Shake the Trees (20 page)

“We’re not going to sue.  That money is meant for other things.”

“What other things?  Nothing is more important than the ranch!”  Sandi exclaimed.

Now it was Rodger’s turn to stop and put his hands on his hips.  “Look, I’m not worried about the boys.  They’re financially secure.  But Dustin and any other children you may have deserve the opportunity to be and do whatever they want to be or do in this big old world.  That money is for their education. For college.  The ranch has been marginally profitable for a long time.  It’s not a wise investment.  I worked for it, and I earned it.  And I choose to invest that money in my grandchildren’s future.  Not the ranch.  We’re not going to sue.”

Rodger continued to stride toward the truck, and Sandi followed with her head hung low and tears in her eyes.  As they we’re turning out of the parking lot, Sandi finally pulled herself together and spoke again.  “Did you know Bartholomew Citron was gay?”

“Of course.  Everybody in New Mexico knows that.  He was out of the closet before you were out of diapers.”

“I didn’t know.”

Rodger shook his head.  “You really need to get out more.”

CHAPTER 29

After the call from Governor Lord about the arrest, Tillis had brewed a pot of coffee and caught the next go round of the news cycle.  He’d shaken his head as he watched the two FBI clones shove a zombie-like Sam Norden into a government issue sedan, and then ambled into the kitchen to peer into a refrigerator he already knew was empty.  Since no food had magically appeared, he grabbed his laptop and found a comfortable spot in a big recliner.  It was positioned in a corner near the floor to ceiling living room windows, and provided a panoramic view of the scurrying sprawl of Orlando. 

After accessing the secure FDLE website, he reviewed the diagnostics and forensics on the American Senior Security computer system.  As he’d suspected, the slate had been wiped clean by a skilled and professional hand.  Scrolling to a different menu, he brought up the preliminary report of the forensics team investigating Dr. Bob’s death.  Again, there was very little to be gleaned that he didn’t already know.  And then his BlackBerry vibrated, and showed an incoming call from Sally.

“Go.”  Tillis barked.

“I’ve screwed up, Tillis.  I really screwed up this time.”

“Don’t worry about it, Sally.  Just remember that the feds are politically driven.  Talk to me first in the future.  I feel sorry for Norden, though.  The guy looked like he didn’t know what planet he was on.”

“What are you talking about?  Did you arrest Sam Norden?”  Sally asked.

“No.  The feds did.”  Tillis responded slowly and deliberately.

“I thought you were going to arrest him.”  Sally spoke with a hint of confusion in her voice.

“I changed my mind.”  Tillis mumbled.

“Why did the feds arrest him?  Oh, shit.  You mean my call to Homeland Security on the Cayman thing got the feds involved?  Damn.  I’m sorry, Tillis.”

“Why did you call me, Sally?”  Tillis inquired with obvious interest.

“Uh.  This may not be a good time.  I’ll call back later.”

“Sally, what’s going on?”  Tillis demanded.

Sally explained what had happened at the coffee shop that morning, and then cringed as she waited for the fireworks to begin.

“You didn’t screw up, Sally.  You had good instincts.  Very few do.  More importantly, you had the balls to follow your instincts.  Even fewer do.  All we had was a hunch before. Now we know we’re on the right track.”

“We may know more than that.”

“What do you mean?”  Tillis asked.

“I have the bill the blue-eyed girl paid with.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, but you should know that currency is a very unreliable source of prints.  First of all, currency isn’t paper.  It’s a fiber.  More like cloth than paper.  It’s a very difficult surface to work with.  Secondly, there may be dozens of partials on one bill.”  Tillis lectured without enthusiasm.

“Our girl’s fingers were covered with coffee when she handed the bill to the clerk.  And the clerk segregated it.”  Sally responded confidently.

“She stained the bill?” 

“She stained the bill.”

“Damn.”  Tillis marveled.

“Even a blind hog finds an acorn once and a while.”  Sally responded.

“Are you mocking me?”

“Wouldn’t think of it.”  Sally answered jauntily.

