by Mark Dawson
“Baby?”
“Not now,” he said. “Too many witnesses. We’ll pick him up later, do it somewhere quieter. Keep driving.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
IZZY GLANCED around the courtroom. It was divided in half by a scratched wooden railing, with the rows of the public gallery on one side and the counsel tables and the raised witness stand on the other. There was no box for the jurors because the appeals court did not require the service of a jury. There were a handful of reporters, some of whom she recognised, and even a courtroom artist who sketched faces for the local TV news. The seats in the public gallery were empty. Jackson Dubois and the rest of his team sat at one table. Lawyers for the city sat at the other table. Izzy had the third one to herself.
She looked up at the bench of grizzled justices and, behind them, the large bronze eagle in bas-relief, its talons clutching arrows. It was intended to inspire respect, maybe even reverence, and, despite it being the worse for wear, it still managed that for most folk. Not so much for Izzy, though. She felt the same buzz of anticipation, the welcome frisson of nervous energy that she had harnessed during all of the previous hearings. And she respected the history of the court, and the line of eminent jurists who had presided over the cases she had studied as a student—some of whom were immortalised in dusty portraits that had been hung from the walls—but the incumbents had done nothing to disabuse her of the notion that they were nothing more than a rubber stamp for the government.
The chief justice cleared his throat.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is the case of Build It Up, Inc. vs City of New Orleans, continuing from the last adjournment.” He squinted out into the room. With the wrinkles around his eyes and the black robe draped over his withered form, he reminded Izzy of the eagle behind him. “Miss Bartholomew, concerns have been raised with the bench that you have conducted this appeal in a fashion designed to prolong it for as long as possible. The bench is making no accusations of that, but we do make the point that it is incumbent upon you to proceed with all due expediency. You are entitled to a fair hearing, but we will not allow the legal process to be used as a delaying mechanism.”
“Who raised those concerns, sir?”
“Counsel for the city and for Babineaux Properties.”
“Well, they can rest assured that I am proceeding as quickly as I can. As you can see, I’m doing this on my own. I don’t have their resources.”
“Be that as it may, Miss Bartholomew, my suggestion remains, please proceed with alacrity.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Now, then, shall we get started?”
“I’d like that.”
The double door at the end of the room opened and a handsome, well-dressed man walked inside. The lawyers immediately straightened their backs and looked intensely at their notes. Only Dubois looked up at the newcomer and nodded in recognition. Izzy looked at him, too. She recognised him. Joel Babineaux. It was the first time that he had been in court. Was he here, she wondered, because he had been told that the proceedings might come to an end this morning? Was he here to gloat, to grandstand in front of the press? If he was, she was going to disappoint him. She didn’t take her eyes off of him as he walked with the barely noticeable limp that gave away his prosthetic. He sat down, undid his jacket, and then, slowly and deliberately, he looked up and across the room at her. Izzy held his gaze.
She was still staring at him when the chief justice cleared his throat again. “We adjourned so that the city could procure a report. I believe that report has been prepared?”
Counsel for the city started to rise, but Izzy spoke first. “Before we do that, sir, I’d like to make another argument. I’ve been looking at the case of Kelo vs New London. I think it’s pertinent.”
The justice couldn’t prevent the weary sigh. “Is it important, Miss Bartholomew?”
“I think it is.”
The justice nodded, the resignation obvious. “Very well. Proceed.”
Izzy looked across the room at the benches of expensively assembled lawyers, saw the irritation on their faces, and couldn’t stop herself from smiling. She turned her focus back on to Babineaux. His expression was inscrutable.
She took out her notes, cleared her throat, and began.
#
JOEL BABINEAUX made sure that he was already on his way out of the courtroom before the day’s proceedings were adjourned. He waited outside, his thousand-dollar shoes clicking against the polished black and white chequerboard tiles. The lawyers he had retained had been the first to emerge, grumbling as they came through the double doors, their disposition changing immediately as they saw him. They were pandering toadies, all of them, and he waved them off with a brusque flick of his hand. Jackson Dubois was next. Babineaux waved him off, too.
He was still waiting as he saw the man walk down the corridor. He was dressed in cut-off jeans and a T-shirt, his clothes discoloured with dirt and sweat. He looked hopelessly out of place, but, despite that, there was something about him that suggested that it would have been unwise to confront him. He came up to the entrance to the court and took a seat on the pew opposite the door. Babineaux glanced at him. He was staring right back, his eyes the iciest of blues.
Babineaux smiled. “Hello.”
“Mr. Babineaux.”
“Are you here for the case?”
“I’m here for Miss Bartholomew.”
“I’m afraid you have my advantage.”
“John Smith.”
Babineaux extended a hand. The man wiped his palm against his sullied T-shirt and took it. He had a firm grip, but so did Babineaux. They held for a moment. Neither squeezed too hard, but just enough so that the other might take away the right impression.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Smith.”
The man’s mouth stretched flat and taut, something between a sardonic smile and a grimace, and his eyes glittered. Babineaux found the effect unsettling.
