The Partner (43 page)

“Sure, except that I’m not going to Parchman.”

“Where do you plan to go?”

“Somewhere. And I’ll get there with a first-class ticket.”

“Not so fast. We have this body.”

“No, Terry. You don’t have a body. You have no
clue who got cremated, and I’m not telling until we cut the deal.”

“The deal being?”

“Drop the charges. Give it up. Both sides pack up and go home.”

“Oh, that’ll look nice. We catch the bank robber, he gives the money back, we drop the charges, and wave good-bye to him. That’ll send the right message to the other four hundred defendants I have under indictment. I’m sure their lawyers will understand. A real shot in the arm for law and order.”

“I don’t care about the other four hundred, and they certainly don’t care about me. This is the criminal process, Terry. It’s every man for himself.”

“But not everybody is on the front page.”

“Oh, I see. You’re worried about the press. When is reelection. Next year?”

“I’m unopposed. I’m not too worried about the press.”

“Of course you are. You’re a public official. It’s your job to be worried about the press, which is precisely the reason why you should dismiss the charges against me. You can’t win. You’re worried about the front page? Imagine your picture there after you lose.”

“The family of the victim does not wish to press charges,” Sandy said. “And the family is willing to go public.” He lifted a piece of paper and waved it. The message was delivered: we have the proof, we have the family, we know who they are and you don’t.

“That’ll look good on the front page,” Patrick said. “The family begging you not to prosecute.”

How much did you pay them, he started to ask, then let it go. It was not relevant. More doodling on the
legal pad. More appraising his sinking options as the tape recorder captured the silence.

With his opponent on the ropes, Patrick moved in for the knockout. “Look, Terry,” he said sincerely. “You can’t prosecute me for murder. That’s gone. You can’t prosecute me for mutilating a corpse, because you don’t know who got mutilated. You have nothing. I know it’s a bitter pill to swallow, but you can’t change the facts. You’ll take some heat, but, hell, that’s part of your job.”

“Gee thanks. Look, I can indict you for mutilating the corpse. We’ll call him John Doe.”

“Why not Jane Doe?” Sandy asked.

“Whatever. And we’ll pull the records of every old codger who died in early February of 1992. We’ll go to the families, see if they’ve talked to you. We might even get a court order, dig up a few graves. We’ll take our time. Meanwhile, you’ll get transferred to the Harrison County Jail, where I’m sure Sheriff Sweeney will see the need to give you a few good cellmates. We’ll oppose bail, and no judge will grant it because of your propensity to flee. Months will go by. Summer will come. The jail has no air conditioning. You’ll lose some more weight. We’ll keep digging, and with a little luck we’ll find the empty grave. And in exactly nine months, two hundred and seventy days after the indictment, we’ll go to trial.”

“How are you going to prove I did it? There are no witnesses, nothing but some circumstantial evidence.”

“It’ll be close. But you miss my point. If I drag my feet getting the indictment, I could add two months to your sentence. That’s almost a year you’ll spend in the
county jail before trial. That’s a long time for a man with plenty of money.”

“I can handle it,” Patrick said, staring into Parrish’s eyes, hoping he didn’t blink first.

“Maybe, but you can’t run the risk of getting convicted.”

“What’s your bottom line?” Sandy asked.

“You gotta look at the big picture,” Parrish said, spreading his hands wide above his head. “You can’t make fools out of us, Patrick. The feds have hit the back door. The state doesn’t have much left. Give us a notch for our belts, something.”

“I’ll give you a conviction. I’ll walk into a courtroom, face the Judge, listen to your routine, and I’ll plead guilty to the felony charge of mutilating the corpse. But I get no jail time. You can explain to the Judge that the family does not want to prosecute. You can recommend a suspended sentence, probation, fines, restitution, credit for time served. You can talk about the torture and what I’ve been through. You can do all that, Parrish, and you’ll look very good. Bottom line is this: no jail.”

Parrish tapped his fingers and analyzed it. “And you’ll reveal the name of the victim?”

“I will, but only after we have a deal.”

“We have authorization from the family to open the casket,” Sandy said, waving another document briefly before returning it to the file.

“I’m in a hurry, Terry. I have places to go.”

“I need to speak with Trussel. He’ll have to approve this, you know.”

