A Nation of Mystics_Book II_The Tribe

by Pamela Johnson

  Joe shook hands with Max Jackson, surveying him closely. He’d heard a lot about Max—rock musician manager, branching into recording studios and a record label, even a hot new restaurant on the water. “I talked with a former client of Winsted James, Mr. Jackson. He seems to think he was set up. By a friend. He’s wondering if the friend went on to do other work for the narks as an informant. Not just your usual informant either, but as an intruder.”

  “I’ve spent a lot of sleepless nights waiting to hear that’s what my bust was—an arrest caused by an intruder. You don’t know how many close friends I’ve had to scrutinize since this thing started.”

  “Take a look at these pictures,” Joe said, opening his briefcase. “Have you ever seen this man before?”

  Max looked at the pictures, then quickly cried, “It’s him! I don’t fuckin’ believe it, but it’s him!”

  “Are you sure?” Joe asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure. It’s the same haircut! Same clothes even! Where’d you say you found this?”

  “A guy named Jerry Putnam.”

  “You don’t have to convince me any further. That’s him! But why would this kid want to bust me? What’d I ever do to him to cause him grief?”

  “I don’t think it’s personal with him,” Joe told Max. “He’s being pushed by the BNE. Somehow, you’ve pissed off someone in the Bureau.”

  “One more person’s going to take a look at those pictures,” Lance told Max. “When are you seeing him, Joe?”

  “Late afternoon. After he gets home from work.” “Then what?” Max asked.

  “Then we subpoena this Myles Corbet,” Lance answered. “And he has to testify in court.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “Max, was there any dope laying out when this guy came into your house?”

  “Not that I can remember.”

  “Then he lied to get a search warrant.”

  “How do you prove he lied?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Meanwhile, just serving the guy with a subpoena should start some things in motion. You willing to play? It’ll cost something.”

  “You bet. I’d like to see that guy made inoperable.”

  Leaving the office a few minutes later to make his appointment, Joe began to ponder the possibilities of this new turn in the case. He wondered how many more illegal busts there had been? How many others had gone to jail on someone’s lie? How did a botany student turn nark? And what kind of game were he and Bremer running?

  Just after three o’clock, Joe put the pictures of Myles away and snapped the lock closed on the briefcase.

  “You know any reason this guy would want to have you arrested?” he asked Frank Willis.

  “Jesus, how do I know?” Frank sneered. “I’ve never seen him before or since.”

  “I know you’re angry, but take my word, someone’s taking care of it.”

  “Yeah? Who? Who’s taking care of things?”

  “Your attorney. And me. We’re going to put this guy out of business.”

  “How?”

  “Be patient and watch. I’ll fill you in as we go. Right now, can I use your phone?”

  In a quiet room, Joe dialed Lance’s number. “That’s a big positive on the ID.”

  “Hold on. I’m putting you on speaker. Let my partner hear this.” A click of a button, an echoing sound, then, “Bert,” Lance called, “listen to this.”

  A moment later, Joe heard Bert Parker’s reverberating voice through the receiver. “What happened?”

  “We’ve got our man. Willis identified him.”

  “Looks like the move to California was the right call,” Bert chortled gleefully. “Max Jackson’s going to pay plenty for this defense.”

  “I’m coming back to talk,” Joe told them. “See you in an hour.”

  MYLES CORBET AND SUPERVISOR BREMER

  BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA

  JULY 1968

  “Who the hell knows anything about this subpoena?”

  Myles could clearly hear Dolph Bremer’s shout as soon as he walked into the corridor leading to the satellite office Bremer had set up in Berkeley. But Bremer’s ire was nothing compared with his own inner turmoil. He prayed he could still his trembling legs enough to walk into the room. At the door, he hesitated, listening, peering in from the hallway, desperate for an angle to manipulate the situation.

  “We’re scheduled to go to court tomorrow, and now we’ve got this goddamned subpoena!” Bremer was fuming. “I want Jackson. I want that smug son-of-a-bitch. Hanson, what do you know about this?”

  Lieutenant Ed Hanson, Berkeley Narcotics, stepped over to the desk to take a look at the paper. “I just heard about it.”

