Justice Lost

by Scott Pratt

  On Saturday night, three days before the election, I rented a pontoon boat from the same dock where Claire had rented the boat we took Janie Schofield out on. I paid cash, wore a fake beard, and used a false ID. I took the infrared binoculars, some fishing gear, and a six-pack of beer along with me. I eased the pontoon west until I came to Morris’s estate and dropped the anchor in the middle of the river. It was early November, but the night was warm and clear, around sixty-five degrees with a slight breeze. Orion was directly over the boat.

  There were a few other vessels around me, all fancy bass boats with lots of horsepower, trolling motors so they could get close to the riverbank and move slowly. They were illuminated by neon running lights. They stalked the shorelines in search of fish while I sat in the middle of the river and pointed the infrared binoculars at Morris’s house. They’d cost me more than $500 and were surprisingly powerful.

  The house was within fifty feet of the water, the river wasn’t particularly wide at that point, and I could see the inside of his house clearly. Morris’s wife, Gwyn, was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. I scanned the house, and movement outside caught my attention. I trained the binoculars on the movement and could clearly see Morris sitting at a high table on his patio. He appeared to be texting someone on his phone. On the table in front of him was a water pipe, and when he put the phone down, he picked up the pipe, flicked a lighter, and took a deep pull off the pipe. I didn’t know what he was smoking, but I assumed it was marijuana. I smiled to myself. There he was, the district attorney general, catching a weekend buzz on a fine November night on his luxurious patio. I didn’t see any sign of his kids. Maybe they were out for the evening.

  I watched him for a few minutes and saw him begin to fool with his phone again. Suddenly, country music filled the air. He liked it pretty loud, because I could hear it clearly from where I was floating out in the river. The song that was playing was “’Round Here Buzz” by Eric Church. Perfect, I thought, but I wished I’d bought one of the sets of binoculars I’d seen that had a video camera with audio capabilities. It would have been great to have a video of the district attorney smoking dope on his patio and listening to that particular song by Eric Church.

  A few seconds later, I heard a small dog begin to bark excitedly, and I saw movement to Morris’s left. A figure approached him carrying a handgun with a silencer attached to it. It was so clear through the binoculars, it was like watching a movie, and it played out as though in slow motion. Morris started to rise from the table, but the handgun belched a small amount of fire and smoke about a foot from his face, and Morris went straight over on his back.

  “Oh, shit,” I said quietly. “Oh, shit. Somebody just shot him.”

  I watched the figure who shot Morris in the head run straight toward me. At the same time, I looked back to the kitchen to see whether Morris’s wife had heard or seen anything when another figure in dark clothing and wearing a mask walked up behind her and shot her twice in the back of the head. The second figure turned and disappeared. I trained the binoculars back to where the first person was running and noticed a large bass boat with no running lights sliding along the water from my left. It pulled up beside Morris’s dock just long enough for the person who shot Morris to jump into the boat. That person was followed about five seconds later by another I assumed to be the one who had shot Gwyn Morris. The bass boat’s engine roared to life, and they were gone. There was one other person in the boat, the driver. It had to be a man because I’d never seen a woman that large. I’d also never seen a woman who wore two pearl-handled pistols in holsters tied to her thighs. All three of them were wearing ski masks, and there wasn’t a single thing about the boat I could identify, other than it was fast. It took off with a deep-throated roar and was out of sight in less than a minute.

  I sat there, stunned, not knowing what to do. I’d just witnessed the murder of the district attorney and his wife. I was almost certain the sheriff was driving the boat, both because of his size and because of the pistols, but I couldn’t tell anyone. If I called 9-1-1 and reported it, even from the prepaid cell I was carrying, my voice would be on the tape, and someone would recognize it because I was certainly about to become a suspect. I sat there and looked at the patio for several more seconds. The dog continued to go crazy, and pretty soon a neighbor’s porch light came on and I heard a voice call out.

  I pulled up the anchor and headed back toward the dock where I’d rented the boat. I knew it wouldn’t be long before the place was crawling with cops.

  CHAPTER 28

  I drove home quickly and sat down on the couch. I was trembling and my mind was racing. I knew I’d be at the top of the list of suspects, and I figured the cops would come knocking around 6:00 a.m. I turned on the television and watched it mindlessly for a couple of hours. My phone ringing brought me out of the trance.

  “Have you heard?” It was Claire’s voice.

  “Heard what?”

  “Stephen Morris is dead.”

  I knew it, of course, but I had to act like I didn’t, so I didn’t make a sound. I wanted her to think I was in shock.

  “Darren, are you there?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Did I just hear you say Stephen Morris is dead?”

  “You did. And so is his wife.”

  “His wife?”

  “Yes. Where were you tonight?”

  “Here. I’ve been here going over these organizational charts and working on the acceptance speech you wrote for me. Hold on a second, Claire. Why are you asking me where I’ve been? How did they die?”

  “The best information I have, and it comes from a solid source, is that somebody shot Morris while he was sitting outside his house on the patio. They shot his wife in the kitchen.”

