“There’s no way he could know, Sean, unless he’s got my house under surveillance.”
“He may not, but Detective Henry James might. And that’s how Scarpa could have received the information. Scarpa made threats.”
“Was I included in them?”
“Yes. As were my friends at the marina, and even my dog, Max. Four people are dead. Scarpa is desperate. And, as we mentioned earlier, enormous amounts of money and political influence are at stake here.”
She was silent, thinking. “This is really a perfect storm in terms of human phenomenon. Charlie Tiger, who, under normal circumstances, is beyond reproach, learns of his daughter’s rape or ongoing sexual abuse. His heart aches. He’s wounded, angry. The sharks have already been circling the crippled life raft, coming closer. Scarpa sees an opportunity … Charlie Tiger in a weak moment. Scarpa makes Charlie an offer he can’t refuse. The mob eliminates Dakota Stone and Charlie’s most staunch opponent on the tribal council, Frank Sparrow. They followed that by planting false evidence around Joe Billie because of Joe’s ethics and the fact he’s a living threat to their plans.”
“And if you bring in Detective Henry James, a cop probably on the mob’s payroll, the perfect storm all comes together. Created by greed, vengeance, power and opportunity. Be extremely careful, Wynona.”
NINETY
The following day they came early. Members of the news media. Cable networks. Spectators. Gawkers. TV news satellite trucks jockeying for parking positions in front of the old Citrus County courthouse. It was only a bond hearing, but the interest in the “Joe Billie trial” was so high that the hearing was fast becoming an event. A visual curio. A courtroom carnival. Streamed live on the Internet by reporters carrying hand-held cameras.
O’Brien got there an hour early, meeting with Lana Halley in an alcove off the main entranceway. He lowered his voice. “Did you see the video I sent you?”
“Yes. It’s eerie, watching a man driving to what would become his assassination and subsequent scalping. At least I hope that was the order of grisly events. At this point, it won’t prove that Joe wasn’t there. It could prove that others were.”
“Is it enough to ask for a dismissal of charges?”
“No, but it won’t stop me from trying.”
“Maybe Detective Edwards shared it with the DA’s office.”
“If he did, I haven’t heard. The prospect of a high profile trial, the visibility it’ll provide the DA during an election year, is like a gift from the goddess Themis. Some people call her Lady Justice. Her statue is out front. Right down to the blindfold—maybe a symbol of how justice can get overlooked during election cycles. The burden of proof is lessened at this stage. All the DA has to do is show probable cause that the accused, Joe Billie, committed the crime.”
“Lana, I’m convinced that Joe was set up by the mob. A group out of Miami connected to one of the New York mafia families is trying hard to worm its way in to the Seminole gambling action. Joe Billie represented a threat to that. He overheard his brother-in-law, Charlie Tiger, on the phone doing a deal with the mob. Tiger sits on the tribal council. These are the guys who can recommend business partners and new lines of business.”
“Why would Tiger or anyone in the tribe want to do business with the mafia? The Seminoles have an exclusive gambling contract with the state. They don’t need organized crime.”
“Under normal circumstances, yes. But Tiger’s daughter, Kimi, was raped or sexually abused over time by her high school coach. She had a botched abortion. The coach’s body was just found. He was murdered. The body of another member of the tribe’s council, someone very vocal about not doing business with outsiders, is missing. Probably dead, too.”
“Was Joe aware of this?”
“He knew his niece was abused. He knew Charlie Tiger was turning to the mob to eliminate someone, presumably the man who abused her. All of this is quid pro quo leading up to violence—and, perhaps, just the hook they needed. Joe took what he knew to a detective on the reservation. It went nowhere. And it did so because the detective is probably taking bribe money from the mob.”
Lana leaned back against a wall. She looked over O’Brien’s shoulder to the throngs of people outside the courthouse and lining up in the hallway, hoping to get a ringside seat to the proceedings. “Sean, can you prove any of this?”
“I can prove that Dino Scarpa, an underboss, had the rear window in my Jeep blown out with a shotgun because I confronted him. And I happened to be driving at the time.”
“Dear God. Were you hurt?”
