Grisham goes deeper into the Southern law, courts, prisons, and murky landscape of lives and workings of criminals, small and not so small. The protagonist is a lawyer who takes cases not taken by other lawyers due to their notoriety, and fights for justice in cases where scapegoats have been found all too easily without efforts on part of law and order authorities to find the real culprits.
But it isn't all about rosy cavalier stories, it involves much of the real murky depths in every sense of the phrase. There are those that took to crime because it attracted them, and they are into it quite openly, but finally caught only because they got too arrogant - like Link who stands to lose everything around middle age when he ought to know better than to kill a judge for a ruling that went against him. His waiting for execution and how it ends so unexpectedly is a very surprising story, in itself and as part of the Grisham repertoire, both. As is the story of Tadeo, the young fighter who went into a rage and wouldn't admit he was wrong.
Come to think of it, so is the story of the young woman, daughter of the policeman, kidnapped, and the man arrested several months after she went missing. This one takes so many turns, every one unexpected, and is far too close to reality to not frighten and revolt at the same time, in how the criminals mostly escape, but is reassuring in that many girls are saved.
Of course, the endearing parts are about the personal life of the protagonist, his family such as it is, and his attempts to keep on at being a good father, albeit the author makes a successful job of not turning the reader against the strident lawyer divorced from the protagonist who attempts to stop him from seeing his son. Unless one is a total misogynist, that is.
All in all, satisfactory for Grisham fans without his earlier exhilarating finales where good one, although good wins here too, more often than not. When the protagonist drives off, promising perhaps never to return this time, one just knows he isn't giving up on his son, or the poor clients who need him, for that matter.
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April 21, 2016.
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This book is Grisham's foray into rough unsavoury world of not just criminals but characters whom normal muddle class prefers to stay away from, who might nevertheless not be criminal, even though they seem mist convenient to pin a crime on when it's not easy to find the real culprit.
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"My name is not listed in any phone book. I do not maintain a traditional office. I carry a gun, legally, because my name and face tend to attract attention from the type of people who also carry guns and don’t mind using them. I live alone, usually sleep alone, and do not possess the patience and understanding necessary to maintain friendships. The law is my life, always consuming and occasionally fulfilling. I wouldn’t call it a “jealous mistress” as some forgotten person once so famously did. It’s more like an overbearing wife who controls the checkbook. There’s no way out.
"These nights I find myself sleeping in cheap motel rooms that change each week. I’m not trying to save money; rather, I’m just trying to stay alive. There are plenty of people who’d like to kill me right now, and a few of them have been quite vocal. They don’t tell you in law school that one day you may find yourself defending a person charged with a crime so heinous that otherwise peaceful citizens feel driven to take up arms and threaten to kill the accused, his lawyer, and even the judge."
"When I finished law school, jobs were scarce. I reluctantly took a part-time position in the City’s public defender’s office. From there I landed in a small, unprofitable firm that handled only criminal defense. After a few years, that firm blew up and I was on my own, out on the street with plenty of others, scrambling to make a buck.
"One case put me on the map. I can’t say it made me famous because, seriously, how can you say a lawyer is famous in a city of a million people?"
"I am defending a brain-damaged eighteen-year-old dropout who’s charged with killing two little girls in one of the most evil crimes I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty. My clients are almost always guilty, so I don’t waste a lot of time wringing my hands about whether they get what they deserve. In this case, though, Gardy is not guilty, not that it matters. It does not. What’s important in Milo these days is that Gardy gets convicted and sentenced to death and executed as soon as possible so that the town can feel better about itself and move on. Move on to where, exactly? ... This place has been moving backward for fifty years, and one lousy verdict will not change its course. I’ve read and heard it said that Milo needs “closure,” whatever that means. You’d have to be an idiot to believe this town will somehow grow and prosper and become more tolerant as soon as Gardy gets the needle."
"I’m being paid by the State to provide a first-class defense to a defendant charged with capital murder, and this requires me to fight and claw and raise hell in a courtroom where no one is listening. Gardy was essentially convicted the day he was arrested, and his trial is only a formality. The dumb and desperate cops trumped up the charges and fabricated the evidence. The prosecutor knows this but has no spine and is up for reelection next year. The judge is asleep. The jurors are basically nice, simple people, wide-eyed at the process and ever so anxious to believe the lies their proud authorities are producing on the witness stand."
"The state police are providing protection during the trial, but I get the clear impression these guys are just not into it. They view me the same way most people do. I’m a long-haired roguish zealot sick enough to fight for the rights of child killers and the like.
"My current motel is a Hampton Inn located twenty-five minutes from Milo. It costs $60 a night and the State will reimburse me. Next door is Partner, a hulking, heavily armed guy who wears black suits and takes me everywhere. Partner is my driver, bodyguard, confidant, paralegal, caddie, and only friend. I earned his loyalty when a jury found him not guilty of killing an undercover narcotics officer. We walked out of the courtroom arm in arm and have been inseparable ever since. On at least two occasions, off-duty cops have tried to kill him. On one occasion, they came after me.
"We’re still standing. Or perhaps I should say we’re still ducking."
Reminds one of a film, The Lincoln Lawyer, starring Matthew McConaughey and Josh Lucas, former playing such a lawyer, but not this story.
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"Lunch is always a treat. Since it’s not safe to leave the courthouse, actually the courtroom itself, Gardy and I eat a sandwich by ourselves at the defense table. It’s the same box lunch fed to the jurors. They bring in sixteen of them, mix them up, draw ours at random, and take the rest to the jury room. This was my idea because I prefer not to be poisoned. Gardy has no clue; he’s just hungry. He says the food at the jail is what you’d expect and he doesn’t trust the guards. He eats nothing there, and since he’s surviving only on lunch, I asked Judge Kaufman if the county could perhaps double up and give the boy two rubber chicken sandwiches, with extra chips and another pickle. In other words, two box lunches instead of one. Denied.
"So Gardy gets half of my sandwich and all of my kosher dill. If I weren’t starving, he could have the entire box of crap.
"Partner comes and goes throughout the day. He’s afraid to leave our van in one spot due to the high probability of slashed tires and cracked windows. He also has a few responsibilities, one of which is to meet occasionally with the Bishop.
"In these cases where I’m called into a combat zone, into a small town that has already closed ranks and is ready to kill one of its own for some heinous crime, it takes a while to find a contact. This contact is always another lawyer, a local who also defends criminals and butts heads weekly with the police and prosecutors. This contact reaches out eventually, quietly, afraid of being exposed as a traitor. He knows the truth, or something close to it. He knows the players, the bad actors, and the occasional good one. Since his survival depends on getting along with the cops and court clerks and assistant prosecutors, he knows the system.
"In Gardy’s case, my deep-throated pal is Jimmy Bressup. We call him the Bishop. I’ve never met him. He works through Partner and they meet in strange places. Partner says he’s about sixty with long, thinning gray hair, bad clothes, a loud, foul mouth, an abrasive nature, and a weakness for the bottle. “An older version of me?” I asked. “Not quite,” came the wise reply. For all his bluster and big talk, the Bishop is afraid of getting too close to Gardy’s lawyers.
