by Kirk Jockell
“I just want justice to be served,” said Detective Anderson.
“Justice for who?”
Detective Anderson started to say something but paused. He wasn’t expecting that question to be coming from the mouth of the DA
The detective was about to answer, but the DA interjected, “Because, you see ... I get the sneaky suspicion that you have possibly transferred the injustice from Lundsford to yourself. That, in the back of your mind, it is you that has suffered a great injustice and not necessarily Lundsford.”
His boss grabbed his arm when Anderson stood, but he jerked away. The DA never flinched and stood his ground. “Listen,” Anderson started, “I worked hard, damn hard on that case. And yes, I’m man enough to admit, I took the fact that the case went nowhere as a huge and personal Fuck You. But you need to be clear on one fact.”
The DA said nothing. He was listening; giving the detective the floor.
“I didn’t work hard on that case because I wanted a conviction. I worked hard because a man had been killed, murdered. And despite however unsavory Terrance ‘T-Daddy’ Lundsford was to the community, his murder needed solving.”
When Anderson stopped talking, he was mad and out of breath. Anderson maintained his own stare at the district attorney. There was awkward silence in the room. After a few seconds, the lieutenant stood and said, “Perhaps we should go, sir. Sorry to disturb and waste your time.” He looked at Anderson and said, “Let’s go detective.”
“No. Not at all,” the DA replied. “Please ... take your seats again.”
The DA got to his feet and walked around the desk to his chair. He was about to take his own seat when he noticed the two were still standing. He smiled and said, “Please. I mean it. Sit.”
Everyone did.
The DA shuffled through a few folders and stopped on the one with a picture of Nigel Logan paper-clipped to the outside. He looked at the picture for a second or two then opened the folder and asked, “So ... where are we?”
Anderson went to great length to tell the DA everything he knew about the case and why they should proceed in obtaining another Grand Jury decision.
Attorney General James listened, and when Anderson was done, said, “So, in the years you have been keeping the burners warm on this case, you really don’t have anything new? Is that what you are telling me?”
The detective looked over at his lieutenant in search of a good answer. He didn’t find one. All he got was a raised eyebrow. He turned back to the DA. “That is correct, sir. My workload. I have had other cases, and to be honest, I didn’t want to waste department dollars and time on something that might not go anywhere.”
The DA looked at Anderson and nodded his head. With a half-grin, he looked at the detective’s boss and said, “And he’s thrifty, too.”
Anderson’s boss said nothing.
Anderson leaned forward and asked, “So, what can we do? You agreed to see us, so you have to have some interest in the case.”
The DA took a pencil from a coffee cup that was loaded with pens and pencils. He held it tight and upright between his fingers. He brought the eraser down and tapped it on his desk calendar three or four time until his forefinger and thumb reached the desk. Then he flipped the pencil over and did it again, this time tapping the point of the lead. He did this several times as he thought.
Without saying a word to each other, both detectives observed the condition of his desk calendar and determined this behavior to be an old habit. They also noticed that the DA only tapped the pencil within the square that indicated that day of the week. The future days on the calendar were clean while most past days were littered with dots of lead and small pieces of eraser.
The DA jabbed the pencil back into his cup and said, “Yes, I do have interest, but not without something new to bring to the table.”
“But sir,” interjected Anderson, “we’ve gotten indictments on less.”
“True. But I don’t want this office to be embarrassed again, detective.”
Anderson found himself speechless. He took the comment as a personal stab, as if it were his shoddy work that brought disgrace to the office. It wasn’t meant that way.
The DA leaned over his desk and said, “Turn up the heat, detective. Find something. Bring me something new.”
The DA turned to his boss and said, “Turn him loose. Give him the time and resources to work this case.”
“Yes, sir.”
The detective sat up a bit straighter in his chair. Then he and his boss stood. The detective extended his hand and the DA took it. They shook and Anderson said, “Thank you, sir.”
As they were walking to the door, the DA had some parting advice. “And I would try to keep the investigation close to the chest. Try not to garner too much attention. It seems Logan’s popularity and Lundsford’s lack thereof may have caused the media to favor Logan. I’m sure that played to his advantage.”
