“On the day of Operation Rough Romaine, we closed in. We followed the drugs and made arrests. All in all, the operation netted over fifty perps, some for offenses carrying lifetime penalties. A very good job, if I do say so myself.”
“We’d all second that,” Tom said.
“But as you know, we lost Lafayette. Deuce’s CI had gotten himself assigned to take the wheel of one of the trucks so we could nail the retail distributors in Acadiana, but someone tipped off the driver of the rig headed this way. The driver bypassed Lafayette, kept right on going, probably to Alabama.”
“Damn shame,” Tom mumbled.
“Right. We’ve learned to live with less than one hundred percent success, and this operation was more productive than most, but we don’t sit still for retaliation.” Agent Taylor looked over at Deuce. “Our man inside the Lafayette warehouse, Deuce’s informant, turned up with a bullet in his brain.”
Agent Taylor looked at me now. “That’s the body your brother stumbled on, Ms. Aguillard. Tough on the kid, but his observation turned out to be key to cracking the case. Even in shock, your brother paid attention to details. Remember what he said? The man who threatened him didn’t talk like someone from around here. Southern accent. ‘Baw-die,’ I think he put it. Cool kid.”
“Thank you,” I said, swallowing hard to keep tears at bay. What is it about women and tears? We cry when we’re sad, yes, but sometimes when we’re over the top with any emotion—anger, fear, relief, even joy, pride, you name it. My God, I cried when I got the Bar results.
Agent Taylor continued.
“And now for the rest of the story. Deuce was determined to get whoever hit his CI. He persuaded us to work the same system, in reverse. In Operation Rough Romaine, the little guys had given up bigger fish. Now we went looking for a big fish we’d nailed in the operation to give us a smaller one—namely, the Houston trucker who sent produce to the Lafayette area. I studied the list of all those who were arrested over there and came up with a candidate to turn—Ramon Romero, the owner of a trucking firm who’d been passing the lettuce through his shop and on to Acadiana. Son of the founder of the company, silver spoon, inherited his job, lived high, we figured Ramon was accustomed to much more luxurious accommodations than the Harris County Jail. Are you with me?”
“I’m with you,” Tom said. And he was. He took his hand off his own papers and picked up a legal pad. Ever the prosecutor, he perked up at facts indicating the possibility of a connection that might end up on a local DA’s desk. Maybe on his.
“The three of us—Deuce, Agent Menendez, and I—tried to visit Ramon Romero at the jail. He refused to see us. Talk to the cops? No way. And get a bullet in the forehead? Better to gamble on first offender leniency, get a short sentence, and have his life to live. But we didn’t strike out totally with the visit. The jail gave us the name of Ramon Romero’s lawyer.”
Deuce interrupted Agent Taylor. “Tom, could we get Mr. Strait in here? We’re getting to the local angle.”
Tom declined the request. He would hear it first. Mr. Strait’s staff protected his time.
Agent Taylor continued.
“The trip to see the lawyer, that was a kick. A chrome and glass office in a high-rise overlooking downtown Houston. Pony-tail, two pinky rings, eight hundred dollar silk suit, the guy made a good living handling defendants with serious drug charges. He also turned us down. No way he’d ask his client to give State’s evidence, he said. Then Deuce here went to work, carefully laying out a plan that would give us what we needed at minimum risk to the guy’s client. Deuce may be the new kid on the block, but he’s pretty good at making a deal.”
I had the same thought. Deuce was not destined to spend his career like Buddy Aymond, still doing sheriff’s patrol when he was on the verge of retirement. Would Deuce go to the FBI? Would he follow his father’s footsteps to the State Police? I wondered.
“Deuce told the lawyer we needed info about the Lafayette drug scene for a different investigation, one for which Ramon Romero had no legal responsibility. In return for something verifiable that would take us farther down the trail in our case, and wouldn’t require public testimony from his client, we’d put in a good word with our agencies. They’d see about getting Romero some favorable consideration in return. You know, the possible drug sentences today are horrendous. Romero’s lawyer was looking for a deal, but one that wasn’t going to put his client in line for a cartel bullet. Took some time, but eventually the lawyer agreed to set up a meeting. I’ll pass the baton back to you, Deuce. It’s your story.”
