in the federal system. A federal judge can set any precondition he or she feels is appropriate, of course, but usually it’s purely a question of risk of flight. The U.S. Attorney will argue that you’re a huge flight risk.”
“Why?”
The Mouth looked Sam in the eye. “Because they maintain that you’ve socked away $150 million in an offshore account.”
“Oh.”
“There’s another problem.” The Mouth stood and pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing. “A federal district court judge is a Constitutional officer appointed by the President for life. Sits at the right hand of God. A U.S. attorney is also a Constitutional officer appointed by the President and serves at the President’s pleasure. Sits at the left hand of God. They tend to balance each other out.”
“I don’t understand,” Sam interjected.
“I’m not done,” The Mouth continued. “Federal district court judges usually don’t handle things like First Appearances. It’s beneath them. They have magistrate judges handle the mundane. Magistrate judges ain’t God-sitters.”
Sam studied his pink rubber clogs for a long moment before replying. “You’re saying the U.S. attorneys push the magistrate judges around?”
“It’s been known to happen.” The Mouth answered dourly.
“Oh.”
“But don’t give up hope, Sam. I’m going to do everything I can to get you released pending trial. I’ve been known to pull a rabbit out of my hat every now and again.” The Mouth smiled without enthusiasm.
Sam shifted his attention to his hands. “What about the password? Did it work?”
“I’m sorry, Sam.” The Mouth shook his head form side to side.
“At least we still have two chances left.” Sam offered as he looked beyond The Mouth and thru the wire-mesh glass sealing off the hallway.
“One chance left.”
“What?” Sam’s voice scaled up an octave.
“There was a technical problem. It’s a long story.” The Mouth went on to relay the developments of the prior evening.
Sam sat silently for a few moments. “Do you mind if use your phone? I’d like to call Sandi.”
“Hello,” Sandi answered wearily.
“It’s me.”
“Sam! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Sam answered without enthusiasm.
“Is everything okay?”
Sam relayed The Mouth’s account of the dinner party.
“So Ellen Hughes is really Elizabeth Hayes.” Sandi let the statement hang in mid air.
Sandi’s comment felt like an accusation. Sam decided to change
the subject. “Mr. Brown is preparing me for the hearing tomorrow morning.”
“Good. I need to get the details. When and where.” Sandi responded with business-like efficiency.
“Why?”
“We’re going to be there. Dad, Dustin and me.”
“You’re flying in?” Sam sounded doubtful.
“Unfortunately, no. We’re somewhere on the Gulf coast. We should be there late this afternoon.”
Sam started to choke up, and quickly shoved the phone at The Mouth. “Hello, Sandi?” The Mouth asked as he watched Sam out of the corner of his eye.
“Oh, Mr. Brown. Good morning. I just told Sam I needed the time and place of the hearing in the morning.”
“You’ll be there?”
“We’ll be arriving in Tampa this afternoon.” Sandi explained.
“That’s wonderful, Sandi. I’m sure that Sam will appreciate the moral support. Ten-thirty at the federal courthouse in downtown Tampa. Federal Plaza. Courtroom A.” The Mouth looked back at Sam, who nodded. “Here’s Sam again.”
Sandi started to thank the lawyer, but Sam was already on the line. “Hey.”
“You sound funny. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. It just means a lot to me. You coming.”
“Of course, Sam. We’ll come see you as soon as we arrive.”
Sam shook his head. “Visiting hours will be over. You guys will be tired anyway. Get a nice dinner and then get some rest. I should probably give Mr. Brown his phone back now.”
“We’ll see you in the morning then.” Sandi promised.
“Okay. Oh, Sandi?”
“Yes, Sam.”
“Take Dustin and your Dad for some real Spanish food. There’s a place in Ybor City . . .” Sam sat staring straight-ahead saying nothing. For a moment The Mouth thought he’d had a stroke.
“Sam? Are you there?” Sandi asked.
“That’s it. My god. That’s it.” Sam whispered.
“What’s it? What are you talking about?”
“The dream. The dream about my mother. She spoke.”
“About a restaurant?” Sandi asked in a puzzled tone.
Sam ignored Sandi’s question. “I had dinner once. At this place in Ybor City. With Dr. Bob. The day I told him I would come to work for American Senior Security. He asked me if I remembered the first time I logged on the internet. I told him that I did. Like it was yesterday. I was a freshman at the University of Nebraska. He told me that DARPA was running things then, and that they recorded all that early stuff on mag tape and eventually backed it up on hard drive. And that he’d hacked it.”
“I still don’t understand, Sam.” Sandi interjected with worried concern.
“The password. My very first password.” Sam answered and then lowered the phone and seemed to speak only to himself. Or to no one at all. “Ratso is the password.”
The Mouth worked his lips like a guppy. “Sam, I don’t want to piss you off, but I heard some really weird shit just now.”
Sam just stared at The Mouth, but offered no reply.
The Mouth looked at Sam compassionately. “Sam, you need to be rational. We only have one chance left.”
“You listen to me. ‘Ratso’ is the password. For once you listen to me!” The words flew out of Sam’s mouth full of anger. It was hard to tell which man looked more shocked by the outburst.
After an uncomfortable silence, Sam spoke up again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brown. Please trust me on this.”