“He will,” Patrick said.

“Do we have a deal?” Sandy asked.

“As far as I’m concerned we do,” Parrish said, then turned off the recorder. He gathered his weapons and stuffed them into his briefcase. Patrick winked at Sandy.

“Oh, by the way,” Parrish said as he stood. “I almost forgot. What can you tell us about Pepper Scarboro?”

“I can give you his new name and Social Security number.”

“So he’s still with us?”

“Yes. You can track him down, but you can’t disturb him. He’s done nothing wrong.”

The D.A. left the room without another word.

Her two o’clock appointment was with a senior vice president of DeutscheBank, London branch. He was a German with perfect English, an impeccably tailored navy double-breasted suit, rigid manners, and a fixed smile. He gazed for one split second at her legs, then got down to business. The wire from his bank, Zurich branch, would be for one hundred and thirteen million dollars, sent immediately to the AmericaBank, Washington branch. She had the account numbers and routing instructions. Tea and biscuits were brought in as he excused himself to have a private chat with Zurich.

“No problem, Ms. Pires,” he said, smiling warmly now as he returned and took a biscuit for himself. She certainly hadn’t expected any problems.

His computer hissed with quiet efficiency, and a printout emerged. He handed it to her. After the wire, the balance in DeutscheBank would be one point nine
million dollars and change. She folded it and put it in her purse, a sleek new Chanel.

Another Swiss account had a balance of three million. A Canadian bank on Grand Cayman held six point five million. A money manager in Bermuda was investing over four million for them, and seven point two million was currently parked in Luxembourg, but was about to be moved.

When her business was complete, she left the bank and found her car and driver parked nearby. She would call Sandy, and pass along her next movements.

Benny’s stint as a federal fugitive was brief. His girlfriend spent the night in Frankfurt, then flew to London, landing at Heathrow around noon. Since they knew she was coming, the customs officer double-checked her passport and made her wait. She wore dark sunglasses and her hands shook. It was all captured on video.

At the cab stand, she was unknowingly detained by a policeman who appeared to be in charge of whistling for taxis. He asked her to stand over there, next to those other two ladies, while he worked the traffic. Her driver was a true cabbie, but only seconds earlier had been briefed and given a small radio.

“Athenaeum Hotel on Piccadilly,” she said. He eased away from the terminal in heavy traffic, and nonchalantly gave the destination on the radio.

He took his time. An hour and a half later, he deposited her at the door of the hotel. She waited again at the registration desk. The assistant manager apologized for the delay, but the computer was down.

When word came that the phone in her room was adequately tapped, they gave her a key and a bellman took her away. She tipped him lightly, locked and chained her door, and went straight for the phone.

The first words they heard her say were, “Benny, it’s me. I’m here.”

“Thank God,” said Benny. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just scared.”

“Did anyone follow you?”

“No. I don’t think so. I was very careful.”

“Great. Look, there’s a little coffee bar on Brick Street near Down, two blocks from your hotel. Meet me there in an hour.”

“Okay. I’m scared, Benny.”

“Everything’s fine, dear. I can’t wait to see you.”

Benny wasn’t at the coffee bar when she arrived. She waited for an hour before panicking and running back to her hotel. He didn’t call, and she didn’t sleep.

The next morning, she gathered up the morning papers in the lobby and read them over coffee in the dining room. Deep in the
Daily Mail
she finally found a two-paragraph blip about the capture of an American fugitive, one Benjamin Aricia.

She packed her bags and booked a flight to Sweden.

Forty-one

With Judge Karl Huskey whispering into the ear of his colleague Judge Henry Trussel, it was established that the Lanigan matter should take precedence until it was put to rest. Rumors of a deal were floating throughout the legal community in Biloxi, rumors chased and being chased by even more gossip about the poor Bogan firm. In fact, nothing else was being discussed in the courthouse.

Trussel began the day by calling in T.L. Parrish and Sandy McDermott for a quick update, which eventually lasted for hours. Patrick was brought into the discussion on three occasions by use of Dr. Hayani’s cell phone. The two, patient and doctor, were playing chess in the hospital cafeteria.

