O’Connell nodded. “That’s a 501 (c)( 4) social welfare organization. We call it SOS.”
Christiansen rubbed his chin, as if in thought. One of his associates took notes on a yellow legal pad while the other was staring at a laptop screen. Jack idly gazed off into space as if there was nothing that Christiansen could asked that could possibly interest him. Judge Jamison was on her computer, probably exchanging emails with other judges while she listened to the testimony. Christiansen knew that he had to confront the secrecy of the SOS donors, knowing that some of the jurors would find it offensive that they could not learn the identity of large donors.
“This SOS, why do you call it a social welfare organization? You’re a political operative. Do you really give a damn about social welfare?”
Jack kept his poker face but quietly admired his adversary for facing this issue head on.
O’Connell rubbed his hands together as he gathered his thoughts. Then he turned to face the jury. “First, I am a strong believer in social welfare. I also believe that the government wastes far too much money and the private sector should play a bigger role, but that’s for another day. SOS can maintain its status as long as it is primarily engaged in social welfare which can be about political issues. For example, Mr. Christiansen, let’s say you are a senator from Texas. SOS could run a series of television commercials complaining about the lack of attention paid by Washington to environmental issues and end it by asking that the viewer call Senator Christiansen and tell him folks are concerned about the environment. The rule is fifty-one percent social welfare issues. The rest can be contributed to political campaigns.”
Christiansen moved to the podium to make sure he had the jury’s attention. “Does SOS have to report its spending?”
“Absolutely.”
“What about contributors?”
“No, the government doesn’t require us to reveal our contributors.”
Several of the jurors were leaning forward, not liking what they were hearing. Christiansen noted their attention.
“But, Mr. O’Connell, that can’t be good for the country. You can have billionaires and corporations and labor unions and such giving tens of millions of dollars to your organization and nobody but you knows their names. And the Democrats can do the same damn thing. Come on, now.”
O’Connell accepted the challenge thrown at him by his lawyer. “Mr. Christiansen, wouldn’t you agree that it’s more important to know how the money is spent than where it comes from?”
Christiansen cast a sideways glance at the jury and didn’t like what he saw. “I suppose. We’ll come back to that another day.” Christiansen knew that other day would not come. He hoped the jury would forget the issue by the end of trial. “The jury’s heard about the fundraiser that night. You went to Oscar Hale to set it up?”
O’Connell crossed his legs and relaxed. “I did. I knew he was a strong conservative and knew most of the wealthy people in this area. I was trying to raise a hundred million dollars that night. We were close when the shooting started.”
“All these costumes and masks and guns, you agreed with all of that?”
“I’m sorry to say that the costumes were my idea. I didn’t want guns at the party, but I was outvoted by Mr. Hale and Governor Lardner.”
Christiansen nodded. “In hindsight, I think we would all agree that the costumes and masks were poor choices, too. We’ve already heard from Mr. Hale and Mrs. Edward Hale. I don’t want to re-plow any ground. Let me ask when you first realized there was trouble.”
The witness momentarily got a faraway look in his eyes as he thought back to that night. “We were approaching that one hundred million in pledges. I was confident that we were going to blow right through the number. Then there was a pop, turns out it was the first shot.” O’Connell hesitated. “The governor went down. Then it was an eternity. His detail was trying to get him off stage. I heard some shots from the back of the room. Then two more shots rang out. One hit Edward in the head and one got me in the arm. Edward died in Maria’s arms. My wound was minor. I, I was fortunate.”
“Are you making any claim for your injury?”
“No, sir. In the overall scheme of things, it was not important.”
“How about any monetary losses?”
O’Connell sucked in his breath. “It has almost destroyed me financially. Those pledges for that night virtually disappeared. Personally, I would have managed that money and put it to good use. My fee is usually five percent. I should have a half a billion dollars in my various social welfare organizations and PACS now. Instead, I can’t get phone calls returned. I’ve lost at least twenty-five million personally.” He turned to the jury. “This wasn’t my fault, ladies and gentlemen. If the governor’s protective detail had done their job, of course, the governor still would have been wounded, but he made a full recovery. No one else would have been shot by that woman.”