The two nodded, then slipped out the door.
Call Me Lamar
Nigel doesn’t believe in traditional luck, not in most cases. He is amazed, though, to see so many people, especially those that can least afford it, place so much faith in the idea that Lady Luck is just one paycheck away. For the ignorant, the idea that one can obtain gross amounts of wealth by scratching a ticket or by playing a few numbers is a dream come true: one dollar at a time. The state lotteries are magical at marketing to the simple-minded.
Nigel is a make your own luck kind of guy, and you can’t make your luck from a roll of tickets or playing the nightly drawings. There is no strategy when it comes to winning the lotto, even though there are some who would like you to think otherwise. There are little booklets for sale revealing the hottest numbers, the ones that come up most. They are utter nonsense at a price and printed for suckers that don’t understand the math and statistics behind a game of lotto. Bless their hearts.
The only actual strategy to increase one’s chances of winning is to buy multiple tickets for each drawing. But this is a fool’s tactic. Buyers find some psychological comfort in buying $20.00 or more at a time (some buy much more), over just a single $1.00 ticket. Like it places them in a better position to reap the benefits of a multimillion-dollar windfall. It really doesn’t, not in a practical sense anyway.
If you take into consideration the overwhelming odds against each ticket, each additional ticket purchased doesn’t do much of anything to increase your actual chances of winning it big. Take the simple Florida Lotto game for example. A player selects six numbers between one and fifty-three. All you have to do is match all six numbers in the random drawing to take home the millions. The problem is the odds of winning: 1 in 22,957,480. And those odds are great if you stack them up against the odds of the Powerball game: 1 in 258,890,850. So, buying extra tickets doesn’t help much, but it does, without fail, guarantee that you’ll piss away a bunch of money. Week after week after week.
Playing and winning at Texas Hold ’em is another pure luck game, where Nigel is concerned. He isn’t a student of the game like everyone else around the table. He hasn’t read all the books or watched all the videos. He hasn’t taken the time to learn how to make his luck. Hell, Nigel knows for a fact that Joe Crow has at least ten books and an entire DVD collection covering the subject. These guys are serious about their poker. Nigel, not so much. He shows up for the food, the friends, and the camaraderie. He doesn’t mind and fully expects he’ll be leaving some money on the table. He doesn’t give a shit, and the other guys love him for it.
Tonight’s game was different for some reason. He could do no wrong. He was winning everything without even trying. Lady Luck was showing him some serious love and dealing some red-hot cards. It was pure poker porn.
During one game the pot had grown into a hell of a pile. Most everyone looked quite confident about their hands as they stayed in and placed their bets. Nigel’s hand was only decent, but had potential. He stayed in anyway. With all the bets in, Joe placed the last card up on the ta
ble. Nigel’s two pair turned into a full house. The room erupted into sighs as Nigel smiled, racked his winnings, and started piling up chips.
Red, Nigel’s partner in mischief and shenanigans, was at the table. He said, “Son of a bitch, Nigel. With how you’re playing, you could win without looking at your cards.”
“Ha!” Nigel said with much excitement. “This winning stuff feels pretty good. I can see why you guys get so excited.”
“You should try it,” said the guy next to Nigel.
It was Sheriff Mark Watts. He often drops in, usually just to eat and watch, but sometimes he can’t resist temptation and will grab a seat at the table. And he never plays in uniform; that wouldn’t look good.
In general, a gambling house in Florida is illegal. However, there is reasonable flexibility built into the statutes to allow for friendly, penny-ante games. So, while sitting at the table may be legal, Sheriff Watts would never bring discredit to his position by playing in uniform. Nigel respected him for that.
Legal or not, poker is a cardinal sin in the minds of many. If the ladies at church ever caught word of Sheriff Watts playing poker, he could kiss the next election goodbye. Some things cannot be tolerated, even though they would always welcome him to play a card or two of Bingo on Tuesday nights.
At the table, he felt safe. He knew everyone pretty well, and he trusted nobody would ever say anything, especially Pastor Eddie who sat next to Red.