“I don’t think he’s cut out for jail,” Trussel mumbled after the second call to Patrick. He was visibly and verbally reluctant to let Patrick off the hook with such ease, but a conviction was a longshot. With a
docket filled with drug dealers and child molesters, he wasn’t about to waste time with a high-profile corpse mutilator. All the evidence was circumstantial, and given Patrick’s current reputation for meticulous planning, Trussel doubted a conviction.

The terms of the plea agreement were hammered out. The paperwork began with a joint motion to reduce the charges against Patrick. Then an agreed order to substitute new charges was prepared, followed by an agreed order accepting the guilty plea. In the course of the first meeting, Trussel spoke by phone to Sheriff Sweeney, Maurice Mast, Joshua Cutter, and Hamilton Jaynes in Washington. He also chatted twice with Karl Huskey, who was next door, just in case.

The two judges, along with Parrish, were subject to voter recall every four years in the general election. Trussel had never had an opponent and considered himself politically immune. Huskey was quitting. Parrish was sensitive, though being a good politician he presented the traditional facade of making the tough decisions without regard for public reaction. The three had been involved in politics for a long time, and each had learned a basic lesson: when contemplating an action which might be unpopular, do it quickly. Get it over with. Hesitation allows the issue to fester. The press grabs it, creates a controversy before the action, and certainly throws gasoline on the fire afterward.

The Clovis issue was simple, once Patrick explained it to everybody. He would submit the name of the victim, along with authorization from the family to dig up the grave, open the casket, look inside. If it was in
fact empty, then the plea agreement would be complete. Since there would always be doubt until they opened the grave, if by some chance the casket was occupied, then the plea agreement would be ripped up and Patrick would still face capital murder charges. Patrick was supremely confident when he talked of the victim, and everyone believed without a doubt that the grave would be empty.

Sandy drove to the hospital, where he found his client in bed, surrounded by nurses as Dr. Hayani cleaned and dressed his burns. It was urgent, Sandy said, and Patrick apologized and asked them to leave. Alone, they walked through each motion and order, read every word aloud, then Patrick signed his approval.

Sandy noticed a cardboard box on the floor next to Patrick’s temporary desk. In it were some of the books he’d loaned his client. The client was already packing.

For Sandy, lunch was a quick sandwich at the hotel suite, eaten while standing and watching over the shoulder as a secretary retyped a document. Both paralegals and a second secretary were back in the office in New Orleans.

The phone rang, and Sandy grabbed it. The caller identified himself as Jack Stephano, from D.C.; maybe Sandy had heard of him. Yes, in fact, he had. Stephano was in the lobby downstairs and would like to talk for a few minutes. Certainly. Trussel had asked the lawyers to return around two.

They sat in the small den and looked at each other across a cluttered coffee table. “I’m here out of curiosity,” Stephano said, and Sandy didn’t believe him.

“Shouldn’t you start with an apology?” Sandy said.

“Yes, you’re right. My men got a little carried away down there, and, well, they shouldn’t have been so rough with your boy.”

“Is that your idea of an apology?”

“I’m sorry. We were wrong.” It lacked sincerity.

“I’ll pass it along to my client. I’m sure it’ll mean a lot to him.”

“Yes, well, moving along here, I, of course, no longer have a dog in this fight. My wife and I are on our way to Florida for a vacation, and I wanted to take this little detour. I’ll just be a minute.”

“Have they caught Aricia?” Sandy asked.

“Yes. Just hours ago. In London.”

“Good.”

“I no longer represent him, and I had nothing to do with all that Platt & Rockland business. I was hired after the money disappeared. My job was to find it. I tried, I got paid, I’ve closed the file.”

“So why this visit?”

“I’m extremely curious about something. We found Lanigan in Brazil only after someone squealed on him. Someone who knew him very well. Two years ago we were contacted by an Atlanta firm called the Pluto Group. They had a client from Europe who knew something about Lanigan, and this client wanted money. We happened to have some at the time, and so a relationship developed. The client would offer us a clue, we would agree to pay a reward, the money changed hands, and the client was always accurate. This person knew an awful lot about Lanigan—his movements, his habits, his aliases. It was all a setup—there was a brain at work. We knew what was coming, and, frankly, we were quite anxious. Finally, they
popped the big one. For a million bucks, the client would tell us where he lived. They produced some very nice photos of Lanigan, one washing his car, a Volkswagen Beetle. We paid the money. We got Lanigan.