Moral Hazard (Southern Fraud Thriller)

by J W Becton

  I had to admit what I’d done, throw myself on the mercy of the court, and hope that they decided to show me leniency.

  But would they?

  Eleven

  Helena did one last favor for me before we left Bleu. She called Henry Martling III right there at our table, and just like that, she set up a meeting with him at the crack of dawn the next morning.

  Then we drove separately to our houses and waved a sad farewell to each other from our driveways. In the deepening of the night, I watched as Helena disappeared inside, my arm still raised. Slowly, I let it fall to my side, feeling ridiculously melodramatic. I glanced around, hoping none of our neighbors had witnessed the pathetic exchange.

  Lights flicked on downstairs in Helena’s house, and I imagined her slipping off her heels and calling her husband to chat about her evening.

  Even though her house was empty, Helena wasn’t alone. She always had Tim and Violet, whether they were there with her or off visiting the grandparents.

  I went inside my own house, flicked on the downstairs lights, and called for Maxwell.

  While I waited for him to appear, I slipped off my boots and went through the mail I’d picked up earlier.

  Still no cat.

  I shook his food bowl, so the fish-shaped kibble clinked enticingly.

  This just in: cats don’t come when called.

  I gave up and went upstairs to get ready for bed. It wasn’t terribly late, but it had been a long day. If I didn’t rest soon, I risked allowing my thoughts to turn dark and lonely. Already, I couldn’t help sensing the finality that seemed evident in every action, every good-bye.

  This epoch in my life was drawing to a close.

  And it was closing my friends out along with it.

  Finally done with my nighttime routine, I clambered into bed, pulled the covers around my chin, and shut off the bedside lamp.

  No sooner had I closed my eyes than Maxwell leapt onto the mattress with a soft chirrup of greeting.

  “Now you show up,” I said, reaching out to stroke the soft fur of his back.

  Maxwell flicked his tail as if to say, “I could always go back to my hiding place, human.”

  I scratched at the base of his tail, and he rewarded me by turning and giving me an affectionate head butt.

  I smiled, feeling his whiskers tickle my face. After the day I’d had—and what I expected to happen in the days ahead—I’d take any affection I could get, even if it was a head butt from an anti-social feline.

  Maxwell positioned himself beside me and began purring, and I snuggled around him.

  That night, I was glad not to be alone.

  The next morning, the sky remained obstinately dark and the clouds loomed, fat and moist, in the sky above Mercer. I wondered if somehow I was projecting my emotions onto the weather because I felt equally stormy. Negativity seemed so natural and easy, while it was a chore to find the bright side. I chalked it up to human nature. After all, it couldn’t be me. Could it?

  I glanced at Helena’s house as I drove past, clutching a mug of coffee in one hand and the steering wheel in the other. My Explorer slipped out of the quiet suburbs and toward town. The vacant streets gave the city a feeling of eerie emptiness as traffic lights flicked from green to yellow to red, directing no one in particular.

  Soon, I was parked at the office of Henry Martling III.

  I looked up at the still-dark windows. Nothing like a meeting with a lawyer I probably couldn’t afford to get the day off to a good start. The Roman numerals attached to the end of his name probably added 200 bucks apiece to his billing rate.

  But I needed help. And thanks to Helena’s intervention, I had it.

  I couldn’t help wondering if Martling were meeting me at this ungodly hour because he owed Helena a favor. Or maybe he viewed me as a potential goldmine. When a lawyer was willing to jump on a case the way Martling had, it usually meant either a lot of billable hours or the promise of free publicity.

  Mine probably meant both.

  Whatever Martling’s true motivation for taking my case, Helena said he was a good attorney, and he was on my side. I would have to content myself with that.

  Henry Martling III’s office took up the entire top floor of the Searl building downtown, which revealed in no uncertain terms that he was somebody in the legal community. In a city that housed a law school, which in turn caused a distinct over-saturation of the local attorney market, that was really saying something.