“Try what?” asked Nigel.
“Play a hand without looking at your cards,” said Sheriff Watts. “Let’s see just how lucky you are.”
“Sure,” said Nigel. “What the hell?” Nigel looked up and saw Pastor Eddie giving him the eye. “Sorry, ‘bout that, Padre.”
“It is quite all right, son,” he said with a thin, straight smile as he shuffled the cards. It was his turn to deal. “We all have our weaknesses and misgivings.”
“Really? What are yours?”
“Well ... there are many. I’m a sinner, just like everyone else at the table…”
Pouring from his handle of Jim Beam, Red piped up and said, “Hey, now! Come on, Eddie. Easy, boy. Don’t toss me in your basket of spiritual transgressors.”
“I’m sorry, Red,” said Pastor Eddie in his calm Sunday morning tone. “Even someone as angelic as you isn’t pure in thought and action.”
Red said nothing but lifted the bottle of bourbon to offer the pastor a drink.
“Just a bit, please. Thank you. As I was saying, Nigel, every man has his weaknesses. I, for one…,” He paused to think for a moment before looking Nigel in the eye to say, “Tonight, when I get home, I will ask for forgiveness because I’m praying like hell you will lose this next hand.”
“Deal ‘em, padre.”
Pastor Eddie looked at Nigel. He licked his thumb and went back to shuffling. There were five at the table: Pastor Eddie, Joe Crow, Nigel, Sheriff Watts, and Red. The small and big blind bets went to Joe and Nigel. With the bets on the table, Nigel said, “Let’s do this.”
The pastor dealt the hole cards and everyone took a glance at their cards. Nigel didn’t, but he slid them off the table and held them face down in the palm of his hand. He kept his eye closed as he suspended the two cards in the air.
Joe looked over at Nigel and asked, “What the hell are you doing?”
Nigel relied, “Shhh. Give me a sec.”
Red said, “Oh shit, boys. We may be in trouble.”
“What makes you say that, Red?” asked Sheriff Watts.
“He’s weighing the cards in his hand,” said Red.
Nigel said, “Shush!”
“Don’t shush me ... he knows the amount of ink and the density of the colors needed to make each card. They vary. A king weighs more than an ace, and so on. He’s figuring out which combination of cards he might have in the hole.”
“That’s bullshit,” said the sheriff. “Nigel, quit the crap and let’s get going.”
Nigel gave the sheriff a slight grin and placed the cards down on the table and said, “Start your betting.”
The bets were called all around the table until Joe Crow decided to raise the stakes by doubling the high-blind bet. Everyone else took another look at their cards, a natural thing to do when someone raises. Nigel put his palm on top of his cards covering them. The betting continued and everyone called.
Pastor Eddie didn’t hesitate and dealt the Flop, three cards up: an ace of diamonds, a seven of clubs, and a five of diamonds. Red put on a pair of sunglasses and went stone-faced. Everyone except Nigel looked at their cards. Joe Crow started the betting by doubling the high-blind bet again. Everyone paid up to see another card and Pastor Eddie mumbled some scripture as he dealt the Turn, a seven of hearts. The betting started again and Joe didn’t hesitate, doubling up on the high-blind bet again. Nigel cut him a look and called his bet. Sheriff Watts called and Red took his time to think and look at his cards. He was acting all Vegas-like, cool as a cucumber. Nigel chuckled under his breath and started to hum the tune from Jeopardy. Red said, “I’ll see your bet Joe,” as he tossed his chips in the pot. Then he grabbed another set of chips, “…and raise you another.”
Joe said, “You’re bluffing, Red.”
The betting continued around the table and everyone called until it came around to Sheriff Watts. He looked at his cards and he looked at the top of Nigel’s cards. He took another quick peek at his own then pushed his cards forward and said, “I’m not going there. I’m out.”
Pastor Eddie said, “Is everybody ready?”
Nigel said, “Cry me a river, Padre.”
