Devil's Deal

by Terri Lynn Coop

  The discreet chime sounded again. If this wasn’t Gerald, I wasn’t leaving my room.

  CHAPTER 79

  When Gerald put the extra-large pizza on the table, I nearly kissed him. Navigating my mother’s haute cuisine one-handed had been a frustrating experience at best. Plus, I’ve never been a fan of weird sauces and elaborate cooking. If I had to muck my way through one more pine nut-crusted, strawberry cilantro balsamic, kale-wrapped, and garlic-honey-roasted anything, I was going to scream. As for chipotles, well, the Gatos had seen to it that I was well-armed. I did grab a decent bottle of wine. There was no need to be stupid about it.

  “Gerald, I love you,” I said as I sank my teeth into a slice of pepperoni nirvana.

  “I figured you could use a break from all this culture. Where’s the headmistress?”

  “Mom is hobnobbing with a bunch of SOBs tonight.”

  He shot me a look.

  “Hey, her words, not mine: symphony, opera, and ballet. I guess it’s that time of year to put the strong-arm on donors and nobody does it better.”

  “I pity them.”

  He took another slice and said, “How’re you doing, Sweet Pea?”

  I’d been asked that question at least a thousand times, but his voice was warm and heavy with concern.

  “You haven’t called me that since I was twelve.”

  “You haven’t scared me like this since you were twelve. Seriously, tell me. It’s privileged. I sent Greta home.”

  “You are going to get me so busted. I’m okay, I really am. The shrink utters the typical PTSD platitudes and says the dreams should fade with the bruises. Not that I can sleep much with this thing on.” I tapped the over-sized padded sling-harness getup. “Thank all the heavens it comes off on Monday.”

  “What then?”

  “Well, I wanted to talk to you about that. Mom has a physical therapist all lined up, as well as massage therapy, personal trainer, and yoga instructor. This is all before she talks about plastic surgery and a new wardrobe. Then some hints seep in that I need to get out and she’d love it if I went to a few events with her. Gerald, I’m tired and I don’t want to be besties with my mother. I want to go home. Is the legal stuff going to be wrapped up any time soon?”

  He put down his wine glass and held my free hand.

  “I understand. Rachel is a force of nature. I will say, when she arrived at the hospital, she took care of business. I heard that you had cops camped outside your door, hovering for you to wake up and there was an argument about your treatment and then Justice showed up. It was chaos. She took control and lined them the hell out. When I got there she was washing and combing the bloody crust out of your hair, strand by strand.”

  “I’m glad I slept through all of that. I just remember bits and pieces. I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I know she took care of me. She even cajoled her favorite plastic surgeon to come to Austin and work on my wound. Not to mention she’s paying for all of it. Turns out Blue Cross gets froggy when your law firm is closed down by a federal indictment. But it’s time for me to take care of myself. If I don’t get some real quiet and privacy soon, I’m going to go postal. They’ll never find Greta’s body. I have friends.”

  “I can’t help with Greta other than keep your secrets. Luckily, the insurance thing is an easy fix. I’ll put you on staff as an Of-Counsel and add you to ours. As to springing you from here, honestly, I could use you in Dallas for a few days. Tommy’s plea is next week and having you in the second chair wouldn’t hurt. You could stay at the house and then, well, I could take a wrong turn toward Cochinelle. If that’s what you mean by home.”

  “You mean having me at counsel table in a sling would make the prosecutor uncomfortable?”

  “Well, that too.”

  I held out my glass for more wine. “Sign me up. I have to be at the doctor’s office at ten on Monday. I’ll be packed and ready to go and could sure use a ride. And yes, Cochinelle is where I want to call home for the moment. I want my dog and my neighbors and the damn weekly potluck. I need to slow shit down for a while.”

  “That’ll work for me, sweetheart, and I’ll help run interference with Rachel if needed. Before we go over these deposition transcripts, would you like to hear some news?

  “Always.”

  “First, they found Joseph Bemba’s head in the ice machine at his cafe. Nothing else. It scared one poor little waitress half to death. Rockhound is denying everything, saying it must be a coincidence.”