  “So they were murdered, which means I’ll be a suspect.”

  “That would be my guess, yes.”

  “Fantastic. What effect will this have on the election?”

  “Unless they indict you and convict you by Tuesday, I guess you’re the new district attorney general.”

  “I didn’t want it this way.”

  “Neither did I. How will you handle the police when they come?”

  “I’ll be more cordial to them than I’ve been in the past, but I won’t tell them much.”

  “They’re going to be all over this, Darren. It’s embarrassing for them.”

  “Morris lived in the county, didn’t he? He had twenty-five acres out on the Tennessee River.”

  “You’re right,” Claire said. “The city won’t even have jurisdiction. The sheriff’s department will be investigating.”

  “That’s just perfect.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because that’s like the fox investigating who killed the hens. I’d bet my right arm the sheriff had something to do with this.”

  “Why? Why would the sheriff want Morris dead?” Claire said. “It seems to me he’d want to keep him on so they could keep their games running.”

  “You saw the sheriff at the rally. He knew Morris was beaten. Maybe Morris knew it, too. Maybe he threatened the sheriff somehow, or maybe they just wanted to tie off loose ends.”

  “Be careful, Darren. If they’re capable of this, who knows? They might come after you, too.”

  “I can take care of myself. Besides, they can’t just kill everybody who occupies the office. This was a warning to me, though. They want me to know they’re serious. They want me to stay away.”

  “You won’t, will you?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Let me know how it goes with the sheriff or his investigator or whoever he sends,” Claire said.

  “I can’t wait to hear what they have to say. Good night, Claire.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Sheriff Corker banged on the front door of Special Agent in Charge Bradley Kurtz’s home at six on Sunday morning. Corker had just gotten away from Roby and Shaker a couple of hours earlier and had gone straight to the office. It took him a lit
tle time, but he was finally able to get Kurtz’s home address. He drove straight there, looking and feeling haggard and dirty. After several minutes of banging, Kurtz opened the door wearing a black terry-cloth robe.

  “Where the hell were you guys?” Corker demanded. “You let four people die!”

  “You could get shot, beating on my door at this time of the morning. Don’t ever do it again.”

  “Fuck yourself,” Corker said. “I asked you a question. Where were you? Four people died. You were supposed to be there to prevent it.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kurtz said. The look in his eyes told Corker he might very well be telling the truth.

  “Where is Wilcox?” Corker said. “Get him on the phone. I met with him late Tuesday night and told him Roby Penn and another man named Harley Shaker were going to kill Stephen Morris, his wife, Jim Harrison, and Leslie Saban. I told him it was time to start wrapping this case up. He said the FBI would prevent the murders and start indicting people. Did you know anything about any of this?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Kurtz said sharply. “I got a call a few hours ago that Morris and his wife were dead. And what did you say about Wilcox? You told him this was going to happen?”

  “Tuesday. I told him Tuesday night.”

  “This is news to me. And what was that about wrapping up a case?”

  The sheriff’s eyes widened. Could it be possible? No . . . surely not.

  “The case I’ve been feeding Wilcox for years. The RICO case he said he was going to use to send himself right to the top of the FBI’s food chain.”

  Kurtz opened the door and invited Corker in. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll make some coffee. You look like you could use it. Just keep your voice down, okay? My wife went back to bed, and my daughter is sleeping.”

  Corker followed Kurtz through the house to the kitchen.

  “How long have you been meeting with Wilcox?” Kurtz said as he began to brew a pot of coffee.

  “What? You’re the one that assigned him to me.”

  “So you’ve been meeting with him ever since? Where?”

  “At the safe house in Strawberry Plains. We’ve met once a month.”

  “And you’ve provided him with what?”

  “What the hell?” the sheriff said. He felt like his head was about to explode. “What is happening here? He didn’t give you anything?”

  “Calm down and just answer the question. What have you provided to Agent Wilcox?”

  “Anything he wanted. Tapes, mostly, and money. Video and photographs. I can’t tell you how many times I put my life on the line for you guys. I did the same for that DEA guy Wilcox brought in.”

  “DEA? What’s his name?”

  “Higgins. But I haven’t seen him in quite a while. He came in and acted all gung ho, but then he said he had bigger fish to fry and he left.”

  “Hang on a minute,” Wilcox said. He picked up his cell phone and left the room. He returned a few minutes later, scowling.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Kurtz said. “There is no case, and Wilcox is AWOL. He’s in the wind. Nobody has heard from him since Tuesday night. We talked to his wife Wednesday, and she said he went out to meet an informant and didn’t come back. We thought maybe he was dead. And I just talked to the DEA. There is no Higgins around here. Never has been.”

  “I don’t understand. How can there be no case? How is any of this possible?”

  “Wilcox came to me not long after I put the two of you together and said Morris had refused to get into the protection racket. Without the district attorney, we didn’t have an official misconduct case, and we’d promised you immunity. He said he was closing it down, and I didn’t have any reason to believe otherwise. He’s been working bank robberies and counterterrorism. He never mentioned you.”