“Not really. Romero had no charges in my jurisdiction I could use for chips, but I’ll tell this part. We met with Romero and his lawyer in the lawyers’ consultation room at the Harris County Jail. We made our offer. Bottom line: Romero agreed to tell about the routine he used to send the special pallets of lettuce to the produce distribution centers across the south.”
Deuce and Agent Taylor had Tom’s full attention now. “This is great work, guys.”
“Romero told us he made his delivery arrangements on the telephone, using code words, speaking to people he couldn’t identify, and then didn’t have any further contact. But once, when one of his trucks had an accident just outside Lafayette, he had to make a follow-up call. Romero called the contact and reported the breakdown. The familiar voice told him to contact a number with a 337 prefix to arrange an emergency offload of his cargo. Romero didn’t have a name of the person in 337, but the man he talked to—and here’s the zinger—had a strong southern accent. Texas accent, I asked? Definitely not. North Carolina? Maybe. Somewhere southeast for sure. Yes, he said. Could be Tennessee.”
Reflexively, my hands clapped together. An enormous grin covered the bottom half of Deuce’s face.
Tom pinned down the obvious conclusion. “You’re thinking the 337 area code guy was Alexander’s nephew, Mickey Brown. Right?”
“Right. Mickey Brown had a drug history. He’d been around here. He had the accent. Take over, Raul. Your shop, the DEA, worked the next step.”
“This was Thursday, last Thursday. Seems like a month ago,” Raul said.
I had to pay close attention to understand Menendez. Heavy Latino accent. His tongue pinned his words behind his front teeth before letting them go. Agent Menendez told us the DEA ran background on Mickey Brown, real name Michael, and found a criminal record in Nashville, Tennessee. Brown got on the books as a juvenile and continued to add new charges through last year. He had a bunch of arrests for possession of drugs and petty theft, but only one conviction—three years ago for a misdemeanor simple battery. Nashville PD faxed Menendez the police report for the original charge in what looked like a drug deal. Brown had ended up with only a simple battery conviction after having been arrested for aggravated assault after a knifing. Wow!
“Da guy musta had amigos to get off with a misdemeanor,” Menendez said.
Or important family. The Alexanders have clout around here so they probably had even more back home in Nashville.
Menendez said he made contact with the drug treatment facility in Minnesota—the farm. Mickey had spent the months of last December and January in their program, but he’d been gone since then. Disappeared. Left no forwarding address. The farm wouldn’t tell much about him. Privacy and all that patients’ rights crap, Menendez said. But he was sure they were talking about the same guy. Same date of birth.
Deuce interrupted. “While Raul is talking to the farm, I pick up that one Michael Brown, same DOB, had a job as a night clerk in the warehouse at the Lafayette grocery distributor where my guy, Glen Mitchell, worked. Bingo!”
Deuce leaned back in his chair and again gave us his big smile. “So Tom, do you think we’ve got enough to get a judge to sign a warrant for the arrest of Mickey Brown? We can start with a charge for conspiracy to distribute cocaine. Then, after we do some more work to ferret out the dirty hand of the drug cartel that just saw the demise of one of their lucrative distribution routes, we move on to the
next charge—principal for the murder of Glen Mitchell. I’m damn sure Mickey Brown fingered Mitchell for the hit by the cartel’s assassin.”
Tom stood up. “I know you’re not going to stop until you make that next link, Deuce. Let’s go see Mr. Strait.”
I hung back, and Tom didn’t look for me to join them.
I waited with Bonnie while the men went into Mr. Strait’s office. They came out an hour later. Mr. Strait had approved the facts for an arrest warrant, and Tom, Deuce, Agents Taylor and Menendez left to find a judge. They planned to celebrate over a late lunch. I didn’t get an invitation for that either. I went to my little office, and, I’ll admit it, sulked.
Mid afternoon my phone rang. A call from Mom cut into my funk.
