She had taken the hook. Now, all I had to do was set it. “Well, you won’t be there next week to do it yourself, even if you had the legal skills, which you don’t.”
“Why the hell not? I watched you and Catch enough.”
“The reason is that there’s going to be an arraignment in St. Bonaventure. You’ve got to be in court to enter your plea. And if you try to do that without a lawyer, they’re going to make an effort to revoke your bail, which they may try to do anyway. You need a lawyer there, so you need to retain Lolly as soon as possible.”
“Well then, I don’t need one lawyer, I need two, don’t I? One for St. Bonaventure and one for Camellia Industries. Both next week.” She thought a minute. “Oh, I get it. You won’t handle the criminal case, but you want to represent Camellia Industries at the injunction hearing, right?”
The fish had been snared.
“I see it now, you bastard. You lawyers are sucking me dry. Fuck!”
She paused to consider her options. At last she said, unhappily, “I’ve got to have it, or whatever will be left of it after you and Lolly finish raiding what’s rightfully mine.
So I’ll get you the books, but you sure as shit better get me the money.”
“First the corporate records.”
“I told you, I’ll get them to you.”
“No, Taylor. No more stalling. Let’s go over to your house. Right this minute. We really don’t have a lot of time to waste.”
“They’re not there.”
Now she was playing with me.
“Don’t look at me like that, Schex! I had them, all right, but when I heard about
G.G. I thought it best to get them out of the house. Spider has the books.”
Chapter 20
Why had she given Spider the corporate books? Taylor had several explanations, none of them satisfactory. She was afraid of them being stolen while she was out of her house. No one would tangle with Spider. The paperwork was a mess.
But she wasn’t making any sense. If the books were important, why didn’t G.G.
take them along with the checkbooks and ledgers? If the paperwork was a mess, why worry if anyone was going to steal it? If protecting the books was important, why entrust them to Spider? Why would Spider do anything for her if he owed his allegiance to G.G.? But, when Taylor said, “Spider may have worked for G.G., but he’ll do anything for me,” I sure believed that. Taylor could twist almost any man into knots if she put her mind – and body – into it.
In the end, it didn’t matter why she had given the books to Spider. I had to see them, because only by doing that could I legally get my hands on a substantial portion of the cash. Professor Calandro had indicated the way, in his usual circuitous fashion, and I had figured out how to get back at Taylor while ‘helping’ her, stripping her of the bulk of the $1.6 million she knew about, and keeping the rest – the $2.8 million – for myself.
I wasn’t going to represent Taylor in any criminal case. Nothing but trouble there. Whatever I’d recommend, she’d second-guess. Can’t have a defendant sitting in the courtroom, facing a jury who holds her fate in their hands, seething at her lawyer because she disagreed with some tactic. Can’t have a criminal client who doesn’t think her lawyer is dispassionate, who is always asking herself if her lawyer has some ulterior motive to get even because of past slights.
On the other hand, representing Camellia Industries was perfect. It was all in the clues that the Red Knight had given me. The $1.6 million would evaporate into legal fees, and no one would suspect me if Lolly was demanding far more than I. I’d start with $50k and bill the hell out of Camellia Industries until the rest was gone, assuming Taylor really owned it. Which is why I needed to see the corporate books.
It was perfect. Cleanse the funds she knew about, keep the $2.8 million she was ignorant of, and then, carefully, retreat into a life of leisure.
So, I told Taylor I agreed. Once I saw the books and was satisfied, I’d find a way to get her the roughly $1.6 million G.G. had taken from the bank accounts.
Taylor was unhappy that she’d have to pay the upcoming legal fees out of these monies, and she set down three conditions.
First, Spider lived in St. Bonaventure Parish, so she’d arrange for him to meet me in the parking lot of Poirrier’s Market to hand over the corporate books.
Second, Taylor informed me that there was going to be a public meeting that evening at St. Bonaventure High School. Camellia Industries was going to be discussed. If I was going to represent the corporation, I needed to be there to hear what was said by those who showed up. The State was opposing the court-ordered shutdown, and state officials were supposed to be there to explain why.
Third, I had to tell her everything I heard.
None of that was a problem for me. It maintained the illusion that I was helping Taylor look out for her own best interests. I wasn’t going to have to scrounge for work after all this was over. All I had to do was to look at the corporate books and maintain the façade of representing the corporation until the State defeated the injunction.
It was settled. I’d pick up the books from Spider at Poirrier’s, go on to the high school, and reconvene with Taylor afterwards.
Chapter 21
There was no sign of Spider when, late that afternoon, I pulled into the lot of Poirrier’s Market.
Parking my car, I approached the storefront and examined the hand-lettered signs in the window. “Hot Boudoin and Andouille.” That was appropriate; a south-Louisiana market should sell sausage. “Turnip Greens – 19¢/lb” read another. Other signs touted crawfish, fresh crabs, oysters by the sack, shrimp, pork chops, and ham bones. They crowded against one another, taped on the inside of the large windows, covering almost every available space. What caught my eye, however, was the poster proclaiming: “H.