The last card was placed on the table and eyebrows of both curiosity and disappointment were raised, but it was difficult to distinguish between the two. It was a three of diamonds. Joe stayed in, but checked his bet. Nigel looked over at him and said, “Where’s all that earlier enthusiasm, Joe?”
Joe returned a thin smile and shrugged his shoulders.
Nigel said, “Okay. I’ll start things off. He tossed in the high-blind bet. Red called. Pastor Eddie called. Joe called and raised another double-blind. Nigel looked at the top of his cards. What’s under there? Then he looked at his stack of chips. He was having a great night. It was so great, in fact, that this hand didn’t matter. He was having a blast. He said, “I’ll see your raise and double that.”
With Sheriff Watts out of the game, Red had a decision to make. He studied his hole cards then the cards face up and staring him in the face. He looked over at Nigel and found him weighing his cards again, eyes closed, head tilted back, a sheepish, but confident smile on his face. Red studied his buddy a moment or two more and said, “Ah, hell no!” He pushed his hole cards away. “No way. I’m out. I know that look.”
Pastor Eddie looked at Nigel and said, “I guess I’m gonna have to pay to see those cards, huh?”
Nigel said nothing. He was still feeling his cards in the palm of his hands.
“I’ll take that as a yes. I’m in. Call.”
Joe called Nigel’s raise and said, “Okay, let’s see ‘em.”
Nigel said, “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
Pastor Eddie flipped his hole cards and said, “Three Aces.”
Joe gave a smile, then he turned his cards over: a four of hearts and a six of spades. “It’s a straight, boys.”
Sheriff Watts said, “Nice.”
Then everyone looked at Nigel. Pastor Eddie said, “Well … whatcha got?”
Nigel flipped over the first card, a ten of diamonds.
Red said, “Uh, Oh!”
Nigel flipped his other card and Red sang out, “Spaghettios!”
It was the King of Diamonds, a neat little flush. Everyone laughed out loud as Joe Crow’s heart sank.
As the group continued to laugh and chortle in disbelief, the cell phone of Sheriff Watts vibrated in his pocket. He answered it at the table and nobody paid any attention to the one-sided conversation. “Hey, Lamar.” It was Franklin County Sheriff Lamar Williamson. �
�That’s okay. It’s probably a good thing. I’m losing my ass. How is the wife?” ... “Good, good. So what can I do you for?” ... “Uh huh, I remember.” ... “Really?” As Sheriff Watts held the phone to his ear, his deportment shifted. He went from poker player to an officer of the law. He listened with a calm intensity. Then he turned his head and eyes toward Nigel who was still laughing and stacking his chips. “As a matter of fact, I do. I’m quite familiar. Hold on a sec.”
Sheriff Watts put his hand over the receiver and pushed back from the table. “Guys, I need to take this outside. I’ve had enough for one night, fellas. It’s been fun.” He held up the phone and said, “Department business.”
“I’m not far behind you,” said Joe Crow. “I can’t stand the idea of taking another beating.”
Red threw a hand in the air and waved without looking.
Pastor Eddie said, “See you Sunday morning, Mark. Don’t be late.”
Right before he got to the door Nigel said, “Come on, Sheriff. Don’t go. I’m on a roll. My luckiest night ever.”
The sheriff looked at Nigel and thought It looks like your luck is about to run out. Then he stepped out into the dark.
Nigel was driving home from the game. It was late, and he was happy. Every now and then, he would pat his left breast pocket. It contained his winnings for the night, a nice, double-folded stack of cash. He hadn’t even counted it yet and probably wouldn’t. He laughed at himself, because he knew it was pure luck. There was no way in hell he would ever repeat a night like that. Without question, the money he won would find its way back into the pockets of future players. Losing at poker was what he did best, and he didn’t care.
As he turned onto his street, his headlights lit up a vehicle parked in his yard. Nigel slowed to inspect. It was an unmarked squad car. Nigel crept closer. He could see the bar of blue lights hidden behind the rear window and the collection of special purpose antennas and cameras not found on production cars.
When he pulled into his drive, the driver’s door of the squad car opened. It was Sheriff Watts. He got out and leaned up against the front fender of his car.