"The Bishop says Huver and his gang know by now they’ve got the wrong guy but have too much invested to stop and admit their mistakes. He says there have been whispers from day one about the real killer."
Apart from this client and the practice, Sebastian Rudd has a son whose mother he likes and meets regularly so as to keep visiting rights civil, a mother whose estate and will has a clout, and a fighter - Tadeo Zapate - he owns a quarter of.
At the fight he went to after meeting Judith, the mother of his son, he was accosted by the daughter of a woman on the jury.
"“What’s Glynna thinking these days?” I ask cautiously. She could be wearing a mike. Nothing surprises me.
"“She thinks they’re all a bunch of liars.” We’re still walking, slowly, going nowhere, each afraid to look the other in the eyes. I am stunned to hear this. Reading her body language and knowing her background, I would bet the farm that Glynna Roston would be the first to yell “Guilty!”"
"I take the nearest stairway to a lower level, and as soon as I’m safely away from her, I duck into a restroom and replay what she said. I still can’t believe it. That jury, along with the rest of the town, convicted my client the day he was arrested. Her mother, Glynna Roston, gives every indication of being the model Milo citizen—uneducated, narrow-minded, and determined to be a heroine for her community in its time of need. Monday morning will be interesting. At some point, after we resume testimony, I’ll get the chance to glance into the jury box. So far Glynna has not been afraid to return my looks. Her eyes will reveal something, though I’m not sure what."
................................................"Lunch is always a treat. Since it’s not safe to leave the courthouse, actually the courtroom itself, Gardy and I eat a sandwich by ourselves at the defense table. It’s the same box lunch fed to the jurors. They bring in sixteen of them, mix them up, draw ours at random, and take the rest to the jury room. This was my idea because I prefer not to be poisoned. Gardy has no clue; he’s just hungry. He says the food at the jail is what you’d expect and he doesn’t trust the guards. He eats nothing there, and since he’s surviving only on lunch, I asked Judge Kaufman if the county could perhaps double up and give the boy two rubber chicken sandwiches, with extra chips and another pickle. In other words, two box lunches instead of one. Denied.
"So Gardy gets half of my sandwich and all of my kosher dill. If I weren’t starving, he could have the entire box of crap.
"Partner comes and goes throughout the day. He’s afraid to leave our van in one spot due to the high probability of slashed tires and cracked windows. He also has a few responsibilities, one of which is to meet occasionally with the Bishop.
"In these cases where I’m called into a combat zone, into a small town that has already closed ranks and is ready to kill one of its own for some heinous crime, it takes a while to find a contact. This contact is always another lawyer, a local who also defends criminals and butts heads weekly with the police and prosecutors. This contact reaches out eventually, quietly, afraid of being exposed as a traitor. He knows the truth, or something close to it. He knows the players, the bad actors, and the occasional good one. Since his survival depends on getting along with the cops and court clerks and assistant prosecutors, he knows the system.
"In Gardy’s case, my deep-throated pal is Jimmy Bressup. We call him the Bishop. I’ve never met him. He works through Partner and they meet in strange places. Partner says he’s about sixty with long, thinning gray hair, bad clothes, a loud, foul mouth, an abrasive nature, and a weakness for the bottle. “An older version of me?” I asked. “Not quite,” came the wise reply. For all his bluster and big talk, the Bishop is afraid of getting too close to Gardy’s lawyers.
"The Bishop says Huver and his gang know by now they’ve got the wrong guy but have too much invested to stop and admit their mistakes. He says there have been whispers from day one about the real killer."
................................................................................................
Apart from this client and the practice, Sebastian Rudd has a son whose mother he likes and meets regularly so as to keep visiting rights civil, a mother whose estate and will has a clout, and a fighter - Tadeo Zapate - he owns a quarter of.
At the fight he went to after meeting Judith, the mother of his son, he was accosted by the daughter of a woman on the jury.
"“What’s Glynna thinking these days?” I ask cautiously. She could be wearing a mike. Nothing surprises me.
"“She thinks they’re all a bunch of liars.” We’re still walking, slowly, going nowhere, each afraid to look the other in the eyes. I am stunned to hear this. Reading her body language and knowing her background, I would bet the farm that Glynna Roston would be the first to yell “Guilty!”"
"I take the nearest stairway to a lower level, and as soon as I’m safely away from her, I duck into a restroom and replay what she said. I still can’t believe it. That jury, along with the rest of the town, convicted my client the day he was arrested. Her mother, Glynna Roston, gives every indication of being the model Milo citizen—uneducated, narrow-minded, and determined to be a heroine for her community in its time of need. Monday morning will be interesting. At some point, after we resume testimony, I’ll get the chance to glance into the jury box. So far Glynna has not been afraid to return my looks. Her eyes will reveal something, though I’m not sure what."
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"Jack Peeley is a former boyfriend of the mother of the two Fentress girls. Their father was long gone when they were murdered, and their mother’s apartment was a revolving door for local tomcats and slimeballs. Peeley lasted about a year and got the boot when she met a used-tractor dealer with a little cash and a house without wheels. She moved up and Peeley moved out, with a broken heart. He was the last person seen near the girls when they disappeared. Early on, I asked the police why they did not treat him as a suspect, or at least investigate him, and their lame response was that they already had their man. Gardy was in custody and confessing right and left.
"I strongly suspect Jack Peeley killed the girls in some sick act of revenge. And, if the cops had not stumbled onto Gardy, they might have eventually questioned Peeley. Gardy, though, with his frightening appearance, satanic leanings, and history of sexual perversion, became the clear favorite and Milo has never looked back."
Sebastian Rudd took Tadeo Zapate and his brother Miguel to the pool joint known to be frequented by Peeley and the two fighters picked a fight, successfully.
"“Got it,” Tadeo says eagerly from the backseat. He thrusts his right hand forward and it is indeed covered with blood. Peeley’s blood. We stop at a burger place, and I carefully scrape it clean.
"It’s midnight before we make it back to the City."
"The monster who killed the Fentress girls bound their ankles and wrists together with their shoelaces, then threw them in a pond. During Jenna’s autopsy, a single strand of long black hair was found wrapped up in the laces around her ankles. Both she and Raley had light blond hair. At the time, Gardy had long black hair—though the color changed monthly—and not surprisingly the State’s hair analysis expert testified that there was a “match.” For over a century, true experts have known that hair analysis is wildly inaccurate. It is still used by authorities, even the FBI, when there’s no better proof and the suspect has to be nailed. I begged Judge Kaufman to order DNA testing with a sample of Gardy’s current hair, but he refused. Said it was too expensive. We’re talking about a man’s life.
"When I was finally allowed to view the State’s evidence, of which there was virtually none, I managed to steal about three-quarters of an inch of the black hair. No one missed it.
"Early Monday morning, I ship by overnight parcel the hair and the sample of Jack Peeley’s blood to a DNA lab in California. It will cost me $6,000 for a rush job. I’ll bet the ranch I find the real killer."