Christiansen turned to confer with his associates and said, “No further questions, Your Honor.”
Jack rose, buttoned his coat and said, “We’ll reserve our questions for this witness for our case in chief.”
The judge looked over her glasses. “Well, Mr. Bryant, I haven’t had a defendant do that in a civil case in years. Of course, it’s your right. We’re adjourned.” She rose and told the jury, “See you in the morning. Remember not to talk about the case. And since we seem to have the media’s attention, please avoid reading anything about it. If something is on television, please mute that part of the news.”
Jack loaded his roller briefcase as did J.D. Colby was waiting for them in the first row. “Okay,” Jack said. “We know a bunch of those reporters and cameras are going to be waiting for us at the steps when we walk out the door. I haven’t talked to them so far, but now’s the time. Just may be that a couple of our jurors choose to ignore the judge’s admonition. Might as well give them a little something to chew on.”
Jack was right. Cameras were rolling. Reporters were jostling one another with microphones in hand. Jack stopped on the first step. J.D. stood beside him. Colby backed away.
“It’s about time I broke my silence. I’ve got a statement. You just heard from Kevin O’Connell today. He described what most of us are calling a dark PAC. We all know it’s got a more formal name with the IRS. None of us know where the money comes from but it’s a huge number. He and his lawyer and the other plaintiffs want to blame my clients, Walt Frazier and the other members of the protective detail, for what happened that night. You folks need to remember that because of the DPS and its SWAT team, we captured Miriam Van Zandt in an assault on the Alamo Defenders compound in West Texas. The authorities called an end to the investigation, but we know that she was not acting alone. Someone paid her. Just as these dark PACS have hidden donors, we know that somewhere out there lurks a money man who wanted this to happen. We are going to win this trial, but this case will never be over until we know who paid for the trigger woman.”
“Jack,” Hartley asked, “are you suggesting that one of these dark PACs paid for the killing of Edward Hale and the shooting of Governor Lardner and the wounding of O’Connell.”
“Don’t know. I can’t rule it out, but, so far, I can’t prove it. Still, this trial is only just beginning.”
As Jack pushed his way through the reporters, Ike Irasmus drifted away from the fringes of the crowd. He had listened to the evidence all afternoon and chose not to let Jack know he was even in the courtroom. Jack had too much on his mind, and he was just an interested observer. Until now. He thought about Crossmore and how Bernard avoided talking to him, claiming that Crossmore only bought them drinks. But Al said that Bernard and Crossmore did business together. He probably should have told Jack, but they were dealing with Crossmore’s killing, and It didn’t strike him as important at the time. Now he realized that Bernard might be the only person left who could lead them to the money man, as Jack just called him. He couldn’t bother Jack or J.D. in the middle of the trial. He would do
this himself.
68
Ike walked out to his backyard where he found Trousers sleeping on the porch of the doghouse he had built for a pet that spent the early part of his life sleeping on the street. He overfilled the dog’s food bowl and made sure that the automatic control worked to continuously refill his water. “I’ll be gone tonight, Trousers,” he said as he stooped to scratch the dog behind the ears. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Ike drove to DFW airport and boarded a flight to New Orleans. Once there he took a cab to the Marriott that bordered the French Quarter on Canal. After a nap and dinner at NOLA, he walked to Trombone’s. He entered the club at about eleven and sat at the bar where he ordered a Miller Lite. The club was nearly full, something a little unexpected on a Thursday night. Between numbers, he saw Bernard look over the crowd. When he looked at the bar, his eyes passed Ike by, then returned to gaze at him briefly before turning to talk to the trombone player.
At the next break, Al spotted him and walked to the bar. “Ike, I didn’t see you come in. You bring your horn?”
Ike smiled. “I’m not ready for prime time, yet, Al.”