“Mandy, we have a problem.” She had her high squeaky voice again.
“What, Mom? What is it?”
“Taddy—I don’t know where he is.”
“What? Tell me. You went to pick him up at school, right?” Mom had taken the week off to deliver him to school, pick him up at three, and keep him in sight until his head hit the pillow at night.
“I was a few minutes late. When I pulled up to the usual place in the car line, he wasn’t there. The duty teacher couldn’t tell me if he went with anyone else, nor could the principal.”
“Oh, my God, Mom. Hang tight. I’m on my way home.”
I called out to Bonnie as I tore out of the office. “Tell Mr. Strait Taddy’s gone missing.”
I didn’t care to leave word for Tom.
I hope I never have another period of time like the hour that followed. Ever.
Mom had called Dad at the same time she called me. He stood in the doorway when I pulled up in front of the house. The three of us clung to each other. We cried. We prayed. The whole neighborhood soon crawled with cops; Mom had called 911 from school. Memories of the search for PawPaw came tumbling back in all their horror.
And then I heard that voice.
“What on earth is going on here? What on earth is going on? Oh, my goodness me. Everything is topsy-turvy. Yes, topsy-turvy, that’s what everything is.”
My God! Aunt Mazie. She’d pulled up in her little Toyota, wheels on the neutral ground, pointed the wrong way. She rolled down her window and called out to us as the back door of the car popped open and Taddy and Jay tumbled out. The boys stood shell-shocked at our emotional meltdown. Mom went tearing down the walk to grab Taddy.
I screamed at Aunt Mazie. “Where the hell did you find them?”
“What do you mean where did I find them?” Aunt Mazie asked. “What are you saying? Whatever are you saying? At school, of course. I found them at school.”
“You picked up Taddy at school?” I shrieked.
“Of course. I was visiting ‘Thilde, just visiting, you know. Drinking a cup of coffee. I offered to go pick up Jay. Yes, pick up Jay. When I got to the school, Taddy stood there with Jay. You know, right there with Jay. I told them both to get in the car, and we’d go get a sno-cone. Yes, we’d go get a sno-cone. They both love cherry, yes they do. Then I brought Taddy home. What on earth is going on around here? What’s going on? What are the cops doing all over the place?”
I looked at Mom and Taddy and wept. I cried out of utter relief. Then I went to the first cop I could find and sheepishly told him to call off the alarm. Taddy had been found.
I recalled Deuce’s words of advice when we thought a white pick-up truck was following us. In a critical investigation, when the tension is high, you have to watch out for paranoia.
But, by God, the truck we saw that day did turn out to be part of this drama.
I closed my eyes and silently prayed. Please, God. Find that damn Mickey Brown and put him in jail. Maybe then my family will be safe and we can go back to work putting Remmy Richard away for the death of PawPaw. The family can’t take any more of this.
The Lake Road
THE WORDS ON my calendar grabbed my eye. MONDAY - Jury Selection - State v. Richard. I had to talk to Tom. Today was already Thursday. One more workday, then the weekend. Not that I looked forward to pointing out any potholes in the road to the Richard trial. Not to Tom or to my family. Whatever opinion they had about the appropriate penalty for Remmy Richard, every single one of them counted the days until the ordeal of the trial would be history.
I stood before Bonnie’s desk and made my pitch. She shook her head slowly, right to left and back again.
“No. Not a good idea. Tom, Richie and Buddy took the packet of jury questionnaires and closed themselves behind the door at nine o’clock this morning. They gave me clear instructions. Do not disturb!”
So Buddy had reappeared. I never got a chance to ask what that was all about.
I had to respect what Tom was doing. I remember hearing the selection of a prosecution-minded jury is as important to the outcome of a trial as the evidence, especially in a capital case. Some say even more important. Tom, from north Louisiana, was at a disadvantage. He needed input from the locals.
“OK, Bonnie. I’ll wait, but let me know the minute Tom comes out of there, even to go to the bathroom.”