"Jack Peeley is a former boyfriend of the mother of the two Fentress girls. Their father was long gone when they were murdered, and their mother’s apartment was a revolving door for local tomcats and slimeballs. Peeley lasted about a year and got the boot when she met a used-tractor dealer with a little cash and a house without wheels. She moved up and Peeley moved out, with a broken heart. He was the last person seen near the girls when they disappeared. Early on, I asked the police why they did not treat him as a suspect, or at least investigate him, and their lame response was that they already had their man. Gardy was in custody and confessing right and left.
"I strongly suspect Jack Peeley killed the girls in some sick act of revenge. And, if the cops had not stumbled onto Gardy, they might have eventually questioned Peeley. Gardy, though, with his frightening appearance, satanic leanings, and history of sexual perversion, became the clear favorite and Milo has never looked back."
Sebastian Rudd took Tadeo Zapate and his brother Miguel to the pool joint known to be frequented by Peeley and the two fighters picked a fight, successfully.
"“Got it,” Tadeo says eagerly from the backseat. He thrusts his right hand forward and it is indeed covered with blood. Peeley’s blood. We stop at a burger place, and I carefully scrape it clean.
"It’s midnight before we make it back to the City."
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"The monster who killed the Fentress girls bound their ankles and wrists together with their shoelaces, then threw them in a pond. During Jenna’s autopsy, a single strand of long black hair was found wrapped up in the laces around her ankles. Both she and Raley had light blond hair. At the time, Gardy had long black hair—though the color changed monthly—and not surprisingly the State’s hair analysis expert testified that there was a “match.” For over a century, true experts have known that hair analysis is wildly inaccurate. It is still used by authorities, even the FBI, when there’s no better proof and the suspect has to be nailed. I begged Judge Kaufman to order DNA testing with a sample of Gardy’s current hair, but he refused. Said it was too expensive. We’re talking about a man’s life.
"When I was finally allowed to view the State’s evidence, of which there was virtually none, I managed to steal about three-quarters of an inch of the black hair. No one missed it.
"Early Monday morning, I ship by overnight parcel the hair and the sample of Jack Peeley’s blood to a DNA lab in California. It will cost me $6,000 for a rush job. I’ll bet the ranch I find the real killer."
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The juror's daughter filed an affidavit with a notary public accusing Sebastian Rudd of improper contact, and he was called in the chambers of judge Kaufman who, al on with prosecutor Huver, confronted him. Rudd had a field day, demanding a hearing to confront the juror and the daughter, and promising this would be his weapon on appeal. He won, had a hearing, the juror was dismissed and replaced, and Huver was exposed having done the preparation and notarisation of the accusation. Rudd was thrown in jail for the night, which he promised would help his case on appeal. He called Judith for help. He got a visitor.
"The Bishop stands and we shake hands. We’ve spoken on the phone but never met. I thank him for coming but caution him about doing so. He says screw it—he’s not afraid of the locals. Plus, he knows how to lie low and stay under the radar. He also knows the police chief, the cops, the judge—the usual small-town crap. He says he’s tried to call Huver and Kaufman to tell them they’ve made a big mistake, but he can’t get through. He’s leaning on the police chief to put me in a better cell. The more we talk, the more I like the guy. He’s a street fighter, a worn-out, frazzled old goat who’s been knocking heads with the cops for decades. He hasn’t made a dime and doesn’t care. I wonder if I’ll be him in twenty years.
"“How about the DNA tests?” he asks.
"“The lab will get the samples tomorrow and they’ve promised a quick turnaround.”
"“And if it’s Peeley?”
"“All hell breaks loose.” This guy is on my side, but I don’t know him. We chat for ten minutes and he says good-bye.
"When I return to my cell, my two new friends have spread the word that there’s a criminal lawyer in here with them. Before long, I’m yelling advice up and down the block."
"We plow ahead. I call my alibi witnesses, who tell the truth, and Huver makes them look like criminals. Such is the lunacy and unfairness of the system. Huver’s witnesses, the ones testifying on behalf of the State, are cloaked with legitimacy, as if they’ve been sanctified by the authorities. Cops, experts, even snitches who’ve been washed and cleansed and spruced up in nice clothes, all take the stand and tell lies in a coordinated effort to have my client executed. But the witnesses who know the truth, and are telling it, are discounted immediately and made to look like fools.
"Like so many, this trial is not about the truth; it’s about winning. And to win, with no real evidence, Huver must fabricate and lie and attack the truth as if he hates it. I have six witnesses who swear my client was nowhere close to the scene when the crime was committed, and all six are scoffed at. Huver has produced almost two dozen witnesses, virtually all known to be liars by the cops, the prosecution, and the judge, yet the jurors lap up their lies as if they’re reading Holy Scripture."
"At midnight, I’m lying across my lumpy motel bed, 9-millimeter by my side, when my cell phone beeps. It’s the DNA lab in San Diego. The blood Tadeo brutally extracted from the forehead of Jack Peeley matches the strand of hair the murderer left behind in the shoelaces he tightly bound around the ankles of Jenna Fentress, age eleven."
The juror's daughter filed an affidavit with a notary public accusing Sebastian Rudd of improper contact, and he was called in the chambers of judge Kaufman who, al on with prosecutor Huver, confronted him. Rudd had a field day, demanding a hearing to confront the juror and the daughter, and promising this would be his weapon on appeal. He won, had a hearing, the juror was dismissed and replaced, and Huver was exposed having done the preparation and notarisation of the accusation. Rudd was thrown in jail for the night, which he promised would help his case on appeal. He called Judith for help. He got a visitor.
"The Bishop stands and we shake hands. We’ve spoken on the phone but never met. I thank him for coming but caution him about doing so. He says screw it—he’s not afraid of the locals. Plus, he knows how to lie low and stay under the radar. He also knows the police chief, the cops, the judge—the usual small-town crap. He says he’s tried to call Huver and Kaufman to tell them they’ve made a big mistake, but he can’t get through. He’s leaning on the police chief to put me in a better cell. The more we talk, the more I like the guy. He’s a street fighter, a worn-out, frazzled old goat who’s been knocking heads with the cops for decades. He hasn’t made a dime and doesn’t care. I wonder if I’ll be him in twenty years.
"“How about the DNA tests?” he asks.
"“The lab will get the samples tomorrow and they’ve promised a quick turnaround.”
"“And if it’s Peeley?”
"“All hell breaks loose.” This guy is on my side, but I don’t know him. We chat for ten minutes and he says good-bye.
"When I return to my cell, my two new friends have spread the word that there’s a criminal lawyer in here with them. Before long, I’m yelling advice up and down the block."
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"We plow ahead. I call my alibi witnesses, who tell the truth, and Huver makes them look like criminals. Such is the lunacy and unfairness of the system. Huver’s witnesses, the ones testifying on behalf of the State, are cloaked with legitimacy, as if they’ve been sanctified by the authorities. Cops, experts, even snitches who’ve been washed and cleansed and spruced up in nice clothes, all take the stand and tell lies in a coordinated effort to have my client executed. But the witnesses who know the truth, and are telling it, are discounted immediately and made to look like fools.
"Like so many, this trial is not about the truth; it’s about winning. And to win, with no real evidence, Huver must fabricate and lie and attack the truth as if he hates it. I have six witnesses who swear my client was nowhere close to the scene when the crime was committed, and all six are scoffed at. Huver has produced almost two dozen witnesses, virtually all known to be liars by the cops, the prosecution, and the judge, yet the jurors lap up their lies as if they’re reading Holy Scripture."
