Chasing Justice: A Matt Royal Mystery

by H. Terrell Griffin

  John Dobbyn, who went by the nickname of Jack, was the elected chief prosecutor for the three-county area that made up the Twelfth Judicial Circuit. There were twenty such circuits in Florida and each elected its own state attorney. If a state attorney in a judicial circuit decided for whatever reason that he could not prosecute a case that arose in his circuit, he would notify the governor’s office, and the governor would appoint a state attorney from another circuit to prosecute.

  The same procedure would take place if the circuit judge assigned to the case recused himself and all the other judges in the circuit did the same. The governor would appoint a judge from another circuit to try the case.

  In Abby’s case, the trial would take place in Sarasota County before a Sarasota County jury, but it would be prosecuted by a state attorney from another part of the state, and probably presided over by a judge from another circuit.

  “Where is Abby now?” I asked.

  “She’s in an interview room just down the hall. I’ll take you to her.”

  I followed Harry down a corridor lined with empty holding cells. They would be busy in a couple of hours as the previous day’s arrestees were taken before a judge for their first appearance. Some would be released on bail, and others would return to lockup to await their trials.

  We stopped before a door with a glass partition. I looked inside and saw Abby sitting at a table, her wrists cuffed in front of her. She was a small, pretty woman who seemed younger than her forty years. Her blond hair was in disarray and she wore no makeup. She looked wan and disoriented. She was shaking her head at the man standing over her, his fists balled, his face angry.

  Harry opened the door, and I walked in.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the man asked.

  Abby looked up. “Oh, Matt. I’m so glad to see you.”

  I offered my hand to Wes Lucas and said, “I’m Matt Royal, Mrs. Lester’s lawyer. You must be Agent Lucas.”

  He just looked at my hand until I withdrew it. “You can leave now,” I said.

  “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

  “I just told you. Now leave.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Counselor.”

  I grinned at him and pulled out my cell phone and dialed a number. “Harry,” I said, “would you have the jail supervisor come down here with a couple of his men and remove Lucas? My client wants to exercise her right to counsel, and I can’t very well talk to her with this asshole hanging around.”

  As I returned the phone to my pocket, Lucas moved toward the door. “Don’t think this is over, Counselor. You don’t get away with calling me an asshole.”

  I smiled at him. “We’ll see. Close the door on your way out.”

  He left, slamming the door behind him.

  “He’s a bully,” Abby said. “I’m awfully glad you’re here.”

  “Did you tell him anything?”

  “No. Bill told me to keep my mouth shut until you got here.”

  “Do you know why they arrested you?”

  “For the murder of Nate Bannister.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Are you going to be my lawyer, Matt?”

  “I’ll talk to Bill later today and see about getting you somebody good to represent you.”

  “I want you, Matt.”

  “Abby, I’m retired from all this.”

  “You tried a murder case a few years ago and got an acquittal.”

  She was right. About three years before, I had come out of retirement to represent my friend Logan Hamilton when he was accused of murdering his girlfriend. “That was different,” I said.

  “How?”

  “That was for a friend who’d been wrongly accused.”

  “I’m a friend too, Matt. And I’m innocent. Did you know I have a trust fund? It’s not huge, but I can pay you.”

  “Abby, you know this isn’t about money.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “It’s bad practice to represent friends. Sometimes, the lawyer’s objectivity is colored by that friendship. It makes it easier to miss some piece of evidence that might be crucial. A lawyer can believe in his client’s innocence, but he can’t lose the objectivity that keeps everything in perspective.”

  “You did it your last time out. I watched most of that trial in Bradenton. You can do it again. I trust you, Matt. I trust your instincts and your abilities, and I trust you to bow out if you ever start to doubt my innocence.”

  “Let me talk to Bill,” I said. “He’d have to be on board with this.”

  “If you’re my lawyer, anything I tell you remains confidential, right?”

  “Right. Unless you tell me you’re planning to commit a crime. Anything you tell me about this case is absolutely confidential.”

  “Does that mean that if I tell you something I don’t want Bill to know, that you won’t tell him?”

  Ouch. I think that’s what they call a sticky wicket. “That’s what it means,” I said. “But to be fair, I’m going to have to make sure Bill understands that and agrees to it.”

  “Okay. Come see me when you decide.”

  “I’ll either be back later today, or I’ll send you a lawyer I trust.”

  “Please do this, Matt. I need you.”

  I kissed her on the cheek and left.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Harry Robson was standing in the waiting room as I came out. “I don’t know what you did to Lucas, but you sure pissed him off.”

  “I called you and asked you to bring the jail supervisor and a couple of deputies and kick his ass out of the interview room.”

  “You called me?”

  “Well, I might have dialed the wrong number. I actually got the answering machine at Tiny’s Bar out on Longboat.”

  Harry laughed. “Are you sure you want to get on the wrong side of Lucas?”

  “Ah,” I said, “the better question is, does he want to get on the wrong side of me.”

  “There’s going to be a lot of testosterone flowing around this case. Are you going to represent Abby?”