“Nonsense.” Al turned to the stage. “Bernard, you bring your spare cornet?”
Bernard glanced at Ike. Reluctantly, he said, “Yeah. It’s here behind the stage.”
“You mind if Ike borrows it?”
Knowing he had no choice, Bernard stepped behind the stage and walked over to the bar, horn in hand. “Here you are, sir.”
“No need to call me sir. I’m just an old, worn out jazz musician. Al, can I go back to your dressing room and warm up a couple of minutes?”
Al nodded and walked Ike to the back. When he returned, he saw Bernard hurriedly packing his horn. “Where the hell you going, Bernard?”
Bernard looked at him and glanced at the door back to the dressing room. “I figure that you have another horn player for the evening. I have better things to do.”
Al studied him for a minute. “I know. You’re worried that he’s going to ask you some questions about Crossmore. If he does, so what, Crossmore’s dead. You stay right where you are. You might learn something from Ike. He was the best back in his day.”
Resigned to staying, Bernard took his cornet from the case and resumed his place on the stage. In a couple of minutes Ike came from the back and joined him.
“Ike, we’ll play some of the old stuff. You’ll probably remember. Just join in whenever you feel like it.”
They started with Basin Street Blues. Ike listened quietly for a minute and then tentatively joined in, quietly at first and then matching Bernard, note for note. Next came Birth of the Blues. Ike felt comfortable enough to cut loose about half way through the number. The rest of the band stopped and listened as he played the borrowed cornet like he owned the song. When he finished, the band members clapped while the audience got to their feet, crying for more.
“Ike, can you do We Was Doing All Right?”
Ike nodded. The other band members lowered their instruments as Ike played the opening bars. Half way through, he starting singing the lyrics, sounding as close to Louis Armstrong as anyone since Sachmo died. When he finished, the audience was again on their feet. Ike did a little bow, acknowledged the band, handed the cornet to Bernard, and moved through the audience to his seat at the bar. Thinking he must be a celebrity, several people in the audience stopped him to sign napkins.
After the last set, the lights came up. Ike walked up to Bernard. “We need to talk.”
Bernard refused to even turn his eyes toward Ike. “Got nothing to say.”
“I only need ten minutes.”
“Don’t matter. I’m scared to even step out on the street. I have a taxi waiting for me every night out front when we’re through. I ain’t about to walk anywhere around here at night.”
“Look, Crossmore is dead.”
“Yeah, but two guys killed him.”
“One of them was killed by my friend out there on the street. We’ve learned the other one left the country the next day.”
Bernard shook his head. “May be more coming behind them.”
Ike raised his voice. “Just a damn minute. Get over here and sit your ass down. If you don’t tell me the truth, I’ll go to the police. You were involved with Crossmore. From what I hear, you had quite a profitable operation going with him.”
Bernard tried to maintain his composure, but did as Ike directed. He took a seat across from Ike. “Look, keep your voice down. Okay, I sold him a little jewelry from time to time. So what?”
Ike remembered the conversation with Jack when they were last in New Orleans. Jack had said he would bluff Cross into talking. Ike rose to the occasion. “Two weeks before Halloween last year he gave you a check for $50,000, a cashier’s check from a bank in the Caymans. And it was for introducing him to a man who wanted that attack in Fort Worth. Admit it and I won’t go to the police.”
Bernard slumped his shoulders and sighed. Somehow Ike had figured it out, even down to Crossmore’s check coming from the Caymans. “Okay. Let’s make it fast. Cross started coming in here a couple of years ago, maybe three. Bought all of us beers between sets. I spent a lot of time at his table. I showed him a gold necklace one night and asked if he knew anyone who would buy it. That was the beginning. He bought necklaces, diamond earrings, fancy bracelets, expensive watches, all that kind of shit. I made a few bucks. Suspect he made a lot more, but I did all right.”
“What about the check? And remember NOPD can get a warrant for your bank statements.”