"At midnight, I’m lying across my lumpy motel bed, 9-millimeter by my side, when my cell phone beeps. It’s the DNA lab in San Diego. The blood Tadeo brutally extracted from the forehead of Jack Peeley matches the strand of hair the murderer left behind in the shoelaces he tightly bound around the ankles of Jenna Fentress, age eleven."
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This book is divided in several sections. First was about an innocent man about to be declared guilty despite not only lack of evidence but indications to the contrary, only because of his personal style and lifestyle, so to speak. Next is about Link Scanlon, a man who always wanted to be what he successfully did become, a top mobster.
He's on death row because a judge, along with his wife, were killed by a criminal after Link had expressed a wish that the judge was dead. The story picks up on the eve of execution, when the lawyer is visiting Link and the appeals are doing the final round, and there are bombs exploding in courthouses after appeals are denied.
"Judge Nagy was the one Link killed. He, Link, didn’t actually pull the trigger; instead he sent word down the line that he wanted Nagy dead. A career hitter called Knuckles got the assignment and carried things out in splendid fashion. They found Judge Nagy and his wife in bed, in their pajamas, bullet holes in their heads. Knuckles then talked too much and the cops had a wire in the right place. Knuckles was on death row too, for about two years, until they found him with Drano packed in his mouth and throat. The cops quizzed Link but he swore he didn’t know a thing about it.
"What was Judge Nagy’s offense? He was a tough law-and-order type who hated drugs and was famous for throwing the book at traffickers. He was about to sentence two of Link’s favorite henchmen—one was his cousin—to a hundred years each, and this upset Link. It was his town, not Nagy’s. He, Link, had been wanting to knock off a judge for years; sort of the ultimate takedown. Kill a judge, walk away from it, and the world knows you are indeed above the law.
"After his defense lawyer was murdered, folks thought I was a fool to take his case. Another bad outcome for Link, and they might find me at the bottom of a lake. But that was six years ago, and Link and I have gotten along just fine. He knows I’ve tried to save his life. He’ll spare mine. What would he gain by killing his last lawyer?"
"“Have you heard?”
"“Heard what?”
"“Ten minutes ago, a bomb went off in the Old Courthouse, same courtroom Link got convicted in.”"
"Link, though, has money and wants to be buried in solid black. He’s wearing a black linen shirt with long sleeves buttoned at the wrists, black denim jeans, black socks, and black running shoes. It’s not nearly as stylish as he thinks, but at this point who cares about fashion?
"Finally he says, “I thought you were going to save me.”
"“I never said that, Link. I even put it in writing.”
"“But I paid you all that money.”
"“A fat fee is no guarantee of a good outcome. That’s in writing too.”"
"Link says, “Here it is.” He lifts the remote, increases the volume.
"It’s a breaking story—a bomb just exploded in the stately courthouse where the Fifteenth Circuit does its work."
"CNN finally connects the dots, and suddenly my client is the hour’s hottest story. They flash a mug shot of Link, a much younger version, as they interview the prosecutor who sent him away. From across the desk, Link curses under his breath, though he’s still smiling. None of my business, but if I were inclined to plant bombs, this guy’s office would be at the top of my list.
"His name is Max Mancini, the City’s chief prosecutor and a true legend in his own mind. He’s been popping off in the press all week as the countdown grew louder. Link will be his first execution, and he wouldn’t miss it for anything. Frankly, I’ve never understood why Link chose to rub out his own defense lawyer instead of going after Mancini. But I won’t ask.
"Evidently, Link and I are on the same page. Just as the reporter is wrapping up the interview, there is a loud noise somewhere in the background, behind Mancini. The camera pulls back and it’s clear to me that they’re standing on the sidewalk outside his downtown office.
"Another explosion."
"The courtroom was bombed at precisely 5:00 p.m.; the Fifteenth Circuit, precisely at 6:00; the prosecutor’s office, precisely at 7:00.
"As we approach 8:00 p.m., many people who’ve had the misfortune of crossing paths with my client are nervous. CNN, now in full unbridled frenzy, is reporting that security has been beefed up around the Supreme Court Building in Washington. Their reporter on the scene keeps showing us a few offices with lights on and we’re supposed to believe the justices are up there, hard at work, debating the merits of Link’s case. They are not. They’re all safely at home or at dinner. One of their clerks will deny our petition any minute now.
"The Governor’s Mansion is crawling with state police, some armed from head to toe in full combat regalia, as if Link might decide to mount a ground assault. With so many cameras around, so much drama everywhere, our handsome governor couldn’t help himself. Ten minutes ago he dashed out from his bunker to chat with the reporters, live of course. Said he wasn’t frightened, justice must go on, he’d do his job without fear, et cetera, ad nauseam. He tried to act as though he’s really wrestling with the reprieve issue, so he’s not ready to announce his decision. He’ll save it for later, say around 9:55. He hasn’t had this much fun in years."
................................................................................................
This book is divided in several sections. First was about an innocent man about to be declared guilty despite not only lack of evidence but indications to the contrary, only because of his personal style and lifestyle, so to speak. Next is about Link Scanlon, a man who always wanted to be what he successfully did become, a top mobster.
He's on death row because a judge, along with his wife, were killed by a criminal after Link had expressed a wish that the judge was dead. The story picks up on the eve of execution, when the lawyer is visiting Link and the appeals are doing the final round, and there are bombs exploding in courthouses after appeals are denied.
"Judge Nagy was the one Link killed. He, Link, didn’t actually pull the trigger; instead he sent word down the line that he wanted Nagy dead. A career hitter called Knuckles got the assignment and carried things out in splendid fashion. They found Judge Nagy and his wife in bed, in their pajamas, bullet holes in their heads. Knuckles then talked too much and the cops had a wire in the right place. Knuckles was on death row too, for about two years, until they found him with Drano packed in his mouth and throat. The cops quizzed Link but he swore he didn’t know a thing about it.
"What was Judge Nagy’s offense? He was a tough law-and-order type who hated drugs and was famous for throwing the book at traffickers. He was about to sentence two of Link’s favorite henchmen—one was his cousin—to a hundred years each, and this upset Link. It was his town, not Nagy’s. He, Link, had been wanting to knock off a judge for years; sort of the ultimate takedown. Kill a judge, walk away from it, and the world knows you are indeed above the law.
"After his defense lawyer was murdered, folks thought I was a fool to take his case. Another bad outcome for Link, and they might find me at the bottom of a lake. But that was six years ago, and Link and I have gotten along just fine. He knows I’ve tried to save his life. He’ll spare mine. What would he gain by killing his last lawyer?"
"“Have you heard?”
"“Heard what?”
"“Ten minutes ago, a bomb went off in the Old Courthouse, same courtroom Link got convicted in.”"
"Link, though, has money and wants to be buried in solid black. He’s wearing a black linen shirt with long sleeves buttoned at the wrists, black denim jeans, black socks, and black running shoes. It’s not nearly as stylish as he thinks, but at this point who cares about fashion?