  “They’ve subpoenaed Corbet. How’d they get his name?”

  Hanson only looked flabbergasted. “We can’t throw Corbet to them. He’s our best informant!”

  “Where is he, anyway?” Bremer asked. “Get him in here.”

  Myles took his cue and entered, his face pale, his lips quivering. He collapsed onto the nearest chair.

  “You’ve been subpoenaed,” Bremer said bluntly, his eyes glittering with anger.

  “They know who I am!” Myles’s voice was shrill. “They know my face! You promised you could ensure my confidentiality!” He hardly heard his own words. “Who subpoenaed me?”

  “Max Jackson’s attorneys.”

  “Jesus,” Myles swore. “Can they do that?”

  “Yes. If they know who you are. Where did they serve you?”

  “Right outside my fuckin’ house. Thank God no one was home. This tall, wiry-looking guy slapped the subpoena on my arm.”

  “No one’s ever challenged a confidential informant before,” Hanson mumbled.

  “I’m … I’m not going in …,” Myles stammered.

  “You’ll do what you have to do, understand?” Bremer told him coldly.

  “What Dolph’s trying to say,” Hanson explained, casting Bremer a look that said back off, “is that you have to go to court—either into court or to jail for contempt. That doesn’t give you much choice.”

  A sheen of perspiration moistened Myles’s forehead. “I did what you asked because you said you could protect my confidentiality. Now you’re telling me you can’t?”

  “Myles, we aren’t particularly happy that you’ll have to appear either,” Hanson said, “but even if you do, who’s to know? Max Jackson? His attorneys? That makes three people.”

  “Someone else already knows.” Fighting to keep his voice under control, he said pointedly, “Has to know. How else did they find me?”

  “If Corbet testifies, they might find out that we’re sending in anonymous intruders,” Bremer said dryly. “Once the news hits the streets, the effectiveness of that kind of bust will be broken. No one’s going to let a stranger in—not to use the phone or because our agent mentions the name of someone they might know in common.”

  Suddenly, it was all remarkably clear. “Don’t you see?” Myles cried. “They already know. That’s the reason for the subpoena! What do you think the judge will think of your selective arrests?”

  “Where the law’s broken, we have the right to intrude,” Bremer tried.

  “With a police officer, maybe,” Myles refuted. “But not with a private citizen.”

  Poring back over the last weeks and months, Myles thought Bremer must know he’d gone too far. At first, he’d only had Myles point people out. An officer would make a buy. They’d have a solid arrest. Then he’d changed the game, insisted Myles enter private homes on a ruse, then sign an affidavit after spotting contraband in the house. It had been effective because Myles was good, nonthreatening. But it was also illegal.

  “Myles has a point,” Hanson agreed.

  “What about me? Do I have to appear?” Myles asked again.

  “What if we just say Corbet’s car did break down?” Hanson asked. “That as a private citizen he saw it as his duty to make a police report?”

  Myle
s vehemently shook his head. “You’ve got to be kidding. They have to know this wasn’t a one-shot case. They’ve obviously done a thorough investigation.”

  “You have any ideas about how they got your name?” Bremer asked.

  With a sudden stabbing look of realization, Myles knew. For a long moment, he thought he would be sick.

  “One person. Jerry Putnam. Jerry’s the only one who knew.”

  “Jerry Putnam?” Bremer asked.

  “Yeah.” Myles could barely hide his bitterness. “You remember Jerry, don’t you? He was the price you asked for those two joints you found on me in ROTC. You insisted Jerry do time.”

  Hanson intervened. “I don’t think they can prove your car didn’t break down. And there’s nothing Jerry Putnam can prove about that evening either.”

  “I have classes tomorrow. Exams in a few weeks.”

  “Get someone to take notes,” Bremer told him.

  Trapped again, Myles realized sickly.

  “How many more times am I going to have to do this?” he asked.

  Hanson looked thoughtful. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “This is new.” He added as an afterthought, “Lance Bormann’s a good criminal attorney.”