“Get that acorn over to the field office.  Call me as soon as you know something.”  Tillis ordered.

“En route as we speak, El Jeffe.”

“Oh, Sally, there is one thing I want you to do differently next time.”

“Uh-oh.  What’s that?”

“Run faster.”  Tillis answered and immediately ended the call. 

The death of Dr. Bob and the events of the morning had left Elizabeth without options.  She walked across the room and began to pick the larger pieces of glass off of the living room floor.  Eventually delay gave way to inevitability, and she reluctantly revealed her scheme.  And began to plead with James.

“Don’t you understand, James?  I did this for you.  For us.  For our future together.”

He studied the searching blue eyes that betrayed vulnerability.  After Elizabeth came to work for him, James had found her psychological state fascinating.  She was like a horrible car accident alongside the road from which he was unable to avert his eyes.  He’d recognized the symptoms of undiagnosed schizophrenia nearly from the start.

“There is no future.  There is no us.  You’ve ruined all of that.  Damn it, Elizabeth.  You’ve destroyed everything.  Everything that’s important to me.”

“Why, James?  We can figure this out.  I haven’t given up.  We can figure this out together.  I’m sure of it.”

“Figure what out?  The money?  Are you still talking about the money?”  James spat out the words with disgust.

“Yes.  The money.  We can still make a life together.  A wonderful life together.”

“I have a life.  At least I had a life.  A well-regarded reputation in the community.  A respected profession.  Something that took me nearly forty years to build.  And you’ve destroyed it.  Destroyed it all.  How could you have been so reckless?  What were you thinking, Elizabeth?  God damn it!  What were you thinking?” James was nearly screaming with fury now.

“But we can have something more.  Something better.  Whatever we want.  Wherever we want.  We’ll buy a boat.  And sail around the world.  Just you and me.  Together forever.  It will be perfect.  Don’t you see?”

“With the money?  Money you’ve stolen from the elderly?  From the defenseless?  From the most vulnerable of society?  For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you?  You make me sick.  Sick to my stomach.  I can’t even look at you.”  James averted his gaze, yet continued to wear a mask of perfect scorn.

Elizabeth began to cry.  “I’m sorry, James.  I’m so sorry.  I just wanted to make you happy.  I wanted you to have everything you deserve.”

“Your greed is revolting.  Your disgusting greed led to the death of someone I love.  Of someone I considered family.  Do you realize how important family is?  Do you, Elizabeth?  And you’re the one who’s responsible.  It’s your fault, Elizabeth.  You killed him.  Maybe not by your own hand, but you killed him just the same.”  James hurled the words at Elizabeth with stinging condemnation. 

James continued to scold Elizabeth ruthlessly.  Without compassion.  Every time she tried to explain or apologize, James responded with scathing and pitiless disgust.  Finally, Elizabeth began crying hysterically and was soon unable to catch her breath, but James offered nothing and the hysteria continued. 

“It’s your fault, Elizabeth.  You’re responsible.  He died because of you.  There won’t be any boat.  No cruise around the world.  Nothing.  It’s your fault.  It’s all your fault.  He’s dead, and he’s not coming back ever again.  Because of you, Elizabeth.  All because of you.”  James continued with an unrelenting verbal attack.

The words bored into her brain and bounced around her head, and the image of a body bag clawed its way into her consciousness.  And then a pool of blood on the floor of his office.  The same old questions reverberated through her mind.  Why didn’t he stay?  Why wasn’t she enough to make him want to stay?  It was the money.  It was always the money.  The money was more important.  More important than his own daughter.  She hadn’t been enough, and because she wasn’t enough he died.  He killed himself.  He bored a hole through his brain with a .32 caliber pearl-handled pocket revolver.   

Then with an eerie suddenness she regained her composure.  And began to speak in an innocent and childlike voice.

“I’m sorry.  Please don’t leave me again.  Please.”

“I’m disappointed in you, Elizabeth.  It may be time.  Time to leave.  Time to leave you forever.” James answered harshly.