"Finally he says, “I thought you were going to save me.”
"“I never said that, Link. I even put it in writing.”
"“But I paid you all that money.”
"“A fat fee is no guarantee of a good outcome. That’s in writing too.”"
"Link says, “Here it is.” He lifts the remote, increases the volume.
"It’s a breaking story—a bomb just exploded in the stately courthouse where the Fifteenth Circuit does its work."
"CNN finally connects the dots, and suddenly my client is the hour’s hottest story. They flash a mug shot of Link, a much younger version, as they interview the prosecutor who sent him away. From across the desk, Link curses under his breath, though he’s still smiling. None of my business, but if I were inclined to plant bombs, this guy’s office would be at the top of my list.
"His name is Max Mancini, the City’s chief prosecutor and a true legend in his own mind. He’s been popping off in the press all week as the countdown grew louder. Link will be his first execution, and he wouldn’t miss it for anything. Frankly, I’ve never understood why Link chose to rub out his own defense lawyer instead of going after Mancini. But I won’t ask.
"Evidently, Link and I are on the same page. Just as the reporter is wrapping up the interview, there is a loud noise somewhere in the background, behind Mancini. The camera pulls back and it’s clear to me that they’re standing on the sidewalk outside his downtown office.
"Another explosion."
"The courtroom was bombed at precisely 5:00 p.m.; the Fifteenth Circuit, precisely at 6:00; the prosecutor’s office, precisely at 7:00.
"As we approach 8:00 p.m., many people who’ve had the misfortune of crossing paths with my client are nervous. CNN, now in full unbridled frenzy, is reporting that security has been beefed up around the Supreme Court Building in Washington. Their reporter on the scene keeps showing us a few offices with lights on and we’re supposed to believe the justices are up there, hard at work, debating the merits of Link’s case. They are not. They’re all safely at home or at dinner. One of their clerks will deny our petition any minute now.
"The Governor’s Mansion is crawling with state police, some armed from head to toe in full combat regalia, as if Link might decide to mount a ground assault. With so many cameras around, so much drama everywhere, our handsome governor couldn’t help himself. Ten minutes ago he dashed out from his bunker to chat with the reporters, live of course. Said he wasn’t frightened, justice must go on, he’d do his job without fear, et cetera, ad nauseam. He tried to act as though he’s really wrestling with the reprieve issue, so he’s not ready to announce his decision. He’ll save it for later, say around 9:55. He hasn’t had this much fun in years."
................................................................................................
His final appeal was denied by supreme court in D.C. at 8:15.
"The prison has a food storage warehouse on the west side of its vast complex and a vehicle maintenance facility on the east side. The buildings are about three miles apart. At 8:30, both mysteriously catch on fire, and the prison goes berserk. Evidently, there are a couple of news helicopters in the area. They are not allowed to fly over Big Wheeler, so they’re hovering above farmland next door, and thanks to their long-range lenses we’re able to watch the excitement courtesy of CNN.
"As Link toys with his coconut pie and plays gin rummy, the anchor wonders why the State doesn’t speed up his execution before he burns down the prison. A stuttering spokesperson with the governor’s office tries to explain that the rules and laws do not allow this. It’s 10:00 p.m., period, or as soon thereafter as possible."
"At 8:45, a bomb goes off in the administration building, not far from the warden’s office."
The warden rushes in.
"Two nervous guards grab Link, lift him up, search him, find his cell phone, then throw him back into his chair. His face does not change expression."
The warden demands Rudd's phone, Rudd says that's against the rules.
"From behind the warden, a guard yells into the room, “There’s a riot in Unit Six!”"
"At 9:30, all electricity at Big Wheeler is cut off—a complete blackout. They would later trace the power failure to a utility pole that got chainsawed in two. The backup generator for Unit Nine—death row—failed to start because its fuel injectors had been vandalized."
Link escaped through the roof, helped by his guys who threw a rope out of the false ceiling.
"At 9:30 that night, there were two news helicopters buzzing around the fringes of Big Wheeler. The prison officials and police had warned them to stay away, but they were close by. In a show of muscle, the state police flew in two of its own helicopters to secure the airspace over the prison, and this proved helpful when the trouble started. It also proved distracting. There was a tremendous amount of smoke hanging over the prison as six different fires were blazing at one time. Witnesses said the noise was deafening—four helicopters in the area, dozens of emergency vehicles with sirens, radios squawking, guards and police yelling, guns being shot, fires roaring. On cue, and with impeccable timing, Link’s small black helicopter arrived from nowhere, descended through the clouds of smoke, and snatched him off the roof of Unit Nine. There were witnesses. Several guards and prison employees saw the helicopter as it hovered for a few seconds, dropped a line, then disappeared back into the smoke with two men swinging from the lifeline. A guard in a tower at the unit managed to fire a few shots but hit nothing.
"One of the State’s choppers gave chase, but was no match for whatever brand and model Link leased for the night. It was never found; no record of it was ever traced. It flew low to avoid radar; air traffic control did not see it. A farmer sixty miles away from Big Wheeler told authorities he saw a small helicopter land on a county road a mile from his front porch. A car met it, then both disappeared."
"There was a possible but unconfirmed sighting in Mexico.
"I haven’t heard from my client and don’t really expect to."
His final appeal was denied by supreme court in D.C. at 8:15.
"The prison has a food storage warehouse on the west side of its vast complex and a vehicle maintenance facility on the east side. The buildings are about three miles apart. At 8:30, both mysteriously catch on fire, and the prison goes berserk. Evidently, there are a couple of news helicopters in the area. They are not allowed to fly over Big Wheeler, so they’re hovering above farmland next door, and thanks to their long-range lenses we’re able to watch the excitement courtesy of CNN.
"As Link toys with his coconut pie and plays gin rummy, the anchor wonders why the State doesn’t speed up his execution before he burns down the prison. A stuttering spokesperson with the governor’s office tries to explain that the rules and laws do not allow this. It’s 10:00 p.m., period, or as soon thereafter as possible."
"At 8:45, a bomb goes off in the administration building, not far from the warden’s office."
The warden rushes in.
"Two nervous guards grab Link, lift him up, search him, find his cell phone, then throw him back into his chair. His face does not change expression."
The warden demands Rudd's phone, Rudd says that's against the rules.
"From behind the warden, a guard yells into the room, “There’s a riot in Unit Six!”"
................................................................................................
"At 9:30, all electricity at Big Wheeler is cut off—a complete blackout. They would later trace the power failure to a utility pole that got chainsawed in two. The backup generator for Unit Nine—death row—failed to start because its fuel injectors had been vandalized."
Link escaped through the roof, helped by his guys who threw a rope out of the false ceiling.
