Chasing Justice

by H. Terrell Griffin

  “Did you leave a message when you called?”

  “Every time.”

  “Did you leave your name?”

  “Every time.”

  “Did you know Mr. Bannister before you met him that day with Ms. Madison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me the circumstances of that meeting.”

  “Bannister built the condo complex I live in. It was shoddy work all the way through. I confronted him about it a couple of years ago. I wanted my money back. He told me to go to hell and I punched him. I was charged with assault and battery and spent thirty days in jail.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Where were you on the night he was killed?”

  “I was in a meeting with about thirty people. It lasted four hours, from eight o’clock until midnight.”

  “Did Agent Wes Lucas of the FDLE or any other police officer or agent of the state attorney’s office ever contact you about Mr. Bannister’s murder?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

  Swann rose and stood for a moment at counsel table, looking at his notes. Then, “Mr. Shorter, is it your contention that Ms. Madison should know you?”

  “I guess.”

  “And if she says she didn’t know you, would you think she was lying?”

  That was an objectionable question. But I wanted to see how far Swann would take this. I had come to the conclusion after meeting with Shorter on several occasions, that he wasn’t as dumb as he had initially seemed. He wore stupidity like body armor against rationality’s intrusions on his angry little world. I stayed in my seat.

  “Maybe she forgot,” Shorter said, “or maybe she’s lying to cover something up.”

  “What do you think she’d be covering up?”

  “Maybe her part in the murder of Mr. Bannister.”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Swann said loudly, his own anger beginning to surface again. “Move to strike the answer.”

  I kept my seat. “Mr. Royal?” the judge asked.

  I stood. “Mr. Swann asked the question. The fact that he didn’t like the response is not grounds for striking the answer.”

  “Overruled,” the judge said.

  Swann said, “But you agree that Ms. Madison might have forgotten who you were?”

  “I can neither agree nor disagree, Mr. Swann. I have no idea what Ms. Madison remembers or forgets, but it’s only been a couple of months and under the circumstances I doubt she’s forgotten my name.”

  “But you don’t know.”

  “No. I don’t know.”

  Swann sat down. The last question was one that would have merited a first-year law student a professorial chewing out in a trial practice course. Swann had been so focused on the issue of whether Tori should have recognized Shorter’s name that he missed, or didn’t understand, the import of his testimony that Tori wanted him at the condo at about the time that Bannister was killed.

  “I have no redirect, Your Honor,” I said. “May the witness be excused?”

  Swann nodded and Judge Thomas excused Shorter. I’d made sure that he would be spending the next couple of days out of the range of a subpoena server. I didn’t want Swann to figure out Shorter’s importance in my narrative and call him back during rebuttal, that part of the case where the prosecution could call witnesses to refute the testimony of my witnesses. I didn’t trust Shorter to maintain his cool. He’d been on his best behavior today, but I had no idea of what might light off the fireworks.

  We had time for one more witness before lunch. I didn’t want to have the lunch break come in the middle of my next witness, and I knew the judge was a stickler for letting the juries go to lunch on time. I called Bill Lester.

  Swann objected on the basis that Bill’s name wasn’t on the witness list. I pointed out that Bill’s name was on Swann’s witness list. The judge overruled the objection.

  “State your name, please,” I said.

  “William R. Lester.”

  “Occupation?”

  “I’m the chief of police on Longboat Key.”

  “Are you related to the defendant, Chief?”

  “She’s my wife.”

  “Did you, at my suggestion, take some photographs of your wife last night?”

  “I did.”

  “Do you have those photos with you?”

  “I do.”

  “Would you explain to the jury what the pictures show?”

  “They are pictures of both my wife’s hips.”

  “Do they show a longitudinal scar six to eight inches long on either hip?’

  “No, sir.”

  “Does Abby have such a scar?”

  “No.”

  “Did she ever have one there?”

  “Certainly not in the fifteen years we’ve been married.”

  I handed him two eight-by-ten color photographs. Each one showed Abby. In one she was facing to her right so that her left side was toward the camera. In the other, she was facing left, and her right side was toward the camera. In each picture, Abby was wearing a long t-shirt that fell almost to her knees. She had pulled one side of the shirt up almost to her waist. She was wearing a string bikini bottom under the shirt, so that nothing was visible that wouldn’t have been seen on a public beach. I handed Swann a copy of the pictures and offered another copy of each into evidence. Swann had no objection.

  “I have no further questions,” I said.

  The judge called the noon recess. As was customary, everyone stood as the jury left the courtroom. When they were gone, the judge said, “I’d like to see Counsel in chambers before you go to lunch.” We had an hour and a half to meet with the judge, eat lunch, and get back to the courtroom.

  Swann sat quietly at his table, looking, I thought, a bit like a whipped puppy, although that may have been my imagination working overtime. A major part of his case had just fallen apart, and he was at least a good enough lawyer to understand that. Tori Madison’s testimony would be useless, but more than that, the jury would start to suspect Swann of putting on perjured testimony. I didn’t think Swann had done that. I thought he’d just assumed that he would take the beach bum lawyer apart, probably with the help of the judge, and therefore hadn’t done his homework. I almost felt sorry for him, but I was going to spend the afternoon dumping such a load of misery on him that he might never get out from under it.