“Nooo.  Nooo.”  Elizabeth whimpered.

“Do you love me, Elizabeth?”

“I love you.  I love you more than anything in the world.”  She answered hopefully.

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t argue with me.”

“I’m not.  I won’t.  I’m sorry.  I promise I won’t.”  Elizabeth pleaded.

“If you want me to stay, you must listen to me.  Are you going to do what I tell you to, Elizabeth?”

“Yes.  I’ll listen.  I will.  I promise.”  Elizabeth whimpered as she curled into a ball, emitting a pitiful child-like sound before offering a tortured prayer.  “Please don’t leave me.  Please don’t leave me again.  I love you.  I need you.  I’ll be enough.  I promise. I’ll be enough this time.”

James insisted that Elizabeth take a strong sedative, and then guided her to the bedroom.  She listlessly did as she was told, and fell into a fitful sleep. James peeled off the sweaty clothes he was wearing, and put on a pair of running shorts and a t-shirt.  After stretching, he briefly watched Elizabeth toss and turn before quickly pivoting away from her.

Dr. Bob had predicted that Elizabeth would eventually devolve into the dissociative fugue state he’d just observed.  James shook his head.  Dr. Bob was both genius and naiveté, and didn’t deserve to die.  He’d been concerned for Elizabeth’s mental health.  James told himself that he couldn’t afford such noble intentions.  Not this time.  Elizabeth had been helpful, more than she even knew, but she was unstable and posed a risk to everything he had worked for.

”Wet or dry heat process?”  The fingerprint tech at the Miami-Dade FDLE lab asked Sally.

“Uh.  Which one’s better?”

“Toss-up.  Depends on whether you’re an old-fashioned kinda girl.  Or not.”

“Talk to me, science boy.”  Sally smiled.

“Okay.  But remember, you asked.  Wet process.  Immerse in Ninhydrin to react with amino acids.  Dry and set for 24 hours.  Process with live steam to darken.  Immerse in Maleic Acid and then Physical Developer to react with lipid fats and waxes.  Rinse and dry.  Immerse in 20% bleach and dry again.  Photograph the prints.  They can’t be lifted.”

“How long does that take?”

“Minimum 48 hours.”

“Holy shit.”  Sally grimaced.

“I guess that’s why it’s called old-fashioned.”

“What about the other one?”

“Dry heat.  Also called laser processed.  Immerse in DFO and . . .”

“DFO?”  Sally questioned.

The tech sighed.  “Diazafluoren.  Immerse in DFO and apply dry heat.  Immerse in Physical Developer and dry.  Place under a laser and photograph.  Again, the prints can’t be lifted.”

“How long?”

“Maybe by the end of the day. If somebody bumps it to the front of the line.”

“Not a problem.”

“As I said, you need a laser for the dry heat process.”

“We don’t have a laser?”  Sally looked perplexed.

“We do have a laser,” the tech announced proudly.  “After lots of bitching by moi.  Just got it.  It’s really cool.”

“Have you ever processed for Tillis before?”

The tech gave Sally an odd look.  “Uh, yeah.  Definitely an old-fashioned kinda guy.”

Sally chewed her lower lip for a moment.  “Let’s try the laser.”

“Cool.”  The tech made a note on a form.

“Are the photos digital?”  Sally asked.

“We can do both, but I’m thinking you want digital.”

“Right,” Sally nodded confidently.  “Upload and e-mail them to me at the Orlando office as soon as they’re ready.  I’ll have somebody waiting to run the databases.”

“About that front of the line thing?”

“Oh yeah.  Hold on and I’ll get Tillis on my cell.  You need him to talk to your supervisor?”

“You’re his partner?”  The fingerprint tech asked with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah.  What’s the problem?”

“No problem for me.  Don’t worry about the call.  We’re cool.”

CHAPTER 30

“What’s up, Sally?”  Tillis answered his cell with a disappointed tone in his voice.

“Why so glad to hear from me?”

“I’m sorry.  I was hoping to hear from The Lakes.  You know.  The rehab place.”