“It’s your neck,” the Mouth replied as he picked up his cell and stabbed it a couple of times with a well-manicured index finger.
“Tillis.”
“Bring up Dr. Bob’s e-mail. I have a password for you to try.” The Mouth said brusquely.
“Try?” Tillis asked. “Did you forget this is our last chance?”
“No, I didn’t forget that this is our last chance.” The Mouth sounded annoyed. “Sam thinks this is the one.”
“Why?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Tillis hesitated. “Ready when you are.”
Now The Mouth wavered. “Do you have paper and pen?”
“Spit it out, Mouth.” Tillis answered sourly.
“Please write this down letter for letter. R - A - T- S - O.” The Mouth spoke each letter slowly and distinctly.
“Ratso?”
“Ratso,” The Mouth replied with resignation.
“Here goes nothing.” After an uncomfortable silence, Tillis spoke again. “I have data spilling off my screen. I’m recording it to flash memory. But this is shit. A jumble of letters and numbers.”
“Hold on,” The Mouth snapped.
After a brief moment he spoke again. “Sam says it’s encrypted, but it’s no big deal. You’re going to need to download the program. And you’re going to need another password.” The Mouth sighed. “It’s ‘Sandi’.” He paused another beat. “That’s with an ‘i’, not a ‘y’.”
His flight home Tuesday night after meeting with Marc had been uneventful. But a less than covert surveillance team trailed his vehicle as he returned to his normal schedule on Wednesday. The development caught James by surprise. Connections were being made and he took note.
James realized that any misstep could be fatal. He’d made a point of requesting a temporary secretary, and also advised Human Resources that Elizabeth Hayes had neither been to work that week, nor made contact to explain her absence. He’d tried to sound indignant.
The hardest part for James was the waiting. And the waiting game respecting Elizabeth was especially difficult. He needed to allow her isolation to fester a little longer. Like an insidious infection, he expected that it would quickly weaken her until even a mild stressor would have catastrophic consequences. James was not without regret, but Elizabeth was a risk. A grave and mounting risk.
The waiting game applied to Marc as well. The GPS tracker indicated that he’d hunkered down in Tampa. James would travel there in a couple of days if he could evade surveillance. Under cover of darkness, he would swap out the CD in the voice-activated recorder he’d hidden in the trunk. Perhaps one side of a cell phone conversation would lead to the money.
James was waiting. Waiting with his head held low and his nose close to the ground. Searching for the scent. Both the hunter and the hunted. James still thought he was the he-coon.
CHAPTER 39
“Semper fi,” Tillis said in greeting to Judge Marshall Turnbull as both walked across Federal Plaza Thursday morning.
Tillis had testified in Turnbull’s courtroom many times over the years. The jurist knew the law and ran a tight ship, having placed witness and attorney alike in a cell for contempt on more than one occasion. Tillis also knew that the curmudgeonly old man preferred the proffered greeting from another ex-Marine over an ass kissing ‘good morning, Your Honor.’
Turnbull had seen action as a teenager in the Pacific Theatre during the final two years of WWII, and was appointed a federal district court judge in 1975 by President Ford. He’d recently elected retired status, and now presided intermittently when the Assigning Judge beckoned. And when he was so motivated.
“Semper fi,” replied the judge. His growl tempered with a smile.
“I think you missed your tee time,” Tillis commented as he shook the timeworn hand of the judge.
“That’s exactly what I was just thinking. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what the hell I’m doing here today.”
Tillis looked at the veteran jurist with a quizzical expression. “Unhappy with your assignment?”
“Oh, the Assigning Judge didn’t want a magistrate handling the First Appearance on this American Senior Security thing. Afraid it will turn into a circus, I guess.”
Tillis held his hand up with his palm facing Turnbull, signifying that he was a potential witness in the case and could not speak about it ex parte - without the attorneys present. “I’ll see you inside, Judge.”
Turnbull shook his head. “The FDLE is in on this thing
too? Maybe our fearless leader knows of what he speaks.” With that Turnbull veered away from Tillis toward the private entrance for judicial personnel.
As Tillis climbed the granite steps of the federal courthouse in downtown Tampa, he studied the man, woman, and child immediately to his left. Apparently three generations. Their attire was Western, as were their speech and inflection patterns. But something about the old man reminded him of T-Bone. Tillis reached the nearest set of double doors first, and held one open for the trio.
“Good morning,” Tillis said with a smile.
“Mornin,’ the leathery-faced man replied as he removed his ivory-colored Stetson. After a woman in her late twenties and a young boy of no more than nine or ten entered the courthouse, the man followed, nodding at Tillis. “Thank you.”
Tillis approvingly noted the healthful complexions of the woman and child as the foursome approached the security station and metal detectors inside the building. The woman placed her bag on the conveyor belt and passed thru the metal detector, immediately followed by the child. The old man paused as he approached the security station, his weathered face revealing his uncertainty regarding the proper procedure.
Finally, he placed the Stetson atop a thick shock of white hair and cleared his throat. Then removed a .45 caliber Colt Peacemaker from inside his tan suede jacket, and handed it butt first to the security guard sitting on a tall stool monitoring the flow of items onto the conveyor belt. The guard’s eyes grew wide as he reluctantly received the huge revolver.
“The name is Rimes. Rodger Rimes. From San Luis, New Mexico. I’d like that back when I leave.”