Bernard looked around the room to make sure that there were no customers in earshot. The seats were empty. Most of the band members were packed up and headed out. Only the bartender stayed behind. It looked like he was counting receipts. Bernard lowered his voice to a whisper.
“There was this customer. Didn’t live around here, but did business in New Orleans. Came in maybe three or four times a year. In fact, he usually sat at this very table. Fancy dresser, expensive suits. Wore a Rolex with diamonds all around the dial and a diamond ring. Must have been two or three carats in that diamond. Once in a while he would have some other businessman with him, but usually he came alone. The band loved to see him. He tipped a grand in cash at the end of the evening.”
“What did he look like?”
“Nothing about him to pick him out of a crowd. Medium height, a little overweight, somewhere in his fifties. Kind of a prominent nose. Always pleasant to me and the band.” Bernard searched his mind. “One interesting thing. He was right handed. Most of us that are right handed wear our watch on our left wrist. He had his on his right wrist. Maybe he wanted to show it off more when he shook hands.”
“You never knew his name?”
“He never gave it and always paid cash.”
Ike placed his hands flat on the table and leaned over until he was only inches from Bernard. “And about the fifty thousand.”
“This same guy called me one evening. I learned later that the bartender gave him my cell. He wanted someone to do a contract. He said that he presumed I knew what a contract was. It was worth a half a million to him.” Bernard looked at the ceiling. “Understand, I’ve never been involved in anything like this. I told him so. He just asked if I could put him in touch with anyone.”
Ike saw that he had Bernard on a roll and pushed him. “Keep going.”
“I thought about it. Figured I could make fifty grand or so. Next time Cross came in here I raised the idea with him. He thought about it. Couple of days later he gave me a burner phone number for this guy to call. I called him and put him and Cross in touch. That was the last I was involved.”
“Not quite. You got fifty large delivered to you by Cross.”
Sweat was breaking out on Bernard’s face. “Well, there’s that. Only, I didn’t know any of the details. Honest to God, all I did was arrange a phone call between Cross and this guy. I didn’t even know the contract was done until you guys showed up that night and Cross was kill
ed.”
Ike thought for a minute and had one more question. “You have any cell phone record of the calls with that guy?”
“Naw, man. That was last September, maybe even August. Besides, I never even see that bill. It just gets paid from my checking account every month.”
Ike figured he had gotten all the information he could. It wasn’t much, but he would report it to Jack. He had last parting words for Bernard. “Okay, I’m not going to the NOPD. My friends and I are on the trail of the killer. Here’s my card. You remember anything else, call me. Understood?”
On the way to the airport, Ike called Jack. He explained what he was doing in New Orleans and his conversation with Bernard. He could tell that Jack’s mind was on the trial. When he said that Bernard admitted receiving $50,000 but couldn’t provide any more information, Jack lost interest. “If that’s all he has, I don’t have time to deal with him right now. I’ll mention it to Joe after the trial to see if he wants to do anything.”
69
Back in Fort Worth, Jack rose, dreading the day and expected evidence. Christiansen told him the night before that Walt would be the first witness on Thursday. When Walt learned that his time had come, he declined even a beer, saying with a smile that he would stick with water.Before they went to bed, once again Jack walked Walt through the expected questions and how he could answer them. He explained, as he always did with clients and witnesses, that with a good lawyer on the other side, he would not go unscathed. Christiansen would score a few points, but that always happened. “Look,” he said, “there’s never a day in trial that I don’t get home and mentally kick myself in the butt because I either asked the wrong question or forgot to ask a key question or even asked one question too many that led to some damaging testimony. Walt, it’s not a movie or a damn play. Nothing’s scripted. You do your best, and I’ll deal with it.”
“Easy for you to say,” Walt replied. “The audience is full of reporters. Whatever I say will be all over the country by tomorrow night. Hell, my job could be on the line. I’ve got a wife and family. I’m not trained to do anything else. Still, I’ll give it my best shot. That’s all I can do.”
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