  He’s not just good, Myles wanted to scream. He’s brilliant. To spot me from the incidents of the case … to track me down …

  “Tomorrow,” Bremer ordered. “Ten o’clock. Marin Civic Center.”

  Myles stood up to leave but turned back at the door. “Whatever you have to do, make sure this is the last time I have to appear.”

  Leaving the office, he walked quickly from the building, looking left and right, suddenly paranoid that someone might see him and wonder why he was at the station. There were people out there who knew his secret job. And tomorrow, he would have to stand in front of a courtroom full of people and explain himself.

  Myles had good reason to worry. Of course Bormann would ask him about everything he’d sworn to in the affidavit. Of all the cases! This was the one time he’d lied. He hadn’t seen any marijuana in Jackson’s house but had sworn that he’d seen weed in Jackson’s kitchen. Two errors: First, he’d lied about seeing it, and second, he’d invented too large a quantity. Jackson would remember there’d been no such stash on his kitchen counter, but would he have remembered a supposed roach in an ashtray?

  Bremer had wanted this guy so badly that Myles could see him salivating. He’d counted on this bust ingratiating Bremer to him. But the move had been too soon. Stupid. When the chips were down, Bremer’s voice and expression had taken on the old hostility. Bremer trusted no one. Never would. Cornered, he went for the throat. Myles would remember that.

  At his car, he put his thoughts of Bremer aside for the moment while he fumbled for his key. He knew Bremer now, could deal with him.

  At the moment, it was Lance Bormann who worried him. His was a mind Myles would have to deal with most carefully.

  Lt. Hanson, sitting in the chair near Dolph Bremer’s desk, looked worried when Myles left. “What do you think?” he asked. “Should I get Reilly to drive him over in the morning?”

  “He’ll show. He’s too scared not to.”

  “Why’s he so panicked?”

  Bremer looked away. “He’s probably worried about having his cover blown. I’m beginning to think he likes this line of work.”

  “Let me know if anything comes up,” Hanson said uncertainly. At the door, he turned as if to say something, paused, considered, then left the room.

  Bremer sat back in his chair, a look of surly satisfaction on his face. For a brief second, the question had once again appeared in Hanson’s eyes, the private uncertainty, the personal inquiry as to why Bremer had gotten the job he thought would be his. Field Supervisor.

  Because you just don’t get it, Hanson, Bremer thought with irritation. You just don’t get that the bad guys have to be met with equal subterfuge, a hard line.

  Not only did Hanson lack ruthlessness, but the shrewdness necessary to perceive subtlety. Hanson should have known from Myles’s reaction to the subpoena what was obvious. Both had watched Myles swear to the affidavit.

  But Bremer knew. Just before swearing to the affidavit’s evidence, Myles had hesitated. Only slightly. But enough so that Bremer had understood immediately that the kid was lying. He also knew, as Myles did, that once they got inside, they would find contraband.

  Bremer thought back to the afternoon he’d had lunch at a Chinese restaurant on Shattuck Avenue in Berkeley, almost a year ago. Sipping tea and quietly reading the newspaper, he’d become distracted by girlish laughter. A fifteen- or sixteen-year-old girl was telling her giggling girlfriend about a raucous party at Max Jackson’s house in Sausalito. Bremer’s ears had burned with the picture she was painting—nudity, alcohol, cocaine, marijuana.

  Back at the office, the image of the girl naked with Jackson, a man twice her age, came back to him. He couldn’t clear his mind of the disturbing pictures. Taking his time, he’d researched the man, had him followed, dug up his address, and began to set up his plans. He’d worked on it whenever he had a few extra hours, emotionally involved with the case in a way that was different. Jackson represented something to him—people with the good fortune of money and influence, yet who lacked morality.

  So what if Myles had lied? We’re doing society a favor by putting that bastard away.

  Bremer was often the last to leave the office, and this evening was no exception, especially with a case going to trial the next morning. He switched off the light and pulled on his coat. Outside the main entrance of the police station, the summer fog was so thick that the sky was dark. Beads of moisture filled the air, the mist spraying his clothes. In the damp air, he quickly walked to his car and unlocked the white Ford’s door.