  The lobby spilled into a bank of elevators, but this time I didn’t hesitate before stepping inside one of the red-carpeted lifts. The doors whooshed closed, and the machine ascended on silent wings to my destination.

  Ha! So much for an elevator phobia. Take that, Vincent.

  By the time the doors opened again, I was grinning despite the seriousness of my endeavor. I stepped into the dark hallway and paused before a pair of heavy wood doors. The sign bore the names Marlting, MacAffee, and Walters embossed in modern script across a stark black background.

  Briefly, I wondered if I ought to knock before entering the law firm.

  Deciding against it, I took a deep breath and entered the still-dim office. The receptionist’s desk was empty, and I looked around, wondering what to do next.

  I peeked behind the receptionist’s area to find two hallways, both dark. No signs of life.

  Nothing.

  Yeah, Martling had come in early for me.

  “Hello?” I called. “Mr. Martling?”

  Then I heard footsteps approaching from the hallway on my left, and an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair appeared from the shadows. He smiled, eyes crinkling pleasantly, and extended a hand.

  I shook it and sized up the man Helena had recommended. My first impression was good. Martling had an open face, an honest smile, and a cheerful expression, and he had only a hint of the oiliness that most attorneys seemed to accumulate somewhere between college and law school graduation. He smelled of expensive cologne and espresso.

  “Special Agent Jackson, I’m Henry Martling. Come on back.” He led me down a hall, flipping on an overhead light as he went.

  “Thank you for coming in early to meet me,” I said, feeling slightly awkward.

  “Well, when Helena St. John calls, people listen.” He turned crisply and gestured toward a doorway. “Have a seat on the sofa. It’s too early for the formality of a desk. Can I bring you some espresso, latte?”

  “No, thank you.” I lowered myself to a leather sofa so soft that it didn’t dare squeak under my weight. Looking regretfully at the brass espresso machine peeking from the small kitchenette, I nearly gave in to temptation but then shook my head. “I’ve had more than enough caffeine for the morning.”

  That was no exaggeration. Combined with a restless night’s sleep, the cup I’d consumed in the car threw me over the edge from jittery to downright twitchy. My nerves couldn’t take another jolt.

  Martling sat in a wingback chair, his leather-bound yellow legal pad in hand, and we got started.

  The meeting went mostly as I expected. I told him everything I’d done and why. He questioned deeper and made copious notes. After half an hour, Martling snapped the folder shut and considered me.

  “Your admission may go a long way in convincing the judge of your idealistic—if misguided—motivations for removing a piece of evidence.” He offered me a reassuring smile. “We have plenty of proof that you did not destroy or alter evidence in order to convict Slidell wrongly. After all, the remainder of the evidence supports the DNA. Fingerprints match, etcetera. Has your sister participated in a lineup? Has she been able to positively identify her attacker?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Tricia refused to press charges and wants nothing to do with Slidell or the case at all.”

  “I see,” Martling said. “She won’t consent to a lineup?”

  “No,” I said again. “I’ve tried. Tripp Carver, our childhood friend and an investigator on the MPD, tried too. She won’t do it.”
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  “Hmmm.” Martling frowned. “While Tricia’s positive ID of her attacker would not be enough to convict Sliddell on its own, it would serve as one more proof that the DNA was neither damaged nor altered. Can I contact her? Perhaps an outside party, a neutral party, might be able to convince her.”

  I thought for a moment, wondering how angry Tricia would be if I sent an attorney her way. On the other hand, maybe Martling was right. Maybe a neutral third party with no history with our family might get through to her where the rest of us had failed.

  “You can try,” I said finally, “but she’s not likely to agree.”