  As I passed the prosecutor’s table on the way to the judge’s chambers, the young woman who was the other lawyer on Swann’s team caught my eye and winked at me. She seemed to be enjoying the spectacle of her boss’ fall from the pedestal he’d erected for himself.

  Swann, Judge Thomas, and I were the only people in chambers. “Gentlemen,” the judge said, “this morning during the recess, I took a phone call that has thrown a big wrench into the workings of this court. I want to discuss it with you both off the record, and at least for the time being, I want your promise that none of what I’m about to tell you will go out of this room. Will you promise me that?”

  Swann and I nodded and the judge continued. “The governor wants me to remove myself from this case. Today.”

  “Sir,” I said. “You can’t do that without declaring a mistrial.”

  “I’m aware of that, Mr. Royal. I’m also aware of the fact that the governor does not have the power to require me to recuse myself. He can’t even suspend me, unless I’m charged with a felony.”

  “There you go,” I said. “But why in the world would the governor get himself involved in this case, much less ask you to remove yourself? Did he call you himself?”

  “No. His chief of staff, Fulton Hancock, called. He said he was conveying the message from the governor.”

  “What did you tell him?” I asked.

  “I told him to go piss up a rope.”

  I laughed. “I’m not surprised.”

  “There may be more crap coming down,” the judge said. “Hancock said he could have me c
harged with a felony by the end of the day.”

  I was shocked. I’d never heard of this kind of pressure being put on a judge. I didn’t have a high opinion of our governor, but I thought he was too smart to be involved in something as shady as trying to intimidate a judge. “What felony?” I asked.

  “Something they make up, I guess. All they need is a corrupt state attorney somewhere in Florida, and they can have a felony charge. It doesn’t have to stick or even be believable, but I’ll be gone with a stroke of the governor’s pen.”

  “So what are you going to do?” I asked.

  “I’m going to finish trying this case and then I’m going to figure out how to fry the governor.”

  “He may not be involved,” I said.

  “I’ve thought of that. But I want to see how far up it goes.”

  “The chief of staff’s position doesn’t leave anybody above him but the governor.”

  “I know. Do either of you have any thoughts on this?”

  “Hang tough,” I said.

  Swann spoke up for the first time since we’d walked into chambers. “It occurs to me, Your Honor, that you may think I am in some way involved in this. I assure you I am not.”

  “Mr. Swann, if I thought you were involved, you’d be sitting in a jail cell.”

  A brief smile crossed Swann’s face. “I appreciate your confidence, Your Honor.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  It had always been my practice to steer clear of my clients during lunch breaks. I needed the time to think, to plot the rest of the day away from the legitimate questions that clients always wanted answered. The fact that Bill and Abby were friends didn’t change my habit. I’d explained this to them before the trial started, and they said they understood. I hoped they did.

  On this day, I was meeting with Jock and taking J.D. with me. The night before, I had asked Jock to dig up some bank records on Wes Lucas and Mark Erickson, records that my investigator Gus Grantham wasn’t able to find. Gus said the bank’s security was so tight that he had no chance of breaking through. For Jock’s agency, bank security was child’s play.

  We met in a restaurant two miles from the courthouse, far enough away that we didn’t have to worry about running into any of my jurors. Jock pulled a handful of documents from a slender briefcase and handed me two small bundles of clipped-together pages. “These are the bank accounts of both Erickson and Lucas. I think you’ll find them interesting. But, I’ve got something you’re going to find even more exciting.”

  “What?”

  “I think Favereaux is lying to us.”

  “Uh, oh. Why?”

  “I spent some time with him this morning. There’s something off about him. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’ve developed a pretty good bullshit meter over the years, and it’s tipping into the red with this guy. I think he’s more interested in finding out who killed his daughter than he is in helping Abby. He seems to think you’re the key to finding the murderer.”

  “I have no idea who killed Linda,” I said.

  “I think he knows who shot her. What he wants to find out is who ordered her killed.”

  “What gives you that idea?” J.D. asked.

  “I asked Dave Kendall, my boss, to call the director of Homeland Security and find out if he had any information about a mole in his organization that would make it dangerous for Favereaux to come out of hiding. After he checked into it, the Homeland director called Dave back and told him that he didn’t think Favereaux was in any danger, but they were looking into the possibility that there was somebody in his organization feeding the bad guys information on agents. The director’s people think the cartels have figured out that Favereaux and Linda are undercover agents from one or another of the federal agencies and that there is a price on Jim Favereaux’s head. The director is not happy that Favereaux went off the grid, and they want him in custody. Homeland Security’s custody.”

  “This whole thing is odd,” I said. “Who’s playing who here?”

  “I don’t know what game any of them are playing,” Jock said, “but I decided to look a little more deeply into Mr. Favereaux. These are his bank records.”

  I thumbed through them quickly. “Bahamian and Cayman banks?” I asked.

  “Look at the numbers, podna,” Jock said. “They’re kind of staggering.”