“Scratches.”
“Did he admit to any of it?”
“They never do, even with their last breaths.”
“So we have no physical evidence, no eyewitness, no confessions—nothing to exonerate or to disprove the charges against Joe?”
“We will soon. I just need to squeeze and hunt a little harder. We’re trying to find Lawrence Barton’s Range Rover. That might have more physical evidence to correlate with the visual evidence of someone forcing Barton to drive to what would be his own slaughter.”
Lana glanced at the watch on her wrist. “I have to be in the courtroom now. I’ll do my very best to get Joe out on bond. I’m expecting it to be expensive. I understand the Seminole’s have offered to cover it. I hope Joe accepts the offer.”
“If he doesn’t, I’ll cover it.”
She paused, tilting her head. “One of the things I really love about you, Sean, is that you are you. Nothing pretentious. If you have that kind of money, it doesn’t show. I mean that in the most complimentary way. I’d better get in there. The next fifteen minutes will have a dramatic impact on Joe Billie’s life. Something in my heart tells me he can’t stay in that cage until a trial date.”
“Thank you, Lana.”
“Are you coming to the courtroom?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll make sure you have a seat. But don’t wait too long. I’ve prosecuted some big cases. And now, as a defense attorney, this will be my biggest challenge. Sean, I so hope I can help Joe.”
NINETY-ONE
They packed the Citrus County courtroom. Members of the news media, spectators, and even curious courthouse workers slipped inside the standing-room-only chamber for a glimpse at another edition in Florida’s criminal justice show. The reporters used small, hand-held cameras, capable of live Internet streaming. Outside the old courthouse, a few members of traditional media ran cables from satellite trucks into the chambers.
O’Brien sat in one of the long bench seats directly behind Lana Halley. A reporter, blonde, too much perfume, sat to O’Brien’s right. The aisle was to his left. He spotted Detective Robert Edwards standing next to a Citrus County deputy sheriff near the rear of the courtroom.
Doors leading to a secure area opened and two bailiffs brought Joe Billie into the courtroom. He wore the orange jumpsuit, shuffling because of the leg restraints around his ankles, taking a chair next to Lana at the defense table. O’Brien locked eyes with Joe, nodding. Joe returned the gesture.
“All rise,” shouted the bailiff as the judge entered the courtroom.
The judge’s arms were longer than the fabric on his black robe. O’Brien figured the judge to be near retirement. Lanky. Tall. His thick, dark eyebrows a contrast to his cotton white hair. “Be seated,” he said, in a voice that sounded like he gargled with nails. He took his seat behind the bench, the words, In God We Trust, on the wall over his head and just above the county seal, which featured oranges, a manatee, a stork in flight and the courthouse tower. “State of Florida versus Joseph Billie. This is a bond hearing. All proceedings will be relevant to just that and nothing more. Let’s begin with the district attorney.
Gerald Carson, the DA, stood at the prosecutor’s table, unbuttoned the middle button on his three-piece suit, two assistants sitting next to him. “Thank you, your Honor. In this case, the State of Florida versus Joe Billie, we contend that because of the combination of physical evide
nce connecting Mr. Billie to the crime and the heinous nature of the crime, bond should be denied. Mr. Billie more than represents a flight risk. He’s one airplane ticket away from disappearing. The state has sufficient evidence to move forth with a trial date. Thank you.”
The judge looked over his bifocals at Lana Halley. “What does the defense have to say?”
Lana stood, the courtroom quiet except for the collective breathing of more than one hundred ninety people. “Your Honor, the state brings up allegations of evidence, perhaps circumstantial, perhaps planted, as a reason to deny—not only reasonable bond, but any bond whatsoever. This evidence hasn’t been proven to directly connect Joe Billie to any crime. The DA’s office, through the Citrus County Sheriff’s Office, has new evidence that will go far into exonerating my client. Reasonable bond should be granted because Joe Billie will not flee from a crime he did not commit. He has lived in Florida all of his life. His native heritage in this state predates the ancestry of anyone in this courtroom. His roots here are very deep. Joe has no arrest record. Not even a parking ticket. There is no reason to believe he’d pick up and leave his state, his home, and his family for charges that will be proven inaccurate and absolutely false. Your Honor, we respectively request reasonable bond to be set. Thank you.”
