“You got something for me?”
“Right here,” said Donny, pulling the envelope from his jacket pocket. He thought five thousand dollars would have felt thicker, but watching Richie count it, he was reminded that it wasn’t that much money anymore, even if it had been a struggle for him to pull it together.
Richie nodded. He turned to the evidence box on the table. It didn’t have Xelina’s name on it, just the number. He pulled the inventory sheet from its sleeve and set it down. Then he dialed the code into the side of the box and opened it.
“Use these,” he said, handing Donny a pair of latex gloves.
Richie pulled a clear plastic bag from the box, unsealed it, and pulled out a beat-up black plastic Bluephone. He then pulled a cable out from the power port in the center of the table and plugged it in.
“Just this one, right?” asked Richie.
“Yep,” said Donny.
“I am going to leave you alone in here now,” said Richie. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
“Can we take a little longer than that?”
Richie shook his head.
“Any cameras I need to worry about?” said Donny.
“That question is both indiscreet and stupid,” said Richie. “All taken care of.” He pointed at the ceiling, where two nodes in opposite corners had been taped over.
Donny nodded.
Electric buzz and the sound of steel on steel as Richie locked the door from the other side.
Donny looked around the room. There was a photo of the Attorney General on the wall, just two cold paper eyes watching over him.
He grabbed the phone, flipped it open, and dialed the power button on the side. The Bluephones had the design logic of tiny televisions, even in the way the screen came online. Unlike BellNet’s interactive TVs, they had the keyboard integrated, in the bottom half of the clamshell.
The password prompt came on.
Donny punched the code Clint had given him, and he was in.
What came up was a notice from the system.
FACTORY SETTINGS RESTORED
“Bastards!” he cursed.
He tried everything he could to find backups. No dice. The phone was clean. Where she would have kept the videos, Donny found stock photos of happy families and enhanced landscapes.
Maybe they suspected something from Donny’s midnight visit to Xelina’s. Maybe Xelina had told them more than she said, or more than she remembered, when they interrogated her. But they knew that they already had enough to lock her up the way they wanted, and the only thing on her devices was downside for them.
And Turner, that lying son of a bitch, was in on it.
He went to the door, but there was no getting out. He pounded on the little window, but no one came.
He waited there for a half hour, which seemed a lot longer. He saw Richie looking in through the window. Richie had company with him this time, another guy. A suit.
It was the bald guy from the hearing. The one Broyles and Walton both seemed scared of.
He watched Donny like you’d watch an animal in a zoo, wondering why it’s not doing anything, while Richie talked to him. Donny couldn’t hear a word they said.
And then they were gone. This time for longer.
It must have been another hour before they were back. Richie opened the door. The suit came in alone and sat across the table from Donny.
“Find what you were looking for?” he said.
“Who are you?” said Donny.
The guy was hard to peg. The suit seemed almost too nice for a fed, but it covered a physique that had a military bearing. And the shaved head made it hard to assess his age. He could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five.
“Someone who’s been wanting to meet you,” he said.
“There are easier ways to make that happen.”
“I like this way. More private.”
Donny wondered if Richie had locked them in. He’d been so distracted by the suit that he hadn’t thought to listen for it.
“Are you the one who destroyed the evidence on there?” said Donny, pointing at the phone. “You know that’s a felony.”
“You’re one to talk about felonies, Donny.”
The way the guy said his name made it sound like something sleazy.
“What do you want?” said Donny.
“Honestly, I just wanted to meet you.”
“Right. What agency are you with?”
“It’s not important. What’s important is that you listen to the advice of your friends. Your recklessness could do much more damage than you realize. And the only reason you’re here talking to me, instead of where you could be, is because your friends vouched for you. Pointed to your patriotic service in the past. Said they could manage the situation.”
“Which friends would those be?”
“It’s a short list, because you don’t have many.”
“Not many of the kind you’re talking about. And not by accident.”
“Well, I’m definitely not one of them. And the people I work for feel even more strongly about it. Part of my job is to mediate the situation. Mediate, and monitor.”
“Can I go?”
The guy stared at Donny like he was making up his mind. He looked at his watch. Then he looked at his phone. He seemed to be reading something.
“Sure,” said the guy. “But this is your final notice.”
“Whatever,” said Donny. “Where do I get my five grand back?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said the guy. “And Richie already left.”
Bastards.
35
They’d had a regular memorial for Judge Elwood earlier that week, in the church his widow chose, but the real funeral was that night at midnight, on a closed-off overpass west of downtown, part of one of the private freeways reserved for the wealthy elite. More than a hundred friends gathered, more men than women, with their best old cars lined up in long rows, all tuned to the same private FM feed, blasting border metal at the city below while the judge’s body lay there atop the hood of his 1989 Cadillac Conquistador, which in turn had been raised on a pyre of rebar and mesquite doused with high-octane fuel drained from the tank of the car. The boys had gotten good at building those pyres in a way that you could drive the preferred chariot of the deceased right up there at the beginning of the fest and not need a crane or a bunch of floor jacks.