  The accounts had grown into almost a hundred million dollars. The cash had been coming into the accounts for years, a steady run of large deposits and withdrawals from the Cayman bank and deposits into the Bahamian bank. “This is a lot of money,” I said.

  “No kidding,” Jock said. “It looks like some money laundering going on.”

  “So, Favereaux’s dirty,” J.D. said.

  “Looks that way,” Jock said.

  “I’ll be damned,” I said. “Did you leave him at J.D.’s?”

  “No. I was afraid he’d figure out that I was on to him. Logan came and got him. They’re at his condo doing whatever two old men do when they have nothing to do. They’re probably watching TV. ”

  “I’m going to need him to testify,” I said.

  “What about the money in those bank accounts?” J.D. asked.

  “That shouldn’t come up,” I said. “I’m sure Swann doesn’t know anything about it. I’ll have to keep Favereaux from testifying to anything that might be untrue, but I think there’s enough important testimony there without crossing any lines.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she said.

  “Jock, call Logan and tell him to bring Favereaux downtown and drop him at the courthouse. I don’t think I’ll need him this afternoon, but I don’t want him to slip away. I never know what’s going to happen to the schedule I’ve outlined, so if for some reason we finish early with Lucas, I’ll need another witness.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Jock,” I said, “I’ve got one more little chore for you. There’s a guy named Fulton Hancock who is the governor’s chief of staff. He was a state senator from Tampa for a number of years, but got to the point where he couldn’t run again because of term limits. When his time in the senate was up, he took the job with the governor. He’s one of the most powerful people in Tallahassee.” I told him about the judge’s phone call. “I’d like to know what’s going on, and whether Hancock is doing this on his own or if somebody else, maybe the governor himself, is involved. I’m thinking the money trail is probably the answer. If there is a money trail.”

  “There’s always a money trail,” Jock said. “I’ll get the agency geeks on it. I’ll have something for you tonight.”

  I looked at my watch. “Time to get back to the courthouse.”

  * * *

  We were back in the courtroom, ready to proceed. The jury would be brought in as soon as the judge was on the bench. At precisely one-thirty, the judge’s assistant entered the courtroom and informed us that the judge had been inadvertently detained. He could be another thirty minutes and asked us to be ready to start at two.

  I sat with J.D. on a bench in the corridor just outside the door to the judge’s chambers. I had told her at lunch about the judge’s contact with the governor’s chief of staff, and had cautioned her that she had to keep it to herself. In my years of practice, I’d never seen an effort by anyone in the executive branch to intimidate a judge. Maybe it happened on occasion, and maybe it worked sometimes, but it would be disastrous for a judge to be seen caving to that kind of pressure. The Judicial Qualifications Commission, which was an arm of the Florida Supreme Court, would remove him from the bench and the Florida Bar would most likely disbar him. He would never sit again as a judge and would probably never practice law. The penalties for that kind of judicial malfeasance are onerous, and the Supreme Court is merciless in imposing them.

  We’d been sitting there for about twenty minutes when the door to the judge’s chambers opened and Harry Robson walked out. “What brings you here?” I asked.

  “Sorry, Matt,” he said, “can’t talk abo
ut it.”

  “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the governor’s chief of staff,” I said.

  Harry looked surprise. “It might.”

  “The judge filled Swann and me in this morning.”

  “Then you probably know everything I know.”

  “What’s your part in this?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, yet. The judge is pissed and wants to make sure that something gets done about this without interrupting your trial. My chief, the sheriff, and our state attorney are still in there.”

  “What’s the issue?” I asked.

  “Judge Thomas is convinced that a crime occurred when the chief of staff called him, but the question is whether the crime occurred here or in Tallahassee. The judge thinks either county would have jurisdiction, but he doesn’t know whom he can trust in Tallahassee. He’s known Jack Dobbyn for years and apparently thinks he’s the best state attorney in Florida. Jack told him he could trust the rest of us.”

  The door to chambers opened again and a man I didn’t know walked out, nodded at Harry, and went toward the elevator. “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Jack Connor. He’s a reporter for the Tampa Bay Times. I guess he and Thomas go way back, and the judge wanted a public record of this. Connor agreed to hold the story until your trial is over.”

  “This isn’t going to help the governor’s reelection chances,” J.D. said. “A ton of trouble from the governor’s office is going to fall on the judge as soon as this hits the papers.”

  “Thomas isn’t worried about that,” Robson said. “He’s got a big pair on him. Doesn’t have any fear of the consequences. He’s not a guy I’d want to screw with.”

  “I agree,” I said.

  “J.D.,” Harry said, “we have some work to do. You got a minute to talk?”

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  J.D. smiled. “Police business. Can’t talk about it.” They disappeared into one of the witness rooms, and I perused my notes. After a few minutes, I knocked on the witness room door, stuck my head in and asked J.D. if I could talk to her for a minute. She came into the corridor.

  “Call Robin Hartill,” I said. “Tell her you’re the most anonymous source she’s ever had or ever will have and tell her she has to sit on the story until the trial is over. Tell her everything I’ve told you and tell her she should get down here no later than three o’clock to see Wes Lucas on the stand. Let her know there’ll be more revelations as soon as the trial is over. And tell her she owes me. Big time.”