by Glenn Trust
Colton Swain leapt from his chair. “Your honor, the state petitions the court to reconsider the granting of bail. These are serious charges, murder and violation of the public trust. If there is sufficient cause to bind it over for trial, then bail should be denied.”
Downes nodded thoughtfully, listening to Swain’s protest. “Yes, I see your point Mr. Swain. You would like to keep Mr. Mackey in jail until trial, so that he only appears in handcuffs between now and then.” He smiled at Swain. “I get that, as my grandchildren would say. But Mr. Mackey is not a flight risk in my opinion. He made a total of fifty-eight thousand dollars last year as the chief deputy of Pickham County and has no significant assets. I have no doubt that he will have a hard time raising the bail money and will most likely be relying on the good will and trust of others to gather the funds.”
Downes took his reading glasses off so that he could see Swain clearly. “Finally, I would remind you that bail is to ensure that a defendant appears in court. It is not punishment for a crime for which he has not yet been convicted. Georgia is still part of the United States, and here you are still innocent until proven guilty in a court of law, by a jury of your peers. Make your case in court, Counselor.” He raised the gavel, bringing it down hard. “This hearing is adjourned.”
24. Change Of Plans
“Son of a bitch!”
Richard Klineman moved the phone away from his ear. He could almost feel Roy Budroe’s breath and the spittle hitting his face through the tiny speaker. God, he hated making these calls. Why couldn’t there ever be some good news to relay…just once?
“It was…well…it was a…uh” As usual, Klineman stammered for a way to explain to Budroe so that he wouldn’t have to look over his shoulder every time he walked down the street.
“Goddamnit, Dick! Spit it the fuck out!”
“Well, it’s something we have no control over. Bail is set by the judge, and…”
“Yeah, well I was relying on you and your big connection with that pompous ass of an attorney general. Thought you had things sewed up there. What happened?”
“Nothing…really.”
“Nothing? Mackey gets bail at a hundred thousand dollars. Shit he’s got friends. He’s a goddamn hero. He’ll be out in twenty-four hours.”
“What I mean is, it surprised us too. Swain argued for no bail or much higher bail. He had proposed a million dollars in the petitions filed prior to the hearing.” He took a deep breath to control his trembling voice. “But the judge makes the determination. He’s within his rights.”
“Fuck his rights. Fuck Mackey’s rights too.”
Budroe was about as angry as Klineman had ever heard him. Thank God he wasn’t in Georgia, or even in the country. A minute passed before Budroe spoke, ending the ordeal.
“All right, Dick. I’ll be in touch.” The call ended.
Hand shaking, Richard Klineman laid the phone on the table and sat back in his chair, eyes closed. Budroe would be in touch. What the hell did that mean? A threat? A promise? Just business? Just what he needed, one more thing to worry about.
He could see the thick face in his mind, scowling and laughing at him at the same time. He wondered how far he could go on the seventy-five thousand dollars he had squirreled away as sheriff down in Pickham County. Not far enough, he decided.
Roy Budroe disconnected the call and tossed the phone onto the table where it bounced loudly. Through the heavy glass windows of the main cabin, the blue horizon rose and sank in slow motion. The gulf swells were gentle compared to the heavy chop they had faced leaving Puerto Rico.
“Where do we make the change?” Eyes still on the horizon, he spoke to Marques Peña, seated across the cabin.
“A place, just coordinates really, about thirty miles off the coast, a fishing charter. It will take us in, to the mainland.”
Budroe nodded. “We can trust this charter, the captain and crew?”
“Completely.”
Budroe was brooding over something, since the call with the American. Peña had seen him like this before in other business deals. Usually, the brooding led to some request or special instructions for Peña. Usually, someone paid a heavy price.
Always thorough, Marques Peña did what few others dared. He interrupted Budroe’s thoughts.
“Is there a problem?”
“Hmm.” Budroe remained focused on the point where the sky met the water. “Change of plans, I think.” He turned to Peña. “How soon can we move?”
“Soon.” Peña looked at Budroe with calm but curious eyes.
“Twenty-four hours?”
He shook his head. “No, not that soon I’m afraid.”
“Shit.” Budroe thought, chewing the end of his cigar. “Well, let’s get things started. I want to be ready.”
Peña nodded. “No problem.”
25. Find A Case
“So, how’s the new space? All moved in?” Governor Bell sat across from Andy in the sitting area of his office, sipping the ever-present cup of coffee from a china cup.
“Not much to move in, sir. Just a few personal items. I’m not going to make any changes.” He returned the governor’s curious look and spoke frankly. “Far as I’m concerned, it’s still Bob Shaklee’s office. He’ll be back.”
Bell nodded, sipping from the cup. “Yes, of course.”
“We want you to feel at ease, Andy, at home.” Pamela Towers sat to one side. “It may be some time before Bob is back with us. This witch-hunt by Swain could go on for a while, certainly until the election. We all know this is politically motivated.”
Andy noted that she spoke without invitation from the governor and took it as a sign of her status and stature in the state’s administration.
“I’m fine. I have what I need. It’s still Bob’s office as far as I’m concerned. Just keeping the seat warm.”