Once again, Bonnie’s kind smile made me accept the situation—but not for long. We’d be taking a monstrous risk to start this trial. What if, after swearing in the first witness, new information from Skipper Domingue or Cousin Dudley triggered the need for further investigation? Stop the trial? Double jeopardy. We might never again be able to try Remmy for the murder of PawPaw.
Mr. Strait had told me to bring him my problems. Did I dare? No. My underlying instruction had been to follow Tom’s direction. And I had another concern about talking to the big boss. What would I say if he brought up his job offer? I hadn’t made up my stupid mind. I cooled my heels until afternoon. At two o’clock, impatience conquered caution.
I walked past Bonnie’s desk, watched her body stiffen with disapproval, and rapped on the door of Tom’s office.
“Yes?” Tom’s voice through the door. Far from an invitation to enter, but I did.
“Tom...”
He looked in my direction but kept a finger of his left hand marking his place in a packet of jury questionnaires. His right hand held a pen. “I’m going to get to you, Mandy.”
Buddy leaned back in his chair, his feet on the desk, big fat feet in black brogans with worn down heels. Both of Richie’s hands held stacks of questionnaires. This wasn’t going to be easy. At that moment, all three of those guys annoyed the hell out of me.
Words caught in my throat, then sputtered out like water broken free from a fire hydrant.
“We’ve got to ask our key witnesses some more questions, and we’re running damn short of time. The detectives could do it, I know, but I don’t have the authority to ask them to. Do you think you could…?”
Tom dropped his pen on the table. His words slowed to a crawl. “We’re going to be seeing every damn witness in the next few days.” The esses hissed.
Richie’s eyes widened as he picked up the chill between us, but he got my point—and agreed. “Maybe we should address the issue now, Tom. I think I mentioned to you my concern that if or when we learn anything that could possibly tie the two crimes—”
“One thing at a time. We finish with the jury first.”
Anger bit my gut. Tom hadn’t given my concern a speck of respect. Nor Richie’s either. If Richie had the thought there could be a connection between the two cases, I could be damn sure Sarah would also. We could look forward to her jumping on Mickey Brown as the mysterious other dude she claimed did the deeds for which Remmy had been charged.
“OK, Tom. I’m so sorry for bothering you.” I spit out the words, and headed out the door.
Tom called out to my back. “If you want to, go talk to Mr. Strait.”
I paused, and answered him without turning around. “Thank you. That’s just what I’ll do.”
Yes, but only after I got my emotions under control. I flew back to my little office, sat down and tried to get air down my throat.
<
br /> Something else popped into my brain. I punched the number on my phone to call Mom.
“Months ago, when PawPaw was still missing, you told Detective D’Aquin you knew something about a difference of opinion PawPaw once had with Jack Alexander. Something to do with Mr. Alexander’s nephew who went fishing with Uncle Bub when they were boys. Can you tell me anything more about that?”
“There was some incident way back when, but I never heard the details. Your dad might know more. Is it important? I could probably reach him through the fire station.”
“Yes, Mom. Very important.”
Almost an hour passed before she called back.
“Took me a while to run down your dad, but he gave me an earful. Way back, when PawPaw had Alexander’s visiting kids over to fish, he caught the nephew doing some really bad stuff to a litter of kittens. I shudder just thinking about it. The boy picked up each kitten, swung him round and round, and then threw him like a shot putt out over the lake. He launched three of ‘em before PawPaw could get down to the lake to put a stop to it.”
I swallowed hard. Cruelty to animals is a standard red flag in any mental evaluation.
“So, what happened about that? How did PawPaw handle it with Mr. Alexander?”
“Your dad says PawPaw stormed over to Jefferson House and told Mr. Alexander he never wanted to have that boy in the yard again. Actually, Mr. Alexander was as upset as PawPaw. That was the last time he ever had the boy at the lake. If you want to know more you could call Dad. He’s still at the station. I have to go pick up Taddy and don’t want to be late. Even though Taddy knows for sure he’s not supposed to leave with anyone, not even family, I don’t take any chances. I’ll talk to you tonight.”
Click. Mom ended the call.
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