  “So he just spent an hour with me once a month and collected the money? It was all a ruse? But what about Roby Penn and all the others? What about the lawyer in Nashville?”

  “What lawyer in Nashville?”

  “The one I take money to every month. Same cut as me and Morris. He gives it to somebody down there. I don’t have any idea who it is, but I thought maybe it was the governor. He’s obviously some big shot.”

  “We’ll just have to get into it,” Kurtz said. “Like I said, Wilcox told me he was no longer running a case with you, but that’s obviously changed. He’s gone from a potentially missing agent to a thief and a traitor to the bureau. We’ll deal with him, and we’ll check into this lawyer you’re talking about.”

  “I can’t believe Wilcox took that money,” the sheriff said. “He took all the money I’d given him for these past three years and all the money that was supposed to be my share when Clancy was running things. I wouldn’t spend it, so I wound up just burying it. When I came to you guys, I dug all of it up and gave it too Wilcox, too.”

  “How much did he take, total, assuming he really did this?”

  “Oh, he did it all right, and he let four people die in the process. He had upward of six million.”

  “Shit,” Kurtz said. “He could be anywhere with that kind of money.”

  “But you’ll find him.”

  “I don’t know what will happen. We’ll most likely go after him with everything we have, but the bureau doesn’t like to be embarrassed. We’ll do it quietly. We don’t like the public thinking one of our agents could be capable of something like this.”

  “What about whoever is taking money in Nashville? That’d be your responsibility.”

  “That’s a little above my pay grade,” Kurtz said. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  The sheriff slumped his shoulders and shook his head. “Man, Wilcox sure had me fooled. I’d like to snap his neck like a twig. What do you reckon he did with all that evidence I gave him?”

  “Best guess? It’s all up in smoke. I’ll bet he burned every bit of it out there in back of that safe house.”

  “I guess these murders are on me now,” the sheriff said. “I have to figure out a way to arrest my uncle and the man that was with him without getting myself killed.”

  The sheriff decided not to tell Kurtz he was the driver of the boat, but the thought of arresting Roby terrified him. And Harley wouldn’t come in easy, either. The Shakers and the Penns were cut of the same cloth, and it was rough.

  “I wish we could help you,” Kurtz said, “but it’s out of our jurisdiction.”

  The sheriff knew that was bullshit. Gambling was against federal law, too, as was transporting men and dogs and chickens across state lines for fights and for the purpose of gambling. But when the feds didn’t feel like fooling with something, they always just said, “Sorry, out of our jurisdiction.”

  “You’ll at least handle your end?” the sheriff said. “You’ll tell your superiors at the FBI what Wilcox did and start tracking him down? And you’ll start looking into Nashville?”

  “I will,” Kurtz said. “And I’m sorry for what Wilcox did. It isn’t my fault, but it also isn’t typical of the FBI. I think you know that.”

  “I’m gonna go now,” the sheriff said. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  He got up and walked out of the house. The cup of coffee remained on the counter where Kurtz had set it down. It was still steaming. Corker hadn’t touched it.

  CHAPTER 30

  I didn’t sleep that night. The images of the masked man walking up to Gwyn Morris and shooting her at point-blank range in the back of the head kept running through my head, over and over and over. The images of Morris being shot would follow in a seemingly endless, bloody loop. I was reminded, once again, of how fragile life is and how quickly it can be taken. I felt bad for Morris’s children and wondered whether they even knew. Who would tell them? What would they say to them?

  I got out of bed at 5:00 a.m. and went for a run. My legs were heavy because of the lack of rest, and I struggled the entire way. I got back to my apartment at six, fully expecting the sheriff to
be waiting for me, but there was nobody there and nobody came. As the morning went on, I kept a close eye on the news reports that were updated fairly regularly on the News Sentinel’s website. As it turned out, there had been four other murders in Knoxville that night. Two of them appeared to be gang related, but two others were not. Jim Harrison, Morris’s bagman, was found dead in his car near an old warehouse just south of Knoxville. He’d been shot twice in the head. The other was Leslie Saban, Morris’s girlfriend. She was shot in her apartment sometime during the night. The paper didn’t say anything about the murders being related, and Sheriff Corker and his investigators weren’t saying anything. I knew better, though. Sheriff Corker was definitely tying off loose ends. If Morris was going to be out of office, then Corker was making sure nobody would be going to the FBI or the TBI. Dead men—and women—tell no tales.

  I called Claire at noon.

  “Four of them in one night,” I said. “These people are a lot nastier than I thought. Did you know about the girlfriend?”

  “Of course I knew about the girlfriend.”

  “Why didn’t you use her?”

  “Because the information we had on her wasn’t exactly something you put on a billboard or whisper in a newspaper reporter’s ear unless you’re willing to share definitive proof, and we weren’t willing to share. We had some excellent photos and some very clear video- and audiotape, but they were gathered by people we don’t want anyone to know about. It didn’t matter, though. We were going to beat him by a landslide, anyway.”