“Well, I trust you will do more than that. We have absolute confidence that you will continue the OSI’s fine work to this point.” The governor put the cup on the table and leaned forward. “What do you have for us today, Andy.”
Acting OSI Director, Andrew Barnes opened the file he carried, handed copies of the case summaries to the governor and Towers and began his briefing.
It was mostly routine stuff. They were coordinating some undercover drug operations in Savannah, working as a link with the GBI and local police. The FBI had approached them with some missing person cases that might be linked to similar cases in Georgia. There did not appear to be any immediate association, but they were following up. Treasury had some counterfeiting cases they were reviewing, searching for any links to cases being worked by police or the GBI around Georgia.
In short, it was all pretty mundane stuff. When the briefing was completed, Andy closed the file, sat back and waited.
After a few seconds, Bell raised his eyes from the briefing summary. “Yes, this is all very good, but…” He spoke slowly, thinking. “But it would be nice if there were something more.”
“More?”
“Yes, more…you know, something we could sink our teeth into.”
“You mean something like the human trafficking ring we broke up last year.” Andy may have been new to the position, but he was not stupid. He knew exactly where the governor was going with his comment. “Those kinds of cases don’t come along that often, Governor. We can’t just create a case out of thin air.”
Bell’s eyes narrowed. “I was not suggesting anything of the kind, Agent Barnes, and I’m not sure I appreciate the implication.”
Way to go Andy. Piss the governor off first day on the job. “No sir…I…uh…wasn’t, didn’t mean to imply…”
Shit, how would Bob have handled this? Truth was Bob wouldn’t have had to handle it. He would have found a diplomatic way to respond to the governor, maintaining his principles all the while.
Pamela Towers came to the rescue. “Andy, I believe what the governor is driving at is that we have two people in the Attorney General’s crosshairs, Bob and Georg
e Mackey. It would be to their benefit if the OSI were working a high profile case that could demonstrate, once again, to the public, just how valuable they, Bob and George, the whole team are to the State of Georgia.”
Towers neglected to mention the political value and benefit the governor’s campaign would reap from such a case. The Organizer-in-Chief’s work done she sat back in her chair.
Andy looked at the governor. “You have my apology, Governor. I did not mean to imply any…”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” Bell smiled and stood, extending his hand. “Thank you for the briefing, Andy.” He walked him towards the office door “Hope to hear back from you soon.”
Andy left the governors’ office in a daze. The message was clear.
He didn’t give a shit about the governor’s political concerns, but he did care about George and Bob. A high profile case could have an effect on public perception. Swain’s press statements and appearances were frequent and relentless. It was only a matter of time before the often repeated accusations, true or not, began to take on a life and reality of their own. Right now, George needed all the positive public perception he could get.
Pamela Towers was right. Find a case, a good case, a high profile case.
26. A Long Day
The transfer from the Puerto Rican yacht to the Florida fishing charter was uneventful. Two Zodiac boats made two trips each, transporting Budroe, Guzman, Peña and his security team. One trip was reserved for several black cases, no personnel. Guzman was certain they contained weapons and ammunition.
Three hours later, they landed in the middle of the night on a deserted stretch of beach on a key along the gulf coast of Florida. Four SUVs and drivers met them. The cases were loaded, the passengers took their seats and within minutes, they were crossing over a small, two-lane bridge to the mainland. The quiet efficiency of Peña’s men was impressive. He rarely gave an order or made a comment. They executed their orders and the transfer flawlessly.
Through it all, Budroe remained aloof and preoccupied with his own plans. He followed instructions, doing what he was told and showing complete trust in Peña and his men.
When the vehicles were gone from the beach, the fishing boat dropped anchor and turned on lights. There was a good chance that they had been picked up on local radar, Coast Guard or otherwise. Running away in the dark would raise suspicion. Instead, they put on the trappings of a fishing charter, dropping anchor so their rich clients could party and spend the night just offshore.
The cars pulled into the house in Heron Run, quickly unloaded and dispersed. Two remained in the detached garage. The others left the area, but Guzman was sure they were close enough to be recalled on short notice.
Before daylight, all were secure in their beds. It had been a long day.
27. Coming Home
Porter Wright did not forget his debts and today he had a debt to pay. He and his wife, Naomi, sat quietly talking about it over coffee at the kitchen table. As in most things, they were in full agreement.
Leaving the house at the usual time, he did not go to the offices of the Everett Gazette, the newspaper he owned and published in Pickham County. First, he made a stop at the bank and arranged for the transfer of funds.
His second stop was at the office of Sheriff Sandy Davies.
“I’m making the arrangements today.”
Davies leaned back and looked at the man. “On your own?”
“On my own.”
“Porter, I’m pretty sure there are a lot of other people around the state who would be happy to help.”
Wright nodded. “Maybe so, but this is my debt. Naomi and I talked about it.” He met Davies’ gaze, speaking frankly. “George Mackey, Sharon Price, they saved our lives…Me, Naomi and the children back when we were on the run during that ‘Term Limits’ thing. Sharon almost lost her life.”