Lazcarè. Tonight. 8:30.”
I went back and sat on the hood of my car, watching the crowds that flowed in and out of the building. There was a large metal awning that stretched from the roof, shading and sheltering the doors at either end of the concrete block building and extending over concrete islands containing six gasoline pumps.
Stout ladies in summer dresses entered the door on the left and departed later bearing paper bags filled with groceries. Teenagers congregated near the side of the building, smoking. Sunburned men in cutoff shirts, torn jeans, and several days’ worth of stubble exited the market carrying six-packs of cold beer. They leaned against their pick- up trucks, drinking and talking.
It was at least an hour and a half from sunset, and the day’s heat still hadn’t abated. I craved a cold beer and went inside Poirrier’s to see what kinds they stocked and buy a couple of bottles. It was my first time in the market. The high-ceilinged building was split in two by a six-foot wall. To the left of the wall was the grocery store. To the right was a large, curved bar. Beyond that were more than twenty tables covered with brown butcher paper. At the far end of the room was a dance floor, and beyond the dance floor was a small, raised stage made of wooden skids.
A few minutes later I was sitting on the hood of my car, finishing my second beer when, from behind, someone tapped me on the shoulder.
I spun around. I hadn’t heard anyone approach. Spider was standing there, eyeing me like a deadly animal stalking its prey.
He said nothing. He merely pointed out his sedan at the other end of the parking lot. I got in my car and followed him, pulling up next to his vehicle.
He didn’t speak until after he had transferred five large cardboard boxes, wrapped tightly with sealing tape, from his trunk to mine. His voice was soft but menacing. “Do better than your best! As her lawyer, you make sure that nothing happens to her. You protect her, you hear?”
I corrected him. “Protecting her is not my job.”
“You’re not her criminal lawyer?” “Not me. No way.”
For the first time since I had met him, Spider’s features ceased to be impassive. A look of concern came over his face
. “She needs a good lawyer, anyway. The best money can buy.”
Before I could respond, he jumped into his car and drove off at high speed, the rear end of his sedan fishtailing as it sped down the road.
Chapter 22
The metal-walled gym at St. Bonaventure High School was surrounded by cars. Beyond it stretched long rows of one-story brick classroom buildings connected by covered walkways.
The official meeting time had already passed when I arrived, but the proceedings still hadn’t begun. I climbed up the bleachers and took a seat near the top, next to a steel girder. I was amazed at how many people filled the gym. It looked more like a crowd for a major high school basketball playoff than a public information meeting concerning Camellia Industries. I certainly hadn’t anticipated seeing so few white faces and so many black ones.
A lectern had been set up in the center of the basketball court. Behind it, on a raised platform, was a row of folding chairs facing the bleachers.
The crowd was growing restless. Finally, a portly white man in his sixties walked to the podium and tapped on the microphone. It made loud popping noises that reverberated off the metal walls.
He leaned into the mic, his wrinkled seersucker suit hanging loosely over his large gut, and announced: “I know y’all are waitin’ for Mr. Herrington, and I’m told he’ll be here shortly. So, if y’all be patient, we’ll get started in just a bit.”
The crowd was not in a mood to be patient. The gym echoed with the din of hundreds of voices.
But, after a minute or so, the tone of the cacophony altered. A distinguished gentleman in an elegant blue suit, white shirt, and red tie entered the gym. It was the unmistakable Carter H. Herrington, IV, radiating self-confidence, power, and wealth.
The conversations in the stands became murmurs as Herrington walked briskly to the podium. Large Gut greeted him and introduced him to the six other white men and one black woman on the dais. Besides Herrington, I recognized only one other person in the group – the St. Bonaventure District Attorney.
They all took their places in the seats behind the lectern, leaning over to occasionally whisper to one another, a team composed of many white men and a single black woman facing a largely black audience.
Large Gut went to the microphone and tapped on it once more, as if he didn’t trust his first effort to make sure it was on. The crowd settled into a tense, uneasy silence.
“I know y’all are ready and I appreciate your patience. On behalf of the St. Bonaventure Police Jury and the D.A.,” Large Gut paused to dramatically gesture to the group seated behind him, “I thank you for coming to this public hearing about environmental conditions in our parish. As y’all know, as President of the Police Jury, I’ve always made the betterment of all of our citizens my first priority. My calling in life has always been to help the people of this parish. You people are my constituents and that’s why I’m proud to be here, with all of you people.”
The black audience in the bleachers didn’t care about what Large Gut thought was his calling, and they were offended by his reference to ‘you people.’
Large Gut saw he was losing the crowd. He tried to regain their attention.
“Sheriff, I see you out there on the second row. Why don’t you come up here and join us? Sit right here with the D.A. and the Police Jury.” I hadn’t noticed Sheriff Isaiah Brown in the crowd.
The Sheriff called out, “That’s all right. I think I’ll just stay out here with the rest of your people.” The crowd laughed at the expense of Large Gut.