  I hope I looked surprised enough. “Too bad they lost the information he carried around in that fat head.”

  I hadn’t totally sold it, but he didn’t push. “The second is that I talked to Daryl Fisk.”

  “Oh really.”

  “He ran me down at one of the meetings. I told him you were okay and he answered that one hanging question: Why was he there? Turns out while you were in their clutches, calls were flying around. The FBI cameras picked up you guys speeding off and the van following you. A jogger called locals about a woman matching your description being forced into a van. Evidently, they were desperate to get a bead on you two and had BOLOs all over the place. Fisk tried to find Nesbitt. The tracker in his car was disabled, but Nesbitt forgot to turn off his cell phone and the GPS put him at the ranch. Fisk headed out and met up with the locals who said there was a report of shots fired and someone being tortured. They thought they were busting in to save their commander. You know the rest better than I do.”

  For a second I saw the blade, heard the blast, and felt the warm splatter. It passed quickly. One thing about my mother’s luxury cocoon, it was easy to shut out the world, and work on cleaning out my head. I knew it would take a long time, maybe the rest of my life.

  “And they say there’s no such thing as irony.” I raised my glass in a toast.

  Gerald returned it. “Fisk has been put in temporary command of his office. I guess blowing your boss’ head off is considered a sign of commitment and integrity. Did you see the paper? They’re saying Nesbitt died in the line of duty.”

  I shrugged. One thing I love about Gerald is that he hasn’t coddled me. This was the opposite of my mother who tiptoed around and looked at me with a tragic tilt of her head like I would collapse any moment. I was grateful, but I knew the longer I stayed, the easier it would be to sink into this golden cage. Before I knew it, I’d be shopping for Donna Karan separates at Neiman-Marcus on my way to work a luncheon for the new children’s theater. It had its moments of enticement, but they passed quickly.

  “I still don’t like Fisk and I’m sure it’s mutual. But when it was going down, he took care of business. As to the cover-up, I can live with it. There’s nothing to be gained by blowing it up. We know the truth, and Fisk will carry it with him just like I will.”

  I remembered him awkwardly wiping the mess out of my eyes and pulling up my top to cover me. It was a little spark of decency in a cesspool of insanity.

  CHAPTER 80

  The Earle Cabell federal courthouse in downtown Dallas is a graceless concrete and glass cube surrounded by traffic bollards and a steel web of security. Gerald had informed the marshals of my situation and I was taken aside for a thorough, yet respectful, pat-down and wanding by a female officer. She paid special attention to my new sling, but didn’t force me to undo the labyrinth of buckles and Velcro closures. It was a relief to be out of the brace, but I was far from finished with odd medical devices.

  Mom had taken the news of my leaving better than I expected. Like Dad, her specialty was separating people from the contents of their checkbooks. That takes a ninja level of awareness of people’s moods and body language. The reality is that she probably knew it before I did, despite all of her wishful overtures. Her going-away present for me was a butter-yellow suit, scoop-neck silk shell, and to cover my injuries, a yellow and blue scarf that matched my sling, of all things. All I had to do was promise to come back in a few months to let her surgeon check me over.

  I followed Gerald down
the hallway, but he was doing the lawyer walk-and-read, giving all the plea documents a last minute once-over.

  “I have to hit the ladies’ room. I’ll be along in a minute.”

  He waved me off without a word.

  After I washed my hands, I dawdled in front of the mirror, fussing with the scarf. I finally decided what the problem was. Other than the fact that I normally wouldn’t have been caught dead in a blue and yellow scarf, the problem was that I was trying to hide something that didn’t need hiding.

  I pulled it off and stuffed it in my jacket pocket. The cut, healing, but not there yet, was a bright scarlet line stretching from under one shoulder strap diagonally across my breastbone before disappearing under the silk on the other side.

  I was disfigured because I’d trusted the men sitting around the table that day in Cochinelle. They talked and argued and bargained, knowing they’d manufactured the crisis and intended to use and betray me, but still not careful enough or aware enough to know that one of their own was a sadistic killer. They deserved to see their handiwork. I was tired of making others comfortable by covering up the truth.