“Oh.  Right.  Well, I just wanted to let you know that we may get the prints back from the lab by the end of the day.”  Sally offered cheerfully.

“So soon?”  Tillis sounded surprised.

“Yeah.  They’re using a new laser process.  Sounds pretty cool.”

“I hope they don’t fry our evidence.”  Tillis responded suspiciously.

“I don’t think so, Tillis.”  Sally was shaking her head as she spoke.

“Let me know how they look.”

“Sure.  Why do you think somebody will try to contact Marc Mason at The Lakes anyway?”  Sally asked.

“If Dr. Bob’s death was a double-cross, somebody missed a big payday.”

“And they would try and contact Marc Mason because?”

“Because a cut dog barks, Sally.”

“Is that one of those coon hunting metaphors again?’

“A coon can be a vicious animal when cornered; whoever killed Dr. Bob was vicious as well.  Dr. Bob suffered physically, but somebody else is hurting financially.”

“Gotcha.  That somebody is the cut dog.”

“Bingo,” Tillis replied. “Generations of Southern wisdom has been boiled down to coon hunting metaphors.  You could learn a lot by paying attention to some of those sayings.  I’m serious.  Hold on.  Shit.  It’s Chuck.  Gotta go.”

“Okay, but just remember. A treed coon only sees its reflection in the light of the full moon.”  Sally hit the end button on her cell phone and laughed out loud.  “That ought to mess with his head for the rest of the day.”

Tillis held a confused look on his face as he punched up the Governor.

“Not you again,” Tillis began the conversation.

“The Warden called the U.S. Attorney who called the Assistant Director who called Ron who called me.  Basic gossip tree.”  The Governor offered airily and entirely unperturbed.

“Huh?”

“Looks like an old friend of yours is going to visit to the federal detention facility outside Tampa late this afternoon.”

“An old friend?”  Tillis asked.

“The Mouth.” 

“Jefferson Davis Brown is representing Sam Norden?”  Tillis asked the question with a trace of wonderment in his voice.

“Could be.  Thought you’d want to know.” Lord answered with a chuckle.

Tillis paused for a moment before responding.  “I’ve always said that I wouldn’t wish The Mouth on my worst enemy.  But I think an exception may be in order in the case of U.S. Attorney Franklin Pierson.”

Sam sat alone in a cell designed for two.  For that he felt lucky.  He wore pink scrubs and dangled pink rubber clogs off the end of his toes.  The theory was that even tough guys found it more difficult to violently act out when dressed in pink.  Sam just felt vulnerable.

Then a young and burly black guard appeared at his cell door.  “Hey.  Sweet Thang.  You awake?”

Sam looked up.  “Yes, sir.”

“Then get your ass up.”  The guard ordered good-naturedly.

“Okay.”  Sam answered agreeably.

“And put those shoes on.”  The guard barked - his tone becoming sterner.

“Sorry.”  Sam scrambled to put the pink clogs back on his feet.

The guard looked at Sam with a small dose of compassion.  “Listen.  I’m supposed to take care of you.  You keep those shoes on.  Even in the showers.  Especially in the showers - they have all those little round holes in them for a reason.  Some of the fungal shit goin’ ‘round here will rot your toes off.  Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now get on over here and put your wrists together.  Stick ‘em through the bars.”  The guard’s tone was almost affable now.

Sam did as he was told and the guard applied a pair of flex-cuffs and unlocked the cell door.

“You goin’ to see your lawyer, Sweet Thang.”

“My lawyer?”  Sam’s asked with a mix of concern and surprise.

“Didn’t know you had one, huh?”

“No, sir.”

The guard smiled.  “Well, you sure as hell got you one, Sweet Thang.  The fricking Muhammad Ali of god-damned lawyers.  Floats like a butterfly.  Stings like a bee.  You sure got some pull there, Sweet Thang.”

Sam looked confused.  “Is he famous?”

The guard chuckled.  “Yeah.  I’d say the Mouth of the South is famous.”