Davies nodded. There was nothing to say. It was true. Everyone knew it.
“I can afford it, I want to do it. That’s all. Hell, I’m not even paying anything back anyway. I’ll get it all back when George shows up in court. Will you help me make the arrangements with the court and Bibb County?”
“Yes.”
Sharon and Fel sipped coffee around the kitchen table in the house. She had been spending more time there the last few days. George’s absence made it painful to be alone in their apartment, home over the barn.
She grabbed the cell phone off the table when it chimed. She didn’t recognize the number but it was from the Macon area code.
“Hello.”
“Hey, darlin’. How are you?”
“Mackey…” Tears filled her eyes at the sound of his voice. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too. Don’t even have words to say how much.” Tears clouded his own eyes.
“Fel and I have been talking. He wants to put the house and farm up for the bail. It should cover part of it anyway. What else do I need to do?”
“Nothing. In fact, tell Fel to hold onto the house.”
“What do you mean? I want you home.”
“I’m coming home, babe. Porter Wright wired the money to the court here. They just told me. I should be released this afternoon sometime. They’re processing the paperwork, now.”
The tears flowed freely, on both ends of the line. After a minute, Sharon was able to speak.
“How are you coming home? Should I com get you?”
“No, not necessary. That GBI agent Twilley and his partner are going to drive me back. They’re assigned to keep an eye on things.”
“You mean watch you?” She felt the resentment rise inside.
“No, not really…maybe I guess. GBI is under a lot of pressure by Swain. He wants them to ensure that I will be in court, since Judge Downes didn’t keep me in jail until the trial.”
“Political bullshit.”
“Yeah, no doubt about that. But guess what?”
“What?”
“I’m comn’ home darlin’.”
She closed her eyes and saw his smile, wide and grinning at her in her mind. She smiled too. “I know Mackey. I’ll be waiting.”
The call ended when the jail deputies quietly told George he would have to relinquish the phone so that other inmates could use it.
Fel watched, anxious for the update. When she had wiped the tears away with both hands, she looked up at him. “He’s coming home.”
28. Yes You Will
Compared to the Puerto Rican hacienda, the house on the outskirts of Heron Run, Florida was small, old and extremely middle class American. Built in the nineteen fifties during a time of expansion in Florida, it had probably been considered an upscale house at one time. Now it was run down and neglected, it’s lime green pastel paint faded. Budroe had bought it using the false identity of Harvey Harristone, signing the closing documents in Puerto Rico and having some of Peña’s people handle arrangements locally.
Ramón Guzman wandered the overgrown zoysia grass in the back yard, waiting for Armando Soto to return his call. Nearby, two of Budroe’s men talked quietly and smoked, watching him as he walked. They seemed attached to him by a rope and never let him stray more than forty feet or so away. He had no doubt that if he tried to move further, without them, the distance would close quickly and the consequences would be unpleasant.
Fifty-foot live oaks and pines were scattered across the yard. The expanse of thick bladed grass sloped down to a bay that separated the mainland from the key they had landed on the night before. Beyond the key, the Gulf of Mexico sparkled and rolled softly to the shore. A small wooden dock sat at the bottom of the grassy slope.
Hands behind his back, Guzman walked down to the water and out onto the dock. He looked over his shoulder to see the guards wandering towards him, closing the distance just a bit. Then they stopped and continued their conversation, while keeping an eye on him.
He looked across the narrow bay to the key and the gulf beyond. This was his life, he thought. Moving from house to house, going where Budroe
told him to go, doing what he said to do. Eventually, the day would come when Budroe tired of him or no longer needed him. Guzman did not want to think about that day. He had to find a way to be more than the diplomat, the prisoner.
The cell phone in his pocket chimed. He looked at it, saw that it was the call he was expecting and answered.
“Si, Armando.”
“My men have selected a place for the meeting, large, secluded, in the country. I assume that Budroe will have his security with him.”
“That is a fair assumption.” Guzman had no doubt that Marques Peña and his men would be near.
“We will want to make sure both groups feel adequately protected. Perhaps the advance people, security, should meet first. Just so that there are no mistakes.”
“I will propose that idea to Budroe for you. I am sure he will want no mistakes, as well.” The memory of the bullet crashing through Eduardo River’s brain flashed through Guzman ‘s thoughts. He definitely wanted to eliminate mistakes. With Budroe, they could be deadly.
“Yes.”
“Where is this meeting place, Armando?”
Soto gave the location. It was in the country in the middle of the Florida peninsula, an old house with acreage around it that had been a cattle ranch years ago. When Guzman was sure of the site, the call ended.
He returned to the house and found Budroe with Peña and two of Peña’s men in the large room that was called a family room by the Americans. Like the rest of the dwelling, it had the smell of being closed up too long in a humid, hot climate. The air conditioning was running full blast, but it was barely adequate to cool the structure, much less remove the humidity and mustiness.
Guzman stood in the door from the patio, waiting to be invited to join the group. Budroe looked his way. There was a pause, long enough to ensure that Guzman did not presume to enter without being asked. Finally, Budroe smiled, waved his cigar and spoke.