The judge was dressed in a chalk-striped charcoal flannel suit with a green foulard tie, white handkerchief, and the snake boots he wore for the hunt. His party lapel pin glistened like black gold, reflecting the moonlight. His favorite Ruger was holstered right there in the waistband of his suit pants behind the sterling belt buckle monogrammed with an etching of an eagle clutching a rat in its talons. The nine-inch knife with its hand-carved handle hung from the belt in its handsome Brooks Brothers scabbard, and folded into his arms was the Remington double-barreled 12-gauge with the inlaid silver image of Robert McAlpin Williamson, the Republic of Texas–era judge known as Three-Legged Willie for his primitive prosthesis, and for the Bowie knife he always wore under his judicial robes.
The judge’s friends lined up to pay their respects, leaving gifts with him to take off to the beyond. Cactus flowers, black-and gold-jacketed bullets and shells, flasks of fine tequila and whisky, cigars, antlers, and condoms. People talked and told stories about him, and then they turned off the music and his wife walked up with her bold blond hair done up in a vintage coif with a fresh streak of silver through the bangs that matched the platinum sequins of her dress. She gave a talk about what her husband stood for and what he believed the future would be if they continued the fight to which he had committed his life, a patriotism made from blood and dirt and the melding of the Anglo and Spanish traditions of law, property, and the enjoyment of the life of born leaders. Then the mistress got her turn, talking about some of the things he liked to do for fun, including an anecdote about the trip they had taken after the last dia
gnosis had come in, which involved three extramarital couples on a private jet loaded with spirits and firearms and a big tent you could put up in the desert after you landed. His daughter talked about his most important decisions, listing some of the most dangerous enemies of the state he had incarcerated. And then they each kissed him in turn, intense goodbye kisses to warm dead flesh. They stood together after that, arms locked, and sang the Song, a cappella, so crisp and clear that it carried far from that vaulted freeway even though you could hear the tremors of loss in their chorale. When they were done, the men took the torches they had been holding and put them to the pyre, as the feed came back on with “Judgment Day,” the last instrumental duel between Page and Gibbons before they went their separate ways. Somehow the flames engulfed the Caddy just at the part where the drums and guitar find their shared harmony and then the bass joins in and then the screaming wails, the unofficial anthem of twenty years of flag-draped victory celebrations, and you could almost believe in the mythic past these people accepted as true heritage.
Donny, who was the only one who had gotten there by cab, took it all in from the edge of the crowd. He was enjoying a tall boy of Alamo Martyrs wrapped in a black koozie printed with the judge’s fanciful coat of arms when he finally saw Trey alone and available to harass.
“Pretty amazing ceremony,” said Donny.
When Donny walked up next to him, Trey didn’t even notice him at first. He looked pretty tranced out on the fire, as the light flickered on his face and conjured weird shadows from within.
“He was a great man,” said Trey, looking over at Donny and tipping his glass.
“Shame to see that car go with him,” said Donny.
“You always know the wrong thing to say,” said Trey. “I can’t even believe you’re here.”
“I worked with the guy almost as long as you, and had a half dozen cases with him after he went on the bench. We may have different ideas about some things, but it was hard not to like the guy.”
“You fucking weasel,” said Trey. “You never could stand him. I remember you telling me as much, when we were at the firm.”
“And you agreed, so don’t give me that shit. I’m here to pay my respects.”
“You came to make fun of us. And then to bug me. I saw you called me at the office earlier.”
“I thought it would be easier to discuss in person.”
“Then make an appointment. This is not the time or place.”
“It’s kind of urgent.”
“It’s always urgent with you, because you are so fucking sloppy. Sloppy in your thinking, sloppy in your work style, sloppy in your politics, and sloppy in the way you live.”
“I guess that means you won’t be recruiting me for your little corporate space program.”
That got his attention, no matter how hard he tried to mask the initial reaction that came over his face.
He took a drink, half-smiled, and looked back at the fire. The smoke was pumping thick and black now, burning rubber and leather.
“One of my clients has been helping your guys develop their import market,” said Donny. “Asked me to look over his contract.”
“You don’t do contracts,” said Trey. “That’s what lawyers who want to be wealth creators do. You just help terrorists work out plea bargains. When you’re not helping out your drug dealer buddies.”
“Well, what I’m working on now kind of involves all those things. And Pallantium Corporation. Which is a great name, by the way.”
“You son of a bitch,” said Trey, grabbing Donny by the lapel and baring his teeth as he spoke.
“Ease off,” said Donny, putting his hand over Trey’s. “I already got bit by one dog this week.”
“Sorry they didn’t get your throat,” said Trey, backing away.
“Come on, Trey. This is just business. Like you always say.”
“What you are screwing with is about more than just business, Donny. It’s about the American future.”