  “Not sure yet. I need to talk to Bill Lester. See what he thinks. I’m not going to get anything out of Lucas about the probable cause for the arrest. What can you tell me?”

  “Abby’s fingerprints were found in the condo. She was a school teacher, so her prints were in the system. Bannister’s computer had lots of emails from and to Abby. Most were suggestive of an affair. But the worst one came from Abby. It was a threat to kill Bannister. It was dated two days ago.”

  I took a deep breath. What they had was a long way from enough evidence to convict, but it certainly wasn’t good for Abby.

  Harry continued. “There was a wine glass on the bedside table in Bannister’s bedroom that had Abby’s fingerprints on it. The sheets on Bannister’s bed were rather ripe with semen and vaginal fluid. Those are at the crime lab. We should have some DNA evidence back soon.”

  “That’s not good,” I said.

  “No. Are you going to tell Bill?”

  “Not yet. I’ll want to talk to Abby some more before I let Bill know about this.”

  “He’s got friends in our department. Including our chief. He might have his own sources. He’ll probably find out.”

  “I can’t do anything about that, but right now I’ve got a confidential relationship with Abby. I’ll have to see how this plays out. Has the ME determined the time of death?”

  “Doc Hawkins said he was probably killed about ten o’clock on Sunday evening.”

  “Doc’s usually on the money.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Robson asked.

  “See if you can get Abby into some sort of isolation. I don’t think it’d be a good idea to put the chief’s wife in general lockup.”

  “I’m sure I can get that done. I’ll talk to the corrections lieutenant, James Forrest. He’s a good guy.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Good luck, Matt.”

  “Thanks, Harry. And
thanks for being a friend. Watch your back with Lucas.”

  “Don’t worry. I can handle him.”

  * * *

  It was only a little after five when I got back into my Explorer. Too early to call J.D. so I called Bill Lester instead. “You got coffee on?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Just leaving the jail.”

  “It’ll be ready by the time you get here.”

  Bill and Abby lived in a small house on a canal near the south end of Longboat Key. He was waiting at the door with a cup of black coffee in his hand. “Well?”

  “Let’s sit, Bill.”

  “Of course. Sorry.”

  I took a seat on a sofa and he sat in a recliner facing me. “What did you find out?”

  “Not much. She’s accused of killing Nate Bannister and she’s charged with second-degree murder. But you already knew that. Harry Robson says that Doc Hawkins puts the time of death at about ten on Sunday evening. Was Abby here with you?”

  “I wasn’t here. I’d gone to visit my mom in a nursing home. I didn’t get home until almost midnight. Bad timing, huh?”

  “That’s not too big of a problem. If you testified that you were here with Abby at the time of Bannister’s murder, the jury might not put much credence in it anyway. You being the husband and all.”

  “Who’s handling the case?”

  “The FDLE assigned an agent named Wes Lucas. Ever heard of him?”

  “Yeah. Just rumors. But never anything good.”

  “He’s a hardass,” I said. “And a bully. He likes to throw his weight around.” I told him about our encounter in the interview room.

  “You never did take well to threats.”

  I shook my head. “Jack Dobbyn has already recused himself, and I wouldn’t be surprised if all the judges in the Twelfth Circuit did the same thing.”

  “How soon do you think the governor will appoint somebody else?”

  “I’m guessing he’ll do it quickly. He’ll be worried about the publicity, so he’ll want to get everything in place as soon as possible.”

  “What about bail?” Bill asked.

  “I don’t know. Second-degree murder carries a twenty-five year to life sentence, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the new prosecutor takes the case to a grand jury and ups the charge to first-degree murder. The rules make exception to bail in these kinds of cases, but the prosecution has to show that the charge is based on a substantial amount of evidence and a likelihood of prevailing in order for the judge to deny bail.”

  “What was the evidence that led somebody to think Abby killed that bastard?”

  “I can’t discuss that with you right now. I’m sorry, but at least for now, I’m Abby’s lawyer and I’m bound by all kinds of confidentiality rules.”

  Bill nodded and was silent for a moment. “Will you represent her?”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea, Bill? I’ve been out of it for a long time.”

  “You couldn’t tell that when you were representing Logan.”

  “Let me talk it over with J.D.”

  “We’ve got quite a bit of money saved,” he said. “Abby has a small trust fund, and we’ve been living on our salaries and putting that money away. We can pay you.”

  I shook my head. “That would ruin my amateur status. But if I take the case, I’ll have to hire an investigator and maybe an assistant to take care of some of the paperwork. I’d probably be able to get a second-year law student at Stetson to help. They’ll need to be paid.”

  “Whatever you need.”

  “There’s another issue, Bill. If I’m Abby’s lawyer, anything she tells me will be confidential. I won’t be able to share it with you. She can tell you, but if she’s in jail, I don’t want you two talking about anything dealing with the case. You don’t have any right to privacy, and they record those conversations. I’ll only be able to tell you what she allows me to say. Can you live with that?”

  “I guess I’ll have to.”