  “I simply want to exhaust all possibilities.” He leaned forward and laid a hand on mine where it rested on the arm of the sofa. “You realize your admission may stir up a hornet’s nest, right? The political climate in the city right now…. A lot of people looking to grab ahold of a little power. You know how it goes. You’ll be opening yourself, your whole career in law enforcement, not only to investigation but to scrutiny by politicians who have personal agendas. It only takes one power-hungry individual to decide to further his career by making an example of—”

  “I’m aware of the risks,” I interrupted, not wanting to hear all the horrible things that might happen. I knew better than anyone else what I faced. “I have no other choice. I have to do this.”

  Martling sat back and nodded. “Then I’ll be there to guide you toward the best possible outcome.”

  He turned his attention to the meeting with the judge: what I should wear, how I should behave, what I should say, what I should not say. We went over procedure and protocol, and by the time I finally left Martling’s office, my mind buzzed with legal jargon and courtroom etiquette.

  Ensconced inside the law firm, I found that time passed slower than it should have. It seemed like I’d spent an entire day discussing legal minutiae, but it was only a few minutes after eight. Already late for work, I sagged onto a large marble bench in the lobby, letting the cold of the stone seep into my overheated body.

  My life seemed to have taken on its own inertia, propelling me forward at a jerky, uneven pace. Whether or not I wanted to go along for the ride, events happened, some speeding by and others dragging sluggishly toward a conclusion. I had to make decisions fast and then wait for them to play out. I had to hurry to beat the GBI to the punch and yet wait to hear the judge’s decision.

  Fits and starts. Everything lately seemed to move that way. My relationship with Vincent, the case against Slidell, the investigation into Randy Blissett, not to mention my legal conundrum.

  Now here I was, only two steps into the legal process, and already I felt exhausted.

  Currently, I was in a waiting phase. Martling would schedule the meeting with Judge Preece, and I had to quell the urge to dash upstairs and tell him I’d changed my mind, that I would take my chances with the GBI.

  But that was foolish. The GBI would discover my role in the DNA anomaly, and even if by some miracle they didn’t, I had to consider Tripp and his role in my crime. Because he was right. My admission made him an accessory after the fact, if he kept silent. Helena too.

  I had to do the right thing. Logic said that the judge would understand my reasons and believe I had not intended harm. But a small voice warned me not to trust the legal system to show me any mercy. I’d seen enough flaws and disorganization to build a healthy distrust in it. And I hadn’t even considered the role that politicians with agendas might play in my future.

  Gah! I didn’t want to think of it. I needed to focus my attention on something else. I needed work.

  Which I was late for.

  I stood, not exactly eager to continue the investigation into Randy Blissett, but maybe he was the distraction I needed.

  I pushed open the doors of the building, hoping for a ray of sunlight to embrace me when I walked into the open air of the fresh morning. But when I stepped outside, the clouds were even thicker, and it was starting to rain.

  Twelve

  Who would have thought that little Miss Jackson harbored a secret heinous enough to draw the notice of the GBI? Certainly not the watcher, but for once he was pleased to have misjudged someone. Not only would Jackson’s mysterious indiscretion make his job a hell of a lot more fun, but she also saved him from the need to synthesize impropriety or dig into the past.

  All he really had to do was position himself so he could use the GBI’s investigation against her.

  The Blissett case created the ideal distraction. Jackson and Vincent were busy conducting interviews and setting up surveillance. Occupied and oblivious, they wouldn’t recognize the threat that lurked in the shadows.

  Now that he was aware of Jackson’s trouble with the GBI, he needed to acquire more specific information, but he couldn’t afford to poke around the MPD more than he already had. Jackson still had friends there. Questioning his trusted sources higher up on the staff could prove dangerous. The more questions he asked, the more people would become involved, increasing the chance of the wrong people taking note.

  He realized his interests would be best served by switching tactics now, so he took the situation to its logical conclusion.

  The GBI had Jackson under investigation, so that meant they suspected her of committing a crime.

  Therefore, eventually, they would file charges against her. Perhaps they already had.