The DA stood. “Your Honor, this is not the time for the defense to—”
“Mr. Carson, you had the opening remarks. You’re correct, this is not the time or place for endless rebuttals. Save that for a trial and the benefit of a jury.”
There was a shared murmur in the courtroom, whispers—spectators shifting in their seats. The judge cleared his throat. “Let’s maintain a degree of silence.” He looked at Lana. “The state makes its point about the circumstances surrounding this criminal act, as do you Miss Halley. Bond is granted. One million dollars. A trial date is set for three months from today, September nineteenth. If that doesn’t give either party sufficient time for a quick and speedy trial, please let the court know.” The judge slammed down his gavel, stood, and left the courtroom.
The chatter from onlookers and news media hummed. Lana leaned closer to Joe, whispering something in his ear.
***
Two hours later, Joe Billie dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, walked out of the Citrus County Courthouse. Lana accompanied him, both walking quickly. A herd of news reporters surrounded them. One tall reporter, unshaven, sports coat and jeans, thrust a microphone toward Billie. “Joe, what are your thoughts after this morning’s hearing? Where do you go from here?”
Billie and Lana looked straight ahead, stepping up their pace, walking toward O’Brien’s Jeep parked near the curb. Another reporter extended a microphone, his cameraman walking backwards to capture the images. “Miss Halley, you mentioned new evidence in the case. What evidence is that?”
She kept walking and said, “This case won’t be tried here in the parking lot. Potential jurors are seeing this. We’d like to think that evidence should be viewed by them in court and not on TV so they can see, as I’ve plainly seen, there is no way Joe could or would have done this. Thank you all. Now please excuse us.”
Billie opened the Jeep’s passenger door and got inside. Lana leaned in and said to O’Brien. “Maybe you should take him to your river cabin. He needs some seclusion after this.” She smiled. “Thanks, Sean.”
He nodded, put the Jeep in gear, and sped away. O’Brien looked in the rearview mirror, the reporters surrounding Lana. She turned and walked back up the steps to the courthouse, the media following like a pack of wolves.
When they cleared the property, Billie said, “Thank you for making bond. You didn’t have to do it.”
“Yes, I did. No sweat. But if you vanish, I’ll come looking.” O’Brien smiled.
“You’re probably the only one I know who could find me.” Billie grinned.
“Lana told you about the video from the trail camera. We know that Lawrence Barton was most likely kidnapped and forced to drive to the mound.”
“She said the image of the other guy in the Range Rover is too dark to see.”
“But it’s there. That’s enough to cast a reasonable doubt toward you.”
“I hope. More than anything, I hope Kimi will somehow recover and go on to lead a fulfilled life.”
“Her abuser, Dakota Stone, is dead, but it’s not over, Joe. Kimi’s father, your brother-in-law, is up to his eyeballs in sewer muck. Maybe he’ll be able to swim out of the stink somehow, but there’ll be repercussions either from the mob or the legal system.”
Joe said nothing.
O’Brien glanced in his review mirror, looking for any sign of a tail. “Considering the media frenzy over your case, and the fact that the mob may be eager to keep you from spoiling their courtship with Charlie Tiger, maybe you should take Lana’s suggestion and lay low at my river cabin.”
“After spending time in the county jail, I could use some time on the river. But I’d like to get my truck.”
O’Brien’s phone vibrated. It was Wynona Osceola calling. He answered and she said, “I heard Joe made bond. That’s good news. Where is he now?”
“With me in my Jeep. We’re driving.”
“Good. Sean, I found that a 2016 Range Rover is registered to Lawrence Barton. It’s no doubt his car on that video.”
“Do you have his address?”
“Yes, and I managed to uncover his home phone number.”
“Text them both to me. I want to speak with his wife.”
NINETY-TWO
O’Brien looked up in the Jeep’s rearview mirror more than he usually did. He watched Joe’s old truck following about twenty yards behind the Jeep. He used the mirror to look far behind the truck, into the horizon as they drove through the Florida backwoods. There was no other visible traffic. An eagle rode the air currents against a steel-gray blue sky that resembled the hue of the meandering road.