"At 9:30 that night, there were two news helicopters buzzing around the fringes of Big Wheeler. The prison officials and police had warned them to stay away, but they were close by. In a show of muscle, the state police flew in two of its own helicopters to secure the airspace over the prison, and this proved helpful when the trouble started. It also proved distracting. There was a tremendous amount of smoke hanging over the prison as six different fires were blazing at one time. Witnesses said the noise was deafening—four helicopters in the area, dozens of emergency vehicles with sirens, radios squawking, guards and police yelling, guns being shot, fires roaring. On cue, and with impeccable timing, Link’s small black helicopter arrived from nowhere, descended through the clouds of smoke, and snatched him off the roof of Unit Nine. There were witnesses. Several guards and prison employees saw the helicopter as it hovered for a few seconds, dropped a line, then disappeared back into the smoke with two men swinging from the lifeline. A guard in a tower at the unit managed to fire a few shots but hit nothing.
"One of the State’s choppers gave chase, but was no match for whatever brand and model Link leased for the night. It was never found; no record of it was ever traced. It flew low to avoid radar; air traffic control did not see it. A farmer sixty miles away from Big Wheeler told authorities he saw a small helicopter land on a county road a mile from his front porch. A car met it, then both disappeared."
"There was a possible but unconfirmed sighting in Mexico.
"I haven’t heard from my client and don’t really expect to."
................................................................................................
Sebastian Rudd accompanies Partner to Roseburg to visit Jameel, Partner's son.
"I walk to a window that looks out upon a vast yard lined with double rows of chain link. Hundreds of inmates, all in prison whites, are killing time as guards look down from a tower.
"Young and black, almost all of them. According to the numbers, they’re in for nonviolent drug offenses. The average sentence is seven years. Upon release, 60 percent will be back here within three years.
"And why not? What’s on the outside to prevent their return? They are now convicted felons, a branding they will never be able to shake. The odds were stacked against them to begin with, and now that they’re tagged as felons, life in the free world is somehow supposed to improve? These are the real casualties of our wars. The war on drugs. The war on crime. Unintended victims of tough laws passed by tough politicians over the past forty years. One million young black men now warehoused in decaying prisons, idling away the days at taxpayer expense.
"Our prisons are packed. Our streets are filled with drugs. Who’s winning the war?
"We’ve lost our minds.""
................................................................................................
Sebastian Rudd accompanies Partner to Roseburg to visit Jameel, Partner's son.
"I walk to a window that looks out upon a vast yard lined with double rows of chain link. Hundreds of inmates, all in prison whites, are killing time as guards look down from a tower.
"Young and black, almost all of them. According to the numbers, they’re in for nonviolent drug offenses. The average sentence is seven years. Upon release, 60 percent will be back here within three years.
"And why not? What’s on the outside to prevent their return? They are now convicted felons, a branding they will never be able to shake. The odds were stacked against them to begin with, and now that they’re tagged as felons, life in the free world is somehow supposed to improve? These are the real casualties of our wars. The war on drugs. The war on crime. Unintended victims of tough laws passed by tough politicians over the past forty years. One million young black men now warehoused in decaying prisons, idling away the days at taxpayer expense.
"Our prisons are packed. Our streets are filled with drugs. Who’s winning the war?
"We’ve lost our minds.""
................................................................................................
Old couple in suburbs, Doug Renfro and wife, were woken up at 3 a.m. and heard shots; Doug went to defend home with his gun, and was shot; his wife was shot as she came from the bedroom, and died. Doug hadn't realised it was home invasion by police, who'd arrived in green and brown camouflage, with a tank, expecting to bust a drug peddler.
Police later realised they'd made a mistake; it was Lance, the teen next door who was using the Renfro internet without their knowledge. But police planned to prosecute Doug anyway, and publicised him as drug peddler.
Sebastian Rudd contacted the children, since Doug was in hospital and guarded by the police, and explained the need to file civil lawsuits. That done, he won the first two motions, stopping the city from freezing Doug's assets and getting him bail.
Judith needed Sebastian Rudd to take care of the son on a night when he's to be at a fight, which she didn't know; this turns out to be the night when, despite Tadeo being the better fighter, the referee delivers the verdict in favour of the other fighter, Crush. Tadeo beat up both, fights broke out in the audience, and Sebastian saw Partner taking the child out of the room safely. But there was a photograph in the Chronicle and Judith called to say she was returning by next day and would terminate Sebastian's rights.
The judge dealing with civil lawsuit for Doug Renfro speeded up by holding depositions in his chambers, where Rudd made them extensive, so everything was on record before the two trials proceeded.
The judge in the criminal case against Doug was statute bound and coukdnt dismiss the case, but after the jury had heard everything, the verdict was unanimous in favour of Doug, and the foreman asked why the policeman who shot Mrs Renfro wasn't on trial for murder.
Old couple in suburbs, Doug Renfro and wife, were woken up at 3 a.m. and heard shots; Doug went to defend home with his gun, and was shot; his wife was shot as she came from the bedroom, and died. Doug hadn't realised it was home invasion by police, who'd arrived in green and brown camouflage, with a tank, expecting to bust a drug peddler.
Police later realised they'd made a mistake; it was Lance, the teen next door who was using the Renfro internet without their knowledge. But police planned to prosecute Doug anyway, and publicised him as drug peddler.
Sebastian Rudd contacted the children, since Doug was in hospital and guarded by the police, and explained the need to file civil lawsuits. That done, he won the first two motions, stopping the city from freezing Doug's assets and getting him bail.
................................................................................................
Judith needed Sebastian Rudd to take care of the son on a night when he's to be at a fight, which she didn't know; this turns out to be the night when, despite Tadeo being the better fighter, the referee delivers the verdict in favour of the other fighter, Crush. Tadeo beat up both, fights broke out in the audience, and Sebastian saw Partner taking the child out of the room safely. But there was a photograph in the Chronicle and Judith called to say she was returning by next day and would terminate Sebastian's rights.
................................................................................................
The judge dealing with civil lawsuit for Doug Renfro speeded up by holding depositions in his chambers, where Rudd made them extensive, so everything was on record before the two trials proceeded.
The judge in the criminal case against Doug was statute bound and coukdnt dismiss the case, but after the jury had heard everything, the verdict was unanimous in favour of Doug, and the foreman asked why the policeman who shot Mrs Renfro wasn't on trial for murder.
................................................................................................
Juliana Kemp was kidnapped from a parking lot, and there was no ransom note nor any trace of the abductor who had used a stolen vehicle and left no fingerprints or DNA when abandoned it. But she'd been pregnant and city had two lives to worry about. Arch Swagger was arrested and demanded Sebastian Rudd, who noted that he did not say he wasn't guilty. After giving a check for half the initial amount, which didn't clear, he called at four a.m. to say where the body was buried - under a vasectomy ad billboard on the highway in the cornfield - and that he had lost the surveilling cops, and was on the run.
Reardon called Rudd to his office, Swanger had left a message to say Rudd knew where the girl was; Roy Kemp, the father of the girl, came in. Sebastian Rudd explained that the cheque from swagger hadn't cleared and that meant he wasn't his lawyer, but the disclosure about the location made by swagger was under the assumption of a legal relationship as client and lawyer, and besides, there was no reason to believe Swanger was telling the truth.
Starched was kidnapped from the restroom of the park where Sebastian Rudd had taken him boating, and one day later Reardon was sent as a messenger to Rudd to say the boy was ok, and would be returned as soon as Rudd told them where Jiliana Kemp was supposed to be; Rudd confronted Reardon with the alternate scenarios, either he tells and is disbarred, or he doesn't tell, in which case were the cops who had abducted his son going to harm him? Reardon said roll the dice.