Isadora Bartholomew was one of the last people to emerge, struggling with the case of notes to which she had so expertly referred during the day’s proceedings.
Smith stood. The woman looked at him, then at Babineaux.
“What do you want?” she said to him.
Babineaux stepped across to her, a broad smile on his face. “Can I give you a hand?”
That surprised her. Her face registered immediate suspicion then hostility, both of which she quickly hid with a polite and professional shake of the head. “No, thank you, Mr. Babineaux.”
“We can manage,” Smith said.
“Please.”
“I’m fine,” she said, with more heat.
“Let me talk to you, then,” he said.
She shook her head and continued on.
Babineaux watched her, his eyes racing ahead to where the lawyers were waiting at the end of the corridor. He noticed them hovering, ready to do his bidding. The sight of them suddenly sickened him. They were all ready to do what he commanded them to do, all of them suckling from his teat, yet none of them could solve this simple fucking problem.
He closed his eyes, concentrated on smothering his temper, and then set off after her. “Please, Miss Bartholomew. Five minutes, that’s all.”
Smith was quickly alongside him. “She’s not interested.”
“Please. Just hear me out.”
She stopped. “What do you want to talk about?”
“You don’t have to talk to him,” Smith said.
“It’s all right. What is it?”
“This,” Babineaux said, indicating the court with a broad sweep of his arm. “The case. The disagreement. I’m upset that it’s come to this.”
“You didn’t leave us with a choice. If I hadn’t brought the case, you’d have already bulldozed the houses, wouldn’t you?”
“I do admire what you’ve done, you know. Construction isn’t easy at the best of times, and the houses you’ve built—I’ve seen them, Miss Bartholomew. I’ve driven down that street, more th
an once. They are very impressive.”
“And you still want to knock them down.”
“We want to move them.”
“That’s semantics and you know it.”
“You might not believe it, but I want to help. We both know that all you can possibly do with this is to delay the inevitable. We will win in the end. It might take a few weeks, and it’ll be expensive, but the law is on our side.”
“That’s debatable. Did you listen to what the judge said today?”
“The law is on our side,” he repeated, “and there is a political will to regenerate the parish. I can do that. I can make it right.”
“And what about the people who live there now? What is it, ‘sorry, I know you’ve only just moved back into your homes, but we need you to move out again while we knock them down?’ Is that it?”
His stomach clenched with anger, but he smiled and swallowed it all down and found his most emollient tone. “Let me help you. If you withdraw this action and let us build on Salvation Row, I’ll give you twice as much land in return and I’ll pay enough for you to build twice as many houses. I’ll lend you a team to build them, too. For free. Think of the good that you could do with that. Twice as many families in brand-new accommodations. I know you don’t trust me, Miss Bartholomew, and that’s fair enough, but I’m telling you, hand on heart, I will make sure you get more than you have now. We could make a real difference.”
That last suggestion was a step too far, and he could see it as soon as the words left his mouth. “We are already making a difference,” she snapped.
“That’s not what I—”
She rested the heavy case on the floor and turned to him, anger flashing across her face. “Let me tell you something. You think you can come down there, take out your wallet and wave your money around and then, just like that, you get your way. Maybe that’s what life is like for you, but, I’m telling you, Mr. Babineaux, it’s not going to work for you this time. My family has lived in the Lower Ninth for years. My mom and dad live there and my mom’s family lived there, too. If you think you can pay us off and then knock down the houses that hard-working men and women sweated to build, then I’m here to tell you that ain’t ever going to happen.” She leaned down, wrapped her fingers around the handle and hefted the case again. “Now, if that’s all you had to say, I’ve got preparation today for tomorrow. Maybe you are going to beat us. Maybe. But I’ll tell you this for damn sure, I ain’t gonna make it easy for you.”
Babineaux stood there, unsure of what he was supposed to say. She didn’t give him the chance. The two of them walked around him and went down the corridor.
Dubois approached him.
“What did she say?”
“There’s no talking to her. They won’t see sense.”
“Do you want me to step it up?”
“This man, you’ve met him?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He seems very proficient.”
“You’re confident? I’m depending on your judgment, Jackson.”
“I am. He’s a professional.”
“Tell him to do it.”
“And her, too?”
“No. Not while this case lasts, it’d look much too convenient.”
“This man can make it look natural—”
“I said no, Jackson. That man looking after her. The Englishman. Him. Start with him.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
MILTON STAYED in his car outside the Comfort Inn all night. He parked in the lot, choosing an angle that allowed him a clear view to the front of the building. He knew that it was unlikely that they would make another attempt on her life while she was in the hotel, but, since he couldn’t rule it out, he was not prepared to take the chance. He hadn’t told Izzy that he would be there because he knew that she would have objected. The stakes had been raised now, and he knew that it was likely that another attempt would be made to force Izzy to drop the case.
They had tried once, and failed.
They would try again.