  “Bill, your friendship means a lot to me, and I don’t want to get into a situation where you’re mad at me for not telling you everything I know.”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “Okay. I’ll be having breakfast with J.D. and then I’ll get back to you. If I decide to take the case, I’ll go downtown and meet with Abby. I’ll talk to you by ten this morning.”

  * * *

  It was nearing six o’clock as I drove north on GMD. The fog had cleared, but it was still dark. Harry’s Corner Store was just opening. I pulled in, bought the morning paper, and drove on home.

  I heard J.D. stirring about in the bedroom and then the shower running. I prepared some eggs for scrambling, put bacon in a frying pan, and started a pot of grits. I filled the coffeemaker with water and coffee and turned it on. Breakfast would be ready by the time she was dressed.

  She came into the kitchen just as I was putting the food on the table. J.D. was beautiful any time of day or night, but the mornings always brought a smile from me. She was dressed in what she called her cop uniform; black slacks, a white polo shirt with the logo of the Longboat Key Police Department embroidered above the breast pocket, and comfortable shoes. Her dark hair just touched her shoulders and she was showing that smile that could bring a grown man to his knees. “I smelled the bacon,” she said. “We sure are domestic this morning.”

  “Nothing’s too good for my sweetie.”

  We sat and ate. “Do you want to talk about this morning?” she asked.

  I went through the whole thing. I told her about the charges, about Harry Robson and Wes Lucas and our confrontation in the interview room. And I told her about the evidence that I knew about. “You know you can’t tell anyone any of this.”

  “I know. How’s Abby holding up?”

  “Actually,” I said, “she’s holding up pretty well. She and Bill want me to represent her.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That I wanted to discuss it with you.”

  “It’s your decision, Matt.”

  “But it could affect you. And us.”

  “How?”

  “If I lose this case, your job could be in jeopardy. Bill Lester wouldn’t be happy with me, and by extension, maybe you. And he probably wouldn’t hold on to his job either. The husband of a convicted murderer isn’t going to be working as a cop. His career will be over. Maybe yours, too.”

  “I’ll take that chance.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Matt, you want to take this on. I can see it, all that energy radiating from you like some physical force. Do you know why you feel like you have to do it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Do you think you still have something to prove? That you’re still a great lawyer, maybe?”

  “No. I’m satisfied with the reputation I built before I got sick of it all. Anyway, that’s not really important anymore.”

  “How is your lack of regard for the legal profession going to play into this case?”

  “I don’t know. I think I can put it aside for this one case.”

  “Think about this, Matt. Why do you want to take this on?”

  I sat quietly, thinking through the whole situation. I had nothing to gain and perhaps a lot to lose by getting back in harness. But nobody should play with the system. Justice creaks along in our society, but it usually does the right thing. And it does it right, because, for the most part, the men and women who work in the system, the judges, lawyers, and cops, are honest people doing honest jobs.

  It’s an adversarial process, but that doesn’t mean it has to be an all-out war. There are rules that have been hammered out through a trial-and-error process that evolved over eight hundred years of Anglo-American jurisprudence. But every now and then, somebody like Agent Wes Lucas comes along, and just out of sheer meanness, or stupidity, or both, skews the system.

  “Matt,” J.D. said again. “Why do you want to take on this case?”

  “Because Wes Lucas really
pissed me off.”

  “That’s a good enough reason. You go kick some butt.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  J.D. was perusing the reports that had come in overnight from the crime scene technicians. They had discovered a lot of fingerprints in the Favereaux mansion, and were checking them against people who had reason to be in the house. It was a process of elimination, an effort to discover the identity of anyone who had no reason to be there.

  Two experts had examined the computer found in James Favereaux’s bedroom, and neither was able to crack the sophisticated encryption code that protected it. J.D. was surprised that a retired businessman would have any need of such security. It didn’t make sense.

  One of the reports was a biographical sketch of James Favereaux. He was sixty-four years old, and a graduate of a high school in New Orleans. He’d served in the army in Vietnam and earned a Bronze Star for valor when he was nineteen. He’d saved the life of his platoon leader, a young lieutenant, whom he dragged wounded out of a firefight.

  When Favereaux got out of the army, he used the GI Bill to study at Louisiana State University, graduating with a degree in business. He’d spent his life as an investor, putting money into one project after another, and making substantial profits on every venture. When he was in his mid-forties, he got married in New Orleans to a woman named Linda Fournier, who was twenty-five years his junior.

  J.D. picked up her phone and called Dr. Bert Hawkins, the medical examiner for the Twelfth Judicial Circuit. “Bert, it’s J.D.”

  “Ah, the loveliest detective on Longboat Key.”

  She laughed. “That’s easy to do when you’re the only detective.”

  “Well, you’re a lot prettier than Martin Sharkey.”

  “So is everybody else.”

  “I guess it’s a good thing he got promoted to deputy chief,” Hawkins said. “You’re calling about Mrs. Favereaux?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the back of her head. There were no other injuries to the body. She died real quick.”