Sam stopped in his tracks and his jaw dropped.  “Jefferson Davis Brown is my lawyer?”

The guard laughed again.  “Looks like it.  I watched a thing about him on TV.  They say he plays that Warren Zevon song over and over again before each trial.  You know the one.  ‘Lawyers, guns, and money.’  Good song, but that Warren Zevon was one messed up weird white boy.”

“Jefferson Davis Brown?”  Sam asked again.

The guard smiled once more.  “Come on, Sweet Thang.  Let’s go meet your lawyer.”

Sam was taken to a small room which contained a metal table bolted to the floor and two plastic chairs.  The room was painted a soothing sea foam green.  The entire front wall was glass in which embedded wire formed a checkerboard pattern.  Several other identical rooms with identical furnishings lined both sides of the broad hall, which the glass walls faced.  Everything was subject to the harsh glare of the open fluorescent lighting that hung from the ceiling above.

The guard invited Sam to sit in one of the plastic chairs with an exaggerated arm gesture.  As Sam took a seat, he could hear the footsteps of hard-soled shoes.  Although Sam didn’t know it, hard-soled shoes meant lawyer to the denizens of a federal detention facility.  Soon a new guard appeared with Jefferson Davis Brown in tow.  The new guard handed the lawyer off, and then returned to a chair and a magazine at the end of the hall.

Jefferson Davis Brown had adopted the dress and attire of the 1920s and 1930s early on in his career.  He figured that if that cowboy lawyer could wear a fringed leather vest and a ten-gallon cowboy hat to court, then he could do his thing too.  And it worked.  Even if they didn’t recognize his face, everybody knew when Jefferson Davis Brown was in the building.

The Mouth ignored Sam as he entered the room, and turned to the guard.  While wearing a huge smile, he grasped the guard’s hand with both of his own and began to shake it vigorously. 

“Jefferson Davis Brown.  Glad to make your acquaintance; uh, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Reggie.”

“Right.  Reggie.  Damn glad to meet you, Reggie.”  The Mouth withdrew his hand, but left five crisp and carefully folded $100 bills in the guard’s now closed palm.

“Likewise,” the guard replied.

“Reggie, as you may have noticed, my client is a fricking babe in the woods here.  I hope to have him on the street before the end of the week, and I would hate for him to get his cherry popped between now and then.”

“I’ll keep an eye out, Mr. Brown.”  Reggie promised.

“Thank you, Reggie.  Thank you so very much.  I’ll look forward to shaking your hand again when I come back for my boy here.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Brown.”  The guard smiled broadly, guessing about the number and denomination of the bills clutched in his hand, and then doubling that amount.

“Oh, Reggie, can you clip those flex-cuffs please.  I’m not exactly in fear for my health, welfare and safety here.”  Now it was The Mouth’s turn to grin from ear to ear before laughing too loudly.

The guard chortled and pulled a plastic device off of his belt, cutting the flex-cuffs free from Sam’s wrists.  “You buzz when you’re ready, Mr. Brown, and I’ll come back for Sweet Thang here personally.”

The Mouth gave the guard a good-natured pat on the back.  “Thank you, Reggie, I surely do appreciate it.”  The guard locked the inmate and the lawyer together in the small room and walked away.  The Mouth remained silent with his head cocked to the side, listening to Reggie’s rubber-soled black shoes squeak against the highly waxed squares of linoleum tiles as he made his way down the hallway.

After a moment Reggie began to whistle and The Mouth turned to Sam.  “You stay on the right side of that boy.  If you value your ass virginity.  You with me, Sam?”

Sam couldn’t seem to speak, but did produce a nod of the head.

“Okay, then.  How much money do you have?  And I don’t mean how much are you worth.  I mean how much ready cash do you have and where is it?”

“Huh?”

“Look, Sam, you can’t afford me.  Okay?  So let’s not play any games here.  I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.  You may not know it, but it’s true.  Now the feds are going to freeze your accounts if they haven’t already, so I’m going to need your cash as soon as possible.  Then we’ll talk about liquidating other assets.  And, of course, I‘ll have you sign over any book or movie rights.  Probably a waste of paper and ink, but you never know.”