  The courtroom was all sleek wood, recessed lighting, and industrial carpeting. Since it was still early, no one was there except Gerald and one of Snow’s assistants. Gerald has insisted the U.S. Attorney handle this one himself. However, it seemed Snow was going to limit his face-time exposure.

  I slipped into the chair on Gerald’s left at the defense table. Dad would take the one to his right when his case was called. He looked up and his expression softened when he saw what I’d done. Putting an arm around my shoulder, he kissed my forehead.

  “When is Dad coming in?”

  “I had the clerk inform holding, so he should be up soon. Last call, are you good with this?” He patted the folder that summarized the plea documents.

  “Yes. I’m willing to trade a better sentence for my father in exchange for letting them sweep their dirty laundry into the closet and slam the door. It wouldn’t do any good to wash it in public and I feel enough like a freak as it is.”

  The negotiations for today’s deal had been fierce. Snow, trying to salvage something out of the taskforce’s work, had started the bidding at twenty years. Gerald reminded them that both me, and apparently Ethan, had given caustic statements about the trumped-up charges and the entrapment plot.

  It also didn’t hurt that Rockhound wasn’t just talking, he was screaming. From deep in whatever protective custody they had him stashed in, he’d given up the entire smuggling operation, the gun-running, the plans to kidnap and kill me, as well as seeing Nesbitt strangle Cami Jo Floyd.

  In exchange for clemency, he was apparently outing everyone from dirty Customs agents to embassy and military personnel from all over the world. I figured they would still be debriefing him six months from now. Amazing what a pair of zip cuffs and a close-quarters shotgun blast will do your perception of things. I wondered what his wife thought of all this.

  Snow knew he didn’t want me on the stand, so he was cutting his losses and going with the prize I’d dropped in his lap. Gerald used all of that as leverage to hammer out a plea deal that I couldn’t have beat on my best day.

  The side door opened and two deputies brought my father into the courtroom. At first he beamed at me. Then he saw the sling and the scar and his face crumpled. I wasn’t sorry here either. He needed to see what this deal had cost. It was my testimony.

  I went up to him, smiled, and let him off the hook. In the end, this was the also the payoff. Tommy Martin was busted flat and going to prison, but he wasn’t going to death row.

  “Jewel, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Dad, there isn’t anything to say. It just is. Mom took great care of me and said she’s sorry everything worked out this way.”

  “Hey, maybe I can ask her for a job on the back end of this. Who knows, maybe rekindle the old flame.”

  “Oh please, I love her, but would gouge out my eyes before I’d work for her or live with her one more day.”

  We both laughed, remembering the revolving door on the “domestic assistant” position.

  “Are you okay?”

  I knew by now that this question wasn’t about me as much as it was about whoever was asking it. I could be a bitch or I could give them a break. Despite the occasional temptation, I opted for the high road. Even my dad couldn’t have seen this as a consequence of his recklessness. I also know he’d have taken it in a minute if he could have. I got a scar, staples in my shoulder, bad dreams, and a confused broken heart, but at least I was walking out of here. Dad was losing everything, including his freedom. I decided that was a fair enough trade.

  “I’m fine. The shoulder still hurts, but they got on the surgery so fast that the damage was minimal. This”—I patted my chest—”will fade. Of course, Mom wants to unleash her battalion of plastic surgeons on it for round two. I haven’t decided yet. I may ink it.”

  “Take her up on the offer. Don’t let them be the first thing you see every morning.”

  Before I could answer, the clerks came in, tested the mics, and booted up the computers.

  Gerald came up behind me. “Jewel, I need to talk to Tommy. It’s almost showtime.”

  I bowed out. This wasn’t my deal, and even though I knew the details, it wasn’t my business.

  Snow stopped short when he saw me. I enjoyed the look of shame and fear that flitted across his face. He was suddenly busy with his briefcase.

  Oh hell no. You do not get off that easy.