Rudd capitulated and told them, and they found nothing, but did return Starcher, who had had a very good time. Later Rudd was accosted by Fango, messenger from Link, asking for the money back, and Fango hinted that next time Starcher was kidnapped it might not turn out well. Rudd knocked him down, out cold. There was another thug, and Partner knocked him down. Neither pressed charges when they came to.
Partner called from a hospital, the van had been blown up as he was starting it. They guessed it was Link. Rudd told partner, after he'd brought him home, to contact Miguel and ask him for protection, since Rudd was representing Tadeo free, and Miguel could get the message across to Fango and the other thug, Razor. Rudd made it clear they should be only made it clear, not physically harmed.
Doug Renfro couldn't stand living in the house any more, and Sebastian Rudd managed to get the city settle the civil suit with an apology in a press conference from the mayor, dismissal of all police officers involved and the chief, plus two million dollars tax free for Renfro who was uncertain where he'd go but wanted to leave country.
................................................................................................
Juliana Kemp was kidnapped from a parking lot, and there was no ransom note nor any trace of the abductor who had used a stolen vehicle and left no fingerprints or DNA when abandoned it. But she'd been pregnant and city had two lives to worry about. Arch Swagger was arrested and demanded Sebastian Rudd, who noted that he did not say he wasn't guilty. After giving a check for half the initial amount, which didn't clear, he called at four a.m. to say where the body was buried - under a vasectomy ad billboard on the highway in the cornfield - and that he had lost the surveilling cops, and was on the run.
Reardon called Rudd to his office, Swanger had left a message to say Rudd knew where the girl was; Roy Kemp, the father of the girl, came in. Sebastian Rudd explained that the cheque from swagger hadn't cleared and that meant he wasn't his lawyer, but the disclosure about the location made by swagger was under the assumption of a legal relationship as client and lawyer, and besides, there was no reason to believe Swanger was telling the truth.
Starched was kidnapped from the restroom of the park where Sebastian Rudd had taken him boating, and one day later Reardon was sent as a messenger to Rudd to say the boy was ok, and would be returned as soon as Rudd told them where Jiliana Kemp was supposed to be; Rudd confronted Reardon with the alternate scenarios, either he tells and is disbarred, or he doesn't tell, in which case were the cops who had abducted his son going to harm him? Reardon said roll the dice.
Rudd capitulated and told them, and they found nothing, but did return Starcher, who had had a very good time. Later Rudd was accosted by Fango, messenger from Link, asking for the money back, and Fango hinted that next time Starcher was kidnapped it might not turn out well. Rudd knocked him down, out cold. There was another thug, and Partner knocked him down. Neither pressed charges when they came to.
Partner called from a hospital, the van had been blown up as he was starting it. They guessed it was Link. Rudd told partner, after he'd brought him home, to contact Miguel and ask him for protection, since Rudd was representing Tadeo free, and Miguel could get the message across to Fango and the other thug, Razor. Rudd made it clear they should be only made it clear, not physically harmed.
Doug Renfro couldn't stand living in the house any more, and Sebastian Rudd managed to get the city settle the civil suit with an apology in a press conference from the mayor, dismissal of all police officers involved and the chief, plus two million dollars tax free for Renfro who was uncertain where he'd go but wanted to leave country.
................................................................................................
"“Say, Rudd, I hear you got in a scrape with a couple of Link Scanlon’s thugs in the courthouse last week. Witnesses say you poleaxed both of them, knocked ’em cold. Too bad you didn’t put a bullet between their eyes. Wish I coulda seen it. Hard to believe you got the balls to slug it out with a couple of leg breakers.”
"“Your point?”
"“I figure Link sent word to you that he wants something, probably money. We know about where he is; we just can’t get to him. We think he’s broke and so he sends a coupla goons to put the squeeze on you. For some reason you don’t want to be squeezed. They push, you coldcock them in broad daylight outside a courtroom. I like it.”
"“Your point?”
"“Do you know these two guys? I mean, their names?”
"Something tells me to play dumb. “One is called Tubby, no last name. Don’t know the other. Got time for a question?”
"“Oh sure.”
"“You’re Homicide. Why, exactly, are you concerned with Link and his thugs and me having some fun with them?”
"“Because I’m Homicide.” He whips open a file and shows me an eight-by-ten color photo of two dead bodies in some sort of trash heap. They’re lying facedown, with their wrists tied tightly behind them. The backs of their necks are caked with dried blood. “Found these two stiffs in the city landfill, wrapped in an old piece of shag carpet. The bulldozer shoved it down a small embankment and Tubby and Razor rolled out. Tubby is Danny Fango, on the right there. Razor, on the left, is Arthur Robilio.”"
"“So what, Reardon? You think I rubbed these guys out because they jumped me in the courthouse?”
"“I don’t know what I’m thinking right now, but I got these two Boy Scouts on the slab and nobody knows nothing. As far as I know, you were the last person to get in a fight with them. You seem to enjoy operating down in the gutter. Maybe you got some friends down there. One thing leads to another.”"
Swanger called Rudd and said hed meet him in thirty minutes to tell him where Jiliana Kemp was, she was alive. Sebastian Rudd went, and was told Jiliana was in a racket where kidnapped girls like her were forced into prostitution, strip clubs and baby selling, after getting them addicted to drugs, and she couldn't escape without help; Swanger expected Rudd to get him the reward money.
Tadeo's trial had no chance without some deal, and Rudd used the information from Swanger to get one so that Tadeo could serve five years in a reasonable place and still have a future, rather than fifteen years in a hard place only to turn into a professional killer. He finally got the deal, called Swanger, and eventually met him. Swanger said she'd been moved to Atlanta.
"“They’re in a big strip mall where there’s traffic, lots of cars and people come and go. Atlas Physical Therapy is the name of the company, but it’s nothing but an upper-end brothel. No number in the phone book. Therapists on call. Appointments only, no walk-ins. Every customer has to be referred by another customer, and they—the head therapists—know who they’re dealing with. So if you’re a customer, you park in the lot, maybe step into the Baskin-Robbins for an ice cream, stroll along the sidewalk, then duck into Atlas. A guy wearing a white lab coat says hello and acts real nice, but under the coat is a loaded piece. He pretends to be a therapist, and he does in fact know a lot about broken bones. He takes your money, say $300 cash, and leads you back to some rooms. He points to one, you walk in, and there’s a small bed and a girl who’s young and pretty and almost naked. You get twenty minutes with her. You leave through another door and no one knows you’ve had your therapy. The girls work all afternoon—they get the mornings off because they’re up late—then they load ’em up and take ’em to the strip clubs where they dance and do their routines. At midnight, they take ’em home, to a fairly nice apartment complex where they’re locked down for the night.”
"“Who is they?”
"“They are the traffickers, some extremely nasty guys. A gang, a ring, a cartel, a disciplined band of criminals, most with ties to eastern Europe, but some local boys as well. They abuse the girls, keep them terrified and confused and hooked on heroin. Most people in this country don’t believe there’s sex trafficking in their cities, but it’s there. It’s everywhere. They, the traffickers, prey on runaways, homeless kids, girls from bad families looking for escape. It’s a sick business, Rudd. Really sick.”"