His vantage point made it very difficult for anyone to approach the building without him noticing. Hotel guests had returned to their rooms until the small hours, but, once the last stragglers had been accommodated, it stayed quiet. A light was overhead, throwing its dead white glow over the car. Milton had plugged his phone into the car’s sound system and listened to his music. He had ordered a delivery pizza at midnight, picking it up from the delivery driver as he pulled into the lot. He had eaten it and drank a bottle of Coke, listening to the old albums that made him think back to his time in the regiment and the innocent times before that.
He looked at his watch. Six thirty. She would be up and about now, getting her things ready for the day in court. Milton had said that he would pick her up at nine. She would be safe once she was inside the courtroom, and he anticipated that he would be able to grab a couple of hours’ sleep then. He thought it would be safe to leave her until he came to pick her up. He rubbed his palm across the stubble that covered his cheeks and chin. He needed a shower and a shave. He started the engine, put the car into drive, and headed back to his motel.
#
MILTON SAID hello to the woman on the desk, went to his room and undressed. He showered, turning the tap to cold and standing under the jet until his skin tingled. He washed, then filled the bowl with warm water and shaved with the straight razor that he always carried with him in his pack. He dressed in fresh clothes and packed his case. He had left his razor in the bathroom and went back to get it.
There was a small window. Milton’s room was at the end of the row, and the window offered a view of the parking lot that wasn’t visible from the main room. He saw a car pull up. A plain-looking sedan. Something about the car snagged his attention, but the sun was bouncing off the windshield and obscuring the interior. Milton watched and, as he idly ran his finger along the blade of the razor, the car backed into a space. It stopped and, after a moment, both doors opened.
A man and a woman got out. The low, early sun was in his eyes, and he couldn’t make out their faces. The man had an athletic build and a confident gait. The woman was slender, with good legs.
There was something about the man that caught Milton’s attention.
It made him uneasy.
They walked over to the motel rooms, coming closer to the window.
Milton frowned. He squinted into the sun, and as he did, a cloud scudded across the sky and a pillar of shadow rushed across the lot.
Milton gaped.
Avi Bachman?
What the…?
He almost dropped the razor in shock.
He was supposed to be dead.
Bachman reached a hand into his jacket and took out a pistol.
Milton thought as fast as he could.
What were the odds that Avi Bachman, who was supposed to be dead, was here, at a low-rent motel in New Orleans, at the precise same time as he was? A million to one. A billion to one. It couldn’t be a coincidence, and if it wasn’t a coincidence, then it could only mean that Bachman was here for him.
What to do? Bachman was armed: a 9mm. Milton had his Sig Sauer on the bedside table. The M16 and the MP5 were in the trunk of his rental. But there was no time to get to them.
He hurried into the main room.
#
BOON WAITED as Lila approached the door. The row of rooms was connected by a wooden veranda, the paint blistered in the sun, the planks warped and buckled. Numbers were fixed to the doors. This one was 10.
They had been given the address by the detective. The police had found out that the Bartholomews had been moved into the Comfort Inn, and it wasn’t a stretch to think that Milton would stand guard. They had followed him back here. Boon was surprised that it had been as easy as it was. Perhaps Milton was getting sloppy in his old age?
He held his pistol low, hidden from the rest of the rooms by the angle of his body. He knew that Milton would recognise him if he saw him, just as Boon
had recognised him, and even though that would probably make no difference since he had the overwhelming advantage of surprise, he didn’t like to take chances. The doors all had peepholes, and there was no way of predicting how Milton would react if he saw him standing outside his door. Milton would have heard the news. As far as he was concerned, Avi Bachman was dead. Milton knew his profession, and it wouldn’t have been a difficult mental leap for someone so inherently suspicious to recognise that he was here on business.
There was a good chance that he would shoot first and ask questions later.
The alternative was to kick down the door, go in hard, gun up, and take him out. But that was messy and unpredictable and unattractive.
So, he thought, no, there was a better way.
Milton had never seen Lila before. She could knock on the door and confirm that he was there. He would open the door for her. Boon would wait to the side, out of sight, and, on Lila’s signal, he would step into the doorway and shoot him.
Lila stepped up onto the veranda. Boon held his breath. She took a step to the door, raised her hand, and rapped against it three times.
Lila knew better than to look across at him, or, worse, to say anything, but Boon knew from the twist to her face that something was amiss. She reached up and pressed her fingers against the door. It swung open.
“Hello?”
There was no reply.
“Hello?”
She pushed the door all the way open and, before Boon could stop her, she stepped inside.
“Hello?”
Boon gripped the pistol tight. He didn’t want Lila to be in there. Milton had been Number One. He knew what that meant.
“Shit,” Lila called out. “Baby?”
Boon stepped out and went through the open door. He stood just in front of the door, taking the measure of the room, looking to see where everything was. He held his breath, listening, trying to get a sense for the room and what it might mean. Lila was standing next to the bed. It hadn’t been slept in, but the sheets and blankets were ruffled, as if something had been placed atop them. There was an interconnecting door between this room and the one alongside. It was standing open, just an inch or two.