Large Gut gave up trying to work the crowd. He raced through the rest of his introduction. “It’s public hearings like this one that are important, and I’m glad that Carter H. Herrington, IV, Secretary of the Louisiana Department of Environmental Health, has been able to join us this evening. Let’s all welcome Secretary Herrington.”
Large Gut backed away from the lectern and started to applaud as Herrington stood up. The D.A. and the other members of the Police Jury also applauded, but the applause was not contagious. The thin sounds of their clapping barely echoed in the metal gym. No one else joined in.
The tension in the building began to mount.
Chapter 23
Herrington didn’t seem to mind the uncomfortable silence that descended following his introduction. He unbuttoned his coat and walked around to the front of the lectern, ignoring the microphone. “Can y’all hear me?” His voice boomed. “Good.”
He looked back at those seated in the chairs, acknowledging them. “Mr. President, Mr. District Attorney, and members of the Police Jury.” He turned to face the bleachers. “My fellow citizens, I can’t tell you how glad I am to be here with you tonight, here in St.
Bonaventure Parish.”
Herrington started to pace slowly, back and forth along the wooden floor in front of the crowd, expertly evaluating their mood.
“You know, I’ve spent a lot of time in all areas of this state, and there are few places as nice as St. Bonaventure. I’ve tried cases in the courthouse here. I’ve fished in the bayou. I’ve hunted ducks in the marshes, and I’ve hunted deer in the woods. This is a beautiful place, and you’ve got a right to be proud. Proud. Rightfully proud.”
Herrington took off his coat and draped it on the lectern. His starched blue shirt with the white tab collar and his crisp and shiny leather suspenders were in marked contrast to the jeans and work clothes in the audience.
Herrington unclasped the gold cufflinks from his sharply creased cuffs and stuffed them in his pocket as he rolled up his sleeves and continued to pace in front of the audience, oblivious to the microphone, his voice filling the gymnasium. He spoke with the skill of an experienced orator – his voice rising and falling, casting a spell.
“I didn’t come down here on the expressway – no, I came down on old Highway 90, Huey Long’s highway. Huey Long was a populist in the best sense of the word. He
built more roads, more bridges, and more schools than anyone else.” There was no response from the audience.
But Herrington did not pause for effect. He pressed on, building his tale. “Huey Long built the very foundations of what our state has become. He gave us a great university. He gave us a great hospital system to serve the needy. He gave us a powerful Public Service Commission. He also gave us great stories about himself, and he told them better than anybody else. We all know about his dedication to helping the little man and little woman, the poor and downtrodden, black and white alike.”
The more Herrington talked, the stronger his accent became. He was a politician adjusting to the crowd. It seemed that the tension in the gym was beginning to dissipate.
“Along with his dedication came capacity as well, capacity to help the little man.
On top of it all, Huey was a great storyteller. Best there ever was.”
Herrington was a master. He had come into a hostile environment and was attempting to charm those present, and not without some success. But his story was still building.
“Well, Huey used to tell the tale of a local politician who couldn’t hold his liquor as good as Huey. It seems this local boy had come in from an evening of heavy politicking and heavy partying. The sheriff’s patrol had to escort him home and help him up a big, curving staircase at his house. Almost had to carry him up. Got him to the top of the stairs. Got him to the door of his bedroom. Propped him up. Now, this man’s wife was there, and she was some woman. No sheriff’s deputy was goin’ to tangle with her. Least not as long as her husband held office.”
Some in the crowd nodded their heads. They knew all about white sheriff’s deputies and police officers who let politicians and their families do as they please. They also knew that Sheriff Isaiah Brown, the first African-American to be elected to that office in St. Bonaventure Parish since Reconstruction, wouldn’t let any white politician get away with anything. But they understood that Herrington wasn’t referring to Sheriff Brown, because back in Huey Long’s day, back in the 1930s, no blacks held elected pub
lic office.
“Now, those big old deputies balanced this man by the shoulders, opened the door to his bedroom for him, and then hightailed it down the stairway in the dark. So, there he was, full of liquor, trying to navigate his way through his bedroom with ‘nary a light on.
Herrington paused for effect. He knew he had garnered the crowd’s attention. “And then there’s this crash. A monstrous loud noise.” Another pause. The audience was filled with expectation.
“Quick as a raccoon skiddles up a tree, his wife had flipped the lamp on and is standin’ at the foot of the bed, looking at her husband sprawled on the floor, flat on his back, where he had tripped over a hassock. Now that woman was angry. Good and angry. She’s standing there, ready to light into him like fire on kerosene.” The crowd was waiting.
“But, flat on his back, he holds up his hand to tell her to wait a second. And then he looks up at his wife and he didn’t miss a beat.” Long pause. Big smile from Herrington.
“‘I’m now ready,’ he said to his wife, ‘to dispense with my prepared remarks and take questions from the floor.’”
The crowd laughed with approval, a clear sign that Herrington was winning them over.
Herrington laughed with them. “OK, any questions . . . from the floor?”
Chapter 24
The laughter quieted. The gym grew silent.
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