O’Brien’s phone vibrated. He answered and Dave Collins said, “I did some checking on Lloyd Hawkins’ ranch. Property taxes on the ranch had been arrears for more than a year. There were various notices of an attempt to settle. Three days ago the taxes were paid off, more than ninety-seven thousand dollars.”
“And the ranch is no longer for sale, at least actively, according to Lloyd Hawkins.”
“Where’d he get the infusion of cash?”
“Good question. I’m thinking that Bobby Hawkins, since he works at the casino, may have become exposed to Dino Scarpa or someone like Charlie Tiger and might be taking orders from either party. Maybe Bobby, flush with cash, paid Pop’s tax bill.”
“I’ll try to see if either of the Hawkins is transferring cash offshore. It’ll take some digging, but it’s doable. Regardless, it appears they’ve found a cash flow.”
“I think somebody paid Bobby Hawkins for a service rendered, or to look the other way as the job was carried out. I have a feeling that Bobby knows who was in the front seat with Lawrence Barton.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Make another trip to the ranch.”
“At this point, Sean, you might consider backup. You go back in there and start asking those kind of questions … one of the Hawkins family members may have speed-dial to Dino Scarpa.”
“To catch a rat, you have to set the trap. Joe is following me back to my river cabin. I’m trying to keep him away from Scarpa’s reach, should they be hunting for him now that he’s out of jail. Scarpa knows where my boat is located. I can’t let Joe stay there. Also, I’m trying to keep him away from the news cameras.”
“Good idea, your place. Scarpa has already tried to eliminate you. If he’s hunting for Joe, a hit man could work a two-for-one price deal. Be damn careful.”
“Two-for-one … that’s one of the things Joe overheard his brother-in-law, Charlie Tiger, say on the phone, discussing a deal with Scarpa or one of his soldiers.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that. Too bad Tiger can’t wait for karma to enter the scene. Some believe revenge is a d
uty. At this stage of my life, I’m not so sure anymore. The forces in the universe have a way of collecting payment for the pain and suffering a man knowingly inflicts on someone.”
“Charlie apparently took the forces of nature into his own hands. Maybe he’s a man of little patience. I’m driving to the marina to pick up Max. She’ll be good company for Joe.”
“You may have to pry her out of Nick’s arms. He likes to walk Max on the beach. With her at his side, Nick’s become a chick magnet. See you soon.”
O’Brien pulled off the county road, Joe following, and they drove down the long driveway to O’Brien’s river cabin. Gravel and oyster shells cracked under the Jeep’s tires, the three acres cast in deep shade from the sprawling live oaks. O’Brien parked under one tree near the back of the cabin facing the St. Johns River. Joe parked his truck next to the Jeep and shut off the motor. He stared at the river a moment before getting out.
“This is a special place, Sean. The ancients have hunted and fished this river two thousand years before the Spanish claimed Florida for their king.” He watched the oxbow in the river, the surface dark. No wind, the current almost imperceptible. Three blue herons stalked for minnows in the tannin waters around the cypress roots. “I remember when I first met you. I was looking for spear and arrowheads in the shallows of the river, and you and Max were on the dock. You’d just bought this old place. I warned you she’s gator bait on four legs.” He grinned.
“But you were the one walking in the river. So who’s the smartest, the Native-American or the ten-pound import from Germany?”
“You have a point?” Billie laughed.
“Let’s go inside.” He climbed the three wooden steps leading to the screened porch. O’Brien unlocked the back door to the cabin. They entered and he turned on ceiling paddle fans and opened two windows. He reached in a kitchen drawer and handed Joe a key. “This unlocks the back and front doors. You shouldn’t need to go anywhere. There’s plenty of food in the fridge and the freezer. If you want some fresh fish, I have three rods on the porch. Tackle box is next to them. The key to my Boston Whaler is here in the drawer. But knowing you, you’d probably prefer the canoe. It’s near the dock. Paddles are by the rods on the porch. Want a water?”
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