  I crossed the invisible line between prosecution and defense territory, my hand outstretched.

  “Good to see you. Hard to believe it’s only been a few weeks since our first meeting in Cochinelle.”

  He was trapped. He gave me a polite handshake and tried to keep his eyes on my face.

  “Miss Martin, it’s good to see you. I think we’ve come up with a fair resolution to this. I appreciate your cooperation.”

  The original deal was twenty years. Even that was generous, considering everything Dad had been into. We started chipping away at it with a combination of threats and concessions. One of them had been my written agreement not to sue for damages resulting from the busted mission. It was easy to do. The potential money award and self-righteous pound of flesh I could extract wasn’t worth ten years in court and reliving the nightmare.

  “All deals are give-and-take.”

  A bone from their side was that my immunity became total and absolute. I would never be prosecuted for anything arising from the mission or anything resulting from my involvement in, or knowledge of, Dad’s operations, regardless of what Rockhound spilled or the evidence showed. I was washed clean and no reports at all would go to the Bar. Knowing all of that was inked and signed made me bold.

  “I want to talk to Agent Price.”

  “You’ll have to take that up with the FBI, Miss Martin.”

  Before I could call bullshit, the judge’s door opened and let Snow slip out my grasp.

  “All rise, court is now in session,” intoned the clerk as if reading from sacred scrolls.

  “Be seated.”

  I knew there had been many meetings in chambers about this case. This hearing was for show and to give lip service to an open public court system. The sausage had been made behind closed doors. This plea appearance had been a quick and quiet last-minute entry onto the court’s docket with the hope that the press wouldn’t catch wind of it. I looked around at the empty courtroom. It was time to get it on.

  The judge called the case and, as the prosecutor, Snow took the podium. In a short clipped speech, he told the judge that pursuant to a written plea agreement on file with the court, Thomas William Martin was pleading guilty to three charges on the original RICO document with the balance of counts dismissed. There was a joint sentencing recommendation of six years at a minimum-security federal facility and asset forfeiture, as detailed in agreement.

  At that last, Snow slapped a stack of bin
ders on the prosecution table. We’d bargained like demons over the forfeiture list, giving up several million in domestic accounts that the feds had known nothing about in exchange for some selective willful blindness on the prosecutor’s part. Both sides knew the bulk of it was offshore. Both sides also knew that as long as Dad didn’t talk, they had nothing.

  Snow droned on. “By agreement, the forfeiture documents are sealed by the court because of the potential of disclosing information covered by attorney-client privilege.”

  That brilliant bit was Gerald’s idea. It gave Snow the chance to spin the numbers as he saw fit without some reporter filing an FOIA request and asking uncomfortable questions.

  I tuned the rest of it out. Even Dad standing and answering that he understood the charges and was pleading guilty freely and voluntarily. This wasn’t my game anymore. I was totally burned out on high-stakes law. Instead, I looked forward to having some fun working in traffic and family court in Cochinelle. I wanted to clean out Uncle Jimmy’s files and take care of the sort of cases that could be resolved in a day and paid for with a casserole.

  The gavel dropped. Snow was out the side door before the judge’s robe had finished swishing through his private entrance. The deputies hooked Dad up and took him back to jail, where he would be held pending formal sentencing the following week. Normally, it took up to ninety days to prep the pre-sentencing documents, but everyone agreed to expedite it in this case. He also had the state court hold on him for the murder, but that would be dismissed, with prejudice, via a judge’s signature on a single page motion that afternoon.

  It was over.

  CHAPTER 81

  I tossed my shoulder bag onto the back seat of my hatchback. After three months of bopping from Heaven’s Gate to the county courthouse and around Cochinelle, I’d fallen in love with this rattletrap pile of crap. No more worrying about my image or freaking out if something got spilled or scratched. One of Simon’s doggie beds was in permanent residence on the floor. I hadn’t had a two-legged passenger since I drove it out of the garage in Dallas a lifetime ago and that suited me just fine. Throw in great gas mileage and an air conditioner with one setting—”meat locker”—and it was a situation made of win.