“Who hired you?”  Sam asked tentatively.

“Maybe you if you answer my god-damned questions.”  The Mouth snapped.

“I mean who sent you?”

“Your fiancée.”  The Mouth looked down at his notes.  “Sandi Rimes Johnson.  She got my friend Bartholomew Citron to talk me into coming down here, but I’m starting to have second thoughts.”

“She called me her fiancée?”

“Yeah, yeah.  She called you her fiancée.”  The Mouth tapped his pen on the metal table. “The money, Sam.”

For the first time that day, Sam felt like there might be something worth living for.  “I’ve have $176,000 in my money market at the Bank of San Luis.  I’ve been sending all of my paychecks there.”

“That’s a start.  And it’s out of state.  Probably hasn’t been frozen yet.  We need to get a power of attorney signed so we can make the transfer.”

“Sandi already has one.  She’s handling my business back there.”

The Mouth handed Sam his cell phone.  “Call her and tell her to make the transfer immediately.  It’s two hours earlier there, so it shouldn’t be a problem.  Then we’ll talk about your case.  And about getting your virgin ass out of here.”

James ran and walked along the beach.  For what seemed like hours.  He needed time to think.  It was nearly dark when he returned to the condo.  Elizabeth was still in the same fitful sleep as when he left her.  The paperwork he’d been reviewing when Elizabeth made her angry entrance still lay spread across the dining room table.  Stanley Rosen, his divorce attorney, had it couriered to his office the prior afternoon.  He began to gather it up.  He would sign the final documents at Rosen’s office in the morning. 

Lorna had finally agreed to only two years of alimony.  In two years he would have served as a federal magistrate for 30 years, and would qualify for full pension benefits from the Judicial Retirement System.  He’d agreed to an Order to Divide Benefit, and Lorna would receive 50% of the pension payout.  She also got the house.  Everything else was split evenly.  James stuffed the paperwork into his briefcase.  It wasn’t a great deal, but it didn’t matter.  He didn’t care.  He was free.

James had regained control of his personal life.  Now he needed to regain control of his emotions.  The death of Dr. Bob had been a horrible shock.  Bobby was like a son to him.  Like the son he never had.  He admired him. He admired his genius and the way he had pulled himself up by his own bootstraps.  And now he was dead.  James felt a sadness and a tiredness deep inside.  Nothing would be the same without Bobby.  

Things had gone so horribly wrong.  James was baffled.  It couldn’t have been Elizabeth.  She was emotionally and mentally incapable of any act that she considered to be in his disinterest.  And she knew how he felt about Dr. Bob.  No, it wasn’t Elizabeth.  Elizabeth had been a gift.  A gift that had appeared at just the right moment.  A gift that had been well used.

It wasn’t Elizabeth.  And if it wasn’t Elizabeth, there was only one other person left.  That left Marc.  It had to be Marc.  James shook his head at his mistake.  He didn’t think Marc had it in him.  He never would have thought Marc, of all people, could have pulled it off.

James stepped out on the condo balcony and admired the night ocean.  The sun had set and the water was barely sparkling here and there as it reflected the light from a shrouded moon.  As he stood there, his mind went to a strange place.  He recalled the 1994 Florida race for governor.  Particularly, the last debate between candidates Jeb Bush and Walkin’ Lawton Chiles. 

Chiles had been a U. S. Senator for multiple terms.  The Democrat had never been conventional.  He’d won his first term in the Senate by literally walking across the state, thus earning his moniker and endearing himself to the populace.  He’d decided to end his political career as Governor of his beloved state.  But he was behind in the polls and the election was upon him.

Near the end of the debate, Walkin’ Lawton turned to his opponent and spoke in a slow drawl.  “The old he-coon walks just before the light of day.”  Jeb! - as his campaign signs had renamed him - seemed both confused and bemused.  But the conservative voters of rural Florida, who had been trending Republican, understood the classic Cracker line perfectly.  And so did James.