  He’d need a full tank of gas to get to Marin County in the morning. At the service station, he watched the man fill his tank, wipe his windows, and check under the hood. The attendant was bundled against the cold. Outrage began to creep through Bremer’s body again. He not only hated Max Jackson, but he hated all the dealers who believed they could get something for nothing. All those punks who were too good to work, who could sit back and let other people do the real work while they cruised on the efforts of the righteous.

  This guy deserves a tip, Bremer thought. I’ll give him Jackson’s head.

  Once home, he walked into the kitchen carrying a brooding darkness with him. He stopped and stared at the table without seeing it.

  “Hungry?” Sheila Bremer asked. She’d turned down the TV and was already opening the oven door. “I’ve kept dinner warm.”

  “I’ll pass on the food. I want to get to bed early. I have a big day tomorrow.”

  “What’s tomorrow?”

  “The Jackson case. Some new stuff came up. I need to think about it.”

  Something more than just the Jackson case was bothering him. He reached into the pantry for the bottle of bourbon, poured the liquid into a glass, and took a few gulps. The familiar burn flowed into his stomach. His neck muscles began to relax. Better.

  “Is anything wrong, Dolph?” Sheila asked, eyeing the bottle.

  “Look,” he cried, immediately angry and pointing a finger at her. “Don’t start with me. Not tonight.” He grabbed the bottle. “I’m goin’ upstairs to my office. I just need some quiet.”

  Sitting at his familiar desk, he took another mouthful and thought about Hanson. He’d begun to detest Hanson and his college degree. Hanson made him feel outdated, as if everyone were involved in some new game where the rules weren’t very clear.

  A picture of the young girl dancing naked on Jackson’s Persian carpet flashed into mind. He finished off the glass, poured another.

  I’m losing ground, he acknowledged. What we pull into the office is only a drop in the bucket. Ten years ago, I believed I could wipe out marijuana use. And now … there’s a whole new shit list of drugs. Tomorrow’s important. If things go well and Jackson’s put away, I’ll start going
after other Jacksons. Maybe even people like Bormann. Yeah. Why not Bormann?

  Biting at his thumbnail, he considered what it might mean if Corbet refused to lie under oath. Anything was possible with that kid.

  Corbet, you punk bastard, you’d better show tomorrow, he thought, uneasily. And you’d better lie well.

  “Jesus!” he whispered between clenched teeth.

  But Corbet wouldn’t refuse. He’d go to jail if he told the truth about the affidavit.

  No, Bremer finally concluded, reaching for his glass, he’ll do what he has to do to protect his precious name.

  Across town that evening, just as Bremer was convinced that Myles would testify in his favor, Myles Corbet suddenly sat up in bed and came to a different conclusion.

  Of course! It’s so simple! I’m the one who’ll control the outcome of tomorrow’s trial! I’ve got Bremer right where I want him, where his fate depends on my whim. I have to testify, and I have to lie. But which lie to tell? It must be something that releases me from this bondage. I’ve got to get out of this and back to my career. I’ve got graduate school to consider—eventually, a professorship.

  Unable to sleep, he switched on the night table light, and looked at the clock. 12:30.

  This whole thing’s Bremer’s fault, he thought indignantly. If he hadn’t wanted Jackson so badly, none of this would have happened.

  Carefully, he thought through his plan.

  I’ll simply testify that Bremer asked me to lie to acquire the search warrant. I argued with him, but he threatened me. There were no other witnesses—only him and me. It’ll be his word against mine, and the judge won’t be able to ascertain the truth. Each of us will be tarnished, yet unharmed. How could they punish me for following a police officer’s order? But the narks will never trust me again. My role will be finished.

  LANCE BORMANN, MILES CORBET, AND SUPERVISOR BREMER

  MARIN COUNTY COURTHOUSE, CALIFORNIA

  JULY 1968

  The Marin Civic Center, a sprawling Frank Lloyd Wright complex of domes and arches in hues of pink, blue, and gold, was almost invisible in the thick fog. Lt. Hanson took off his hat and shook out his jacket, placing it over the chair at the prosecutor’s table.