  Rather than showing himself at the MPD, where he knew Jackson had friends among the officers and detectives, the watcher hit the courthouse, seeking another of his longtime sources of information.

  A cup of coffee and a bag of donuts in hand, he descended to the basement where the files were stored. Most people didn’t realize it, but file clerks were the best sources of information in the courthouse. Even in this digital age, courts used copious amounts of paper. Subpoenas, warrants, petitions, motions: they were all paper, and someone had to store it.

  That person happened to be a short, chubby woman in her mid-forties.

  Her short stature made her perky blond head almost invisible amid the rows of filing cabinets, but the watcher didn’t need to see her in order to locate her. He heard her giggling before he entered the file room.

  “Bonnie!” the watcher called, turning on the charm. “I know that’s you I hear, honey.”

  Bonnie flitted around the corner of an enormous metal cabinet and grinned at him. He knew that she saw him as a safe, slightly older man with whom she could flirt.

  An innocent, somewhat fatherly flirtation.

  Whatever floated her boat. That was his policy.

  “Hey, you!” Bonnie said, dashing over to the counter that separated them. “Been a long time. I thought you forgot all about me in this dreary old basement.”

  He’d known she would chide him in that passive-aggressive way for not returning sooner, so he’d come prepared. He laid out his offering on the counter between them and crooned, “What dreary basement? You are a ray of sunshine, my dear, and all I can see is you.”

  Bonnie blushed prettily before plucking the bag from the counter and peeking inside.

  “Bear claws and overt flattery?” She looked at him and tittered. “You’re forgiven.”

  The file clerk with whom Bonnie had been chatting left the room, and Bonnie took a quick sip of the flavored coffee the watcher had brought her. He knew she’d find it to her liking because he always made it a point to remember details he could use later. He never ceased to be surprised by how such tiny gestures could tear down the walls of suspicion and doubt.

  “Mmmm,” she moaned gratefully, setting down the cup. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Nothing much,” the watcher said carefully. “I’m doing a little research. I just need to know if any paperwork on Julia Jackson has been filed.”

  Bonnie’s expression turned questioning. “How come you need that? Revealing information like that is kind of against the rules, you know.”

  This was usually how it went. Bonnie would pay lip service to the rules, an
d then she would cave and tell him what he wanted.

  “You know me, my dear.” He placed his hand over hers. “I would never ask for anything that would get my best girl in trouble. A little information, that never hurt anyone.”

  He finished his speech by smiling at her and leaning down to wipe a pretend droplet of coffee from her lip.

  “For you,” Bonnie whispered, “I suppose I can take a little peeky-poo at the computer.”

  The watcher stood upright again and smiled at her.

  “I sure appreciate it.”

  Bonnie slipped her hand from beneath his and went to a computer stationed at one end of the counter. The monitor looked like it had been designed decades ago, so the watcher wasn’t surprised when the device took its sweet time to divulge anything. Bonnie tapped at the keyboard, paused, and tapped more, her face screwed up in confusion.

  Finally, she said, “No charges have been filed, no subpoenas, no paperwork under that name at all.”

  The watcher deflated. How was that possible? Had the janitor gotten it wrong? Was he too early?

  “Let me check the docket just in case….” Bonnie tapped at her keyboard again. “Ah, here she is.”

  The watcher stood straighter, remembered himself, and then slouched forward over the counter again.

  “What have you got?” he asked, feigning unconcern.

  “She’s scheduled to meet with Judge Preece on Friday.”

  “Oh? Anything interesting?”

  “Doesn’t say,” Bonnie said. “Just that the meeting’s scheduled right after lunch.”

  The watcher forced a smile.

  “Thanks, Bonnie.” He leaned over the counter to plant a smacking kiss on her round cheek. “I knew my best girl would come through for me.”

  She returned to her coffee and donut.

  “Come back soon,” she called after him, her mouth already full of confection.

  “You can count on it,” he said, heading out the door.