The raid succeeded, Jiliana Kemp was flown home to her parents and was crying, she didn't know where her baby was, and several other girls were freed; the guys caught talked. But Swanger disappeared.
"The sex-trafficking story runs for pages, and the FBI operation is obviously still in progress. Arrests are being made across the country. So far, about twenty-five girls have been rescued. There was a shooting in Denver but no serious injuries."
Tadeo refused the deal Rudd had worked hard to get, he was confident he'd convince the jury of his innocence, and once free he'd find another lawyer! The judge and the public prosecutor tried to persuade Tadeo, without success. Miguel attempted to bribe a juror, and to make Rudd pay for it, and threatened him when Rudd refused.
Tadeo was convicted unanimously, and Miguel was arrested for bribing.
"At ten I check my phone. Every Zapate in town is looking for me: mother, an aunt, a sister, and Tadeo and Miguel from jail. Seems they need me now. I’m fed up with these people, but I know they’re not going away.
"Two reporters are calling. Mancini wants to have a drink. Why, I have no idea.
"And there is a voice mail from Arch Swanger. Condolences on the big loss. How in hell?
"I need to leave town. At midnight, I load the van with some clothes, the golf clubs, and half a case of small-batch bourbon. I flip a coin, head north, and last for two hours before I almost fall asleep. I stop at a budget motel and pay forty bucks for one night. I’ll be on a golf course, somewhere, by noon, all alone.
"This time I’m not sure I’m going back."
"“Say, Rudd, I hear you got in a scrape with a couple of Link Scanlon’s thugs in the courthouse last week. Witnesses say you poleaxed both of them, knocked ’em cold. Too bad you didn’t put a bullet between their eyes. Wish I coulda seen it. Hard to believe you got the balls to slug it out with a couple of leg breakers.”
"“Your point?”
"“I figure Link sent word to you that he wants something, probably money. We know about where he is; we just can’t get to him. We think he’s broke and so he sends a coupla goons to put the squeeze on you. For some reason you don’t want to be squeezed. They push, you coldcock them in broad daylight outside a courtroom. I like it.”
"“Your point?”
"“Do you know these two guys? I mean, their names?”
"Something tells me to play dumb. “One is called Tubby, no last name. Don’t know the other. Got time for a question?”
"“Oh sure.”
"“You’re Homicide. Why, exactly, are you concerned with Link and his thugs and me having some fun with them?”
"“Because I’m Homicide.” He whips open a file and shows me an eight-by-ten color photo of two dead bodies in some sort of trash heap. They’re lying facedown, with their wrists tied tightly behind them. The backs of their necks are caked with dried blood. “Found these two stiffs in the city landfill, wrapped in an old piece of shag carpet. The bulldozer shoved it down a small embankment and Tubby and Razor rolled out. Tubby is Danny Fango, on the right there. Razor, on the left, is Arthur Robilio.”"
"“So what, Reardon? You think I rubbed these guys out because they jumped me in the courthouse?”
"“I don’t know what I’m thinking right now, but I got these two Boy Scouts on the slab and nobody knows nothing. As far as I know, you were the last person to get in a fight with them. You seem to enjoy operating down in the gutter. Maybe you got some friends down there. One thing leads to another.”"
................................................................................................
Swanger called Rudd and said hed meet him in thirty minutes to tell him where Jiliana Kemp was, she was alive. Sebastian Rudd went, and was told Jiliana was in a racket where kidnapped girls like her were forced into prostitution, strip clubs and baby selling, after getting them addicted to drugs, and she couldn't escape without help; Swanger expected Rudd to get him the reward money.
Tadeo's trial had no chance without some deal, and Rudd used the information from Swanger to get one so that Tadeo could serve five years in a reasonable place and still have a future, rather than fifteen years in a hard place only to turn into a professional killer. He finally got the deal, called Swanger, and eventually met him. Swanger said she'd been moved to Atlanta.
"“They’re in a big strip mall where there’s traffic, lots of cars and people come and go. Atlas Physical Therapy is the name of the company, but it’s nothing but an upper-end brothel. No number in the phone book. Therapists on call. Appointments only, no walk-ins. Every customer has to be referred by another customer, and they—the head therapists—know who they’re dealing with. So if you’re a customer, you park in the lot, maybe step into the Baskin-Robbins for an ice cream, stroll along the sidewalk, then duck into Atlas. A guy wearing a white lab coat says hello and acts real nice, but under the coat is a loaded piece. He pretends to be a therapist, and he does in fact know a lot about broken bones. He takes your money, say $300 cash, and leads you back to some rooms. He points to one, you walk in, and there’s a small bed and a girl who’s young and pretty and almost naked. You get twenty minutes with her. You leave through another door and no one knows you’ve had your therapy. The girls work all afternoon—they get the mornings off because they’re up late—then they load ’em up and take ’em to the strip clubs where they dance and do their routines. At midnight, they take ’em home, to a fairly nice apartment complex where they’re locked down for the night.”
"“Who is they?”
"“They are the traffickers, some extremely nasty guys. A gang, a ring, a cartel, a disciplined band of criminals, most with ties to eastern Europe, but some local boys as well. They abuse the girls, keep them terrified and confused and hooked on heroin. Most people in this country don’t believe there’s sex trafficking in their cities, but it’s there. It’s everywhere. They, the traffickers, prey on runaways, homeless kids, girls from bad families looking for escape. It’s a sick business, Rudd. Really sick.”"
The raid succeeded, Jiliana Kemp was flown home to her parents and was crying, she didn't know where her baby was, and several other girls were freed; the guys caught talked. But Swanger disappeared.
"The sex-trafficking story runs for pages, and the FBI operation is obviously still in progress. Arrests are being made across the country. So far, about twenty-five girls have been rescued. There was a shooting in Denver but no serious injuries."
Tadeo refused the deal Rudd had worked hard to get, he was confident he'd convince the jury of his innocence, and once free he'd find another lawyer! The judge and the public prosecutor tried to persuade Tadeo, without success. Miguel attempted to bribe a juror, and to make Rudd pay for it, and threatened him when Rudd refused.
Tadeo was convicted unanimously, and Miguel was arrested for bribing.
"At ten I check my phone. Every Zapate in town is looking for me: mother, an aunt, a sister, and Tadeo and Miguel from jail. Seems they need me now. I’m fed up with these people, but I know they’re not going away.
"Two reporters are calling. Mancini wants to have a drink. Why, I have no idea.
"And there is a voice mail from Arch Swanger. Condolences on the big loss. How in hell?
"I need to leave town. At midnight, I load the van with some clothes, the golf clubs, and half a case of small-batch bourbon. I flip a coin, head north, and last for two hours before I almost fall asleep. I stop at a budget motel and pay forty bucks for one night. I’ll be on a golf course, somewhere, by noon, all alone.
"This time I’m not sure I’m going back."
................................................................................................
................................................................................................
................................................
April 21, 2016.
January 21, 2020 - January 26, 2020.
ISBN 978 1 473 62289 0
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