“Sounded more like a wholly independent corporation’s future to me.”
Trey looked back at the fire. Like it was a mirror.
“But you would probably tell me those two are the same thing,” said Donny.
Trey shook his head dismissively.
“So in the spirit of interests-based negotiation, I thought I would reach out to you about how my clients and I can help you if you help us.”
“Blackmail, in other words.”
“No, not that word, Trey. And maybe it doesn’t even involve money.”
“You always need money,” said Trey, in a way that suggested that was the worst of all.
“How about I send you the details, and maybe we can talk at a better time. But pronto. Like mañana kind of pronto.”
While Trey digested that, another guy walked up. A younger guy, with dark hair, wearing a black technical jacket.
“Everything okay over here, Dad?” he said.
“All good,” said Trey.
“Is that Charlie?” said Donny, recognizing the kid now.
Trey smiled, looked at his son, and put a father’s proud hand on Charlie’s shoulder. Charlie was a little bit taller than his dad, a little whiter, and in a lot better shape.
Charlie wasn’t smiling. He was standing there, backlit by the raging fire, registering contempt for Donny like a fraternity brother blocking the door from an unwanted party guest.
“You got bigger,” said Donny. “Last time I saw you, you had braces and zits.”
“You remember Donny Kimoe,” said Trey. “We worked together at B&E.”
“I know him,” said Charlie.
Donny reached out to shake Charlie’s hand. Charlie was slow to reciprocate, and when he did he gave him one of those grips that feel like if you make the wrong move you’ll end up with your face on the pavement and no chance to tap out.
“What are you up to these days?” asked Donny.
“Charlie just graduated from the Institute last summer,” said Trey.
“Congratulations,” said Donny. “One of those dual MBA and public affairs deals?”
Charlie tipped his chin up at Donny in a nod.
“They say that’s where our new generation of leaders will come from,” said Donny, not mentioning that the Institute was where they trained leaders of a very particular political bent.
You could tell both father and son thought he was being sarcastic, even though he had tried not to be.
“You headed to Washington, then?” he asked.
“Staying right here,” said Charlie. “My hometown needs me. This is where we shape the future.”
“Working on the cleanup?” asked Donny.
“You could say that,” said Charlie.
“It’s okay,” said Trey, speaking to Charlie and then turning back to Donny. “Charlie’s getting into real estate. Spent the summer interning at Atlas Group on a couple of the remediation projects, and now he’s putting together his own deals.”
“Nice,” said Donny. “What’s the name of the company? I’ll keep an eye out.”
“New Frontier,” said Trey. “And as if that weren’t enough, they just named him deputy squad leader in the San Felipe Street Parade Club.”
“Really,” said Donny.
Charlie nodded. He had the eyes of a hunter.
“We’re going to get back to our friends, Donny,” said Trey.
“Look for my note, and let me know when we can meet,” said Donny.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Trey. He paused, and then looked right at Donny. “You be safe.”
Donny smiled and raised his beer at the two of them. Charlie waited a while before he took his eyes off Donny to turn away. And as father and son walked back to the fire you could see them conferring.
You could even say conspiring.
36
It was late when the cab dropped him off at his office, but Donny wanted to finish pulling his work together for the morning. But when he unlocked the door and stepped in, it didn
’t take long to see that he had a new pile of work to deal with.
It looked like Xelina’s house after the raid. Maybe a little tidier. Someone had been there, going through his work. File cabinets had been left open, banker’s boxes out on the tables, everything obviously rifled through. His private office was a bigger mess, with furniture moved, drawers unlocked and ajar, his little desktop trophies out of place. They had tried to stack things back neatly, but not the way Donny or Percy would do it. They didn’t want to hide that they’d been there. They wanted him to know.
For a lawyer, there was really no more unthinkable violation than the confidential files of your clients being ripped open. Even by law enforcement, if that’s what had happened. It was sacrosanct. The judges who had to authorize such searches were lawyers, too, and very reluctant to breach that line. If they gave a warrant like that, it almost always meant they suspected the lawyer was the real criminal, or in on it with his or her client.
Donny could feel the fresh fear taking hold. He looked out the windows, half-expecting to see suits in government sedans waiting for him to come out.
He took a closer look around the office, and tried to figure out what they had been looking for. He decided he didn’t have much time—every minute he stayed here increased the likelihood that they would be back to take him. But he could see enough to assume they had looked at almost every one of his case files. And spent most of their time looking at the classified cases.
The files he’d had out on his desk regarding Xelina’s case were gone. And when he looked for them, so were Jerome’s. All he had left on either of those were the files he’d been carrying in his litigation bag.
As he stood there in the dark of his office entrance waiting for the cab, he finally put it together.
“Fucking Turner,” he said out loud. But the face in his head was that chrome dome from Washington looking at him through the window in the door after Turner’s contact stole his money and locked him up.
Rule of Capture Page 19