Текст книги "Rogue Lawyer"

Автор книги: John Grisham

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

12.

Max finishes up around three and hands off to me. By now, I know more than enough about these people and I’m ready for the selection. However, this is my first chance to speak directly to the pool, and it’s an opportunity to lay the groundwork for what every lawyer hopes will become some level of trust. I watched their faces and I know many of them found Max to be obsequious, even a bit goofy. I have an abundance of flaws and bad habits, but fawning is not part of my act. I don’t thank them for being there—they were summoned, they have no choice. I don’t pretend that we’re doing something great and they’re a part of it. I don’t brag on our judicial system.

Instead, I talk in broad terms about the presumption of innocence. I urge them to ask themselves if they haven’t already decided that my client is guilty of something or else he wouldn’t be here. Don’t raise your hand, just nod along with me if you think he’s guilty. It’s human nature. It’s the way our society and culture work these days. There’s a crime, an arrest, we see the suspect on television, and we’re relieved that the police have caught their man. Presto, just like that. Crime solved. Guilty party in custody. These days we never, never stop and say, “Wait, he’s presumed to be innocent and he’s entitled to a fair trial.” We rush to judgment.

“Questions, Mr. Rudd?” Go Slow squawks into her microphone.

I ignore her, point to Tadeo, and ask if they can truthfully say that, at this moment, they believe he’s completely innocent.

Of course, there is no response because no prospective juror will ever say she’s made up her mind already.

I move on to the burden of proof and discuss it until Max has had enough. He stands, arms open wide in complete frustration, and says, “Your Honor, he’s not quizzing the panel. He’s giving a law school lecture.”

“Agreed. Either ask your questions or sit down, Mr. Rudd,” Go Slow says, rather rudely.

“Thank you,” I reply like the smart-ass I really am. I look at the first three rows and say, “Tadeo doesn’t have to testify, doesn’t have to call any witnesses. Why? Because the burden of proving him guilty lies with the prosecution. Now, let’s say he doesn’t take the stand. Will that matter to you? Will you tend to think he’s hiding something?”

I use this all the time and rarely get a response. Today, though, juror number seventeen wants to say something. Bobby Morris, age thirty-six, white, a stonemason. He raises his hand and I nod at him. He says, “If I’m on the jury, then I think he should testify. I want to hear from the defendant.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morris,” I reply warmly. “Anybody else?” With the ice broken, several others raise their hands and I gently ask follow-up questions. As I had hoped, it becomes a discussion as more and more lose their inhibitions. I’m easy to talk to, a nice guy, a straight shooter with a sense of humor.

When I’m finished, Her Honor informs us we will pick the jury before we go home and gives us fifteen minutes to look at our notes.

13.

The e-mail from Judith reads, “Starcher is still upset. You are such a pathetic father. See you in court.”

I’m tempted to fire something back, but why bother? Partner and I are driving away from the courthouse. It’s dark, after 7:00 p.m., and it’s been a hard day. We stop at a bar for a beer and a sandwich.

Nine whites, one black, one Hispanic, one Vietnamese. With their names and faces so fresh I have to talk about them. Partner, as always, listens dutifully with little comment. He has been in the courtroom for most of the past two days and he likes the jury.

I stop at two beers, though I really want several more. At nine o’clock, Partner drops me off at an Arby’s, and I fiddle with a soft drink for fifteen minutes waiting on Nate. He finally arrives, orders some onion rings, apologizes for being tardy. “How’s the trial going?” he asks.

“Got a jury late this afternoon. Opening statements in the morning, then Mancini starts calling witnesses. Should go pretty fast. We got a deal?”

He shovels in a large, crusty ring and chews fiercely while looking around. The place is empty. He swallows hard, says, “Yep. Woody met with Mancini two hours ago and fired him. He replaced him with a flunky who was planning to move for a mistrial first thing in the morning. Mancini backed down and agreed to play along. He wants to meet with you and the judge at 8:30 tomorrow.”

“The judge?”

“You got it. Seems Woody and Janet Fabineau have some mutual dealings, friends, whatever, and Woody insisted on putting her in the loop. She’s good to go. She’ll take the plea, approve the bargain, sentence your boy to five years at the penal farm, recommend early release. Just like you said, Rudd.”

“Marvelous. And Link’s thugs?”

“That investigation is going nowhere. Forget about it.” He sucks on his straw and selects another onion ring. “Now, Rudd, the fun part.”

“The last time I saw Swanger, the meeting was arranged through a prepaid cell phone he left behind for me in a pharmacy. I still have the phone. It’s right outside in my van. I haven’t used it since, so I don’t know if it’ll work. But if I get Swanger on the phone I’ll try to set up a meeting. I’ll have to give him some cash.”

“How much?”

“Fifty grand, unmarked. He’s not stupid.”

“Fifty grand?”

“That’s about a third of the reward money. I’m assuming he’ll grab it because he’s broke. Anything less might cause problems. Last year you guys cashed in forfeited assets to the tune of four million bucks, all retained by the department, pursuant to our brilliant state law. The money’s there, Nate, and Roy Kemp would spend anything for the chance to see his daughter again.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll pass it along. That’s all I can do.”

I leave him with his onion rings and hurry to the van. As Partner drives away, I open the cheap phone and call the number. Nothing. An hour later, I call again. And again. Nothing.

14.

Aided by exhaustion, the two beers, and a couple of whiskey sours, I fall asleep with the television on. I wake up in my recliner, still wearing a suit but no tie, socks but no shoes. My cell phone is ringing; caller ID says “Unknown.” It’s 1:40 a.m. I take a chance and say hello.

“You looking for me?” Swanger asks.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” I say, collapsing the footrest and bolting to my feet. Things are foggy and my brain needs blood. “Where are you?”

“Dumb question. Any more stupidity and I’m hanging up.”

“Look, Arch, there could be a deal in the works. That is if you’re telling the truth, which, frankly, no one involved believes you’re capable of.”

“I didn’t call to get insulted.”

“Of course not. You called because you want money. I think I can broker a deal, act as the middleman, without a fee of course. I’m not your lawyer, so I won’t be sending you a bill.”

“Very funny. You’re not my lawyer because you can’t be trusted, Rudd.”

“Okay, next time you snatch a girl, hire somebody else. You want the money or not, Arch? I really don’t care.”

There is a brief pause as he thinks about how much he needs cash. Finally, “How much?”

“Twenty-five thousand now to tell us where the girl is. If they find her, then twenty-five more.”

“That’s only a third of the reward money. You taking the rest?”

“Not a dime. As I said, I’m getting nothing, and that’s the very reason I’m asking myself what the hell I’m doing in the middle of all this.”

Another pause as he contemplates a counteroffer. “I don’t like the deal, Rudd. I’ll never see the other twenty-five.”

And we’ll never see the girl, I think but don’t say. “Look, Arch, you’re getting twenty-five thousand bucks from the very people who would shoot you on sight. That’s a lot more than you made last year with honest work.”

“I don’t believe in honest work. Neither do you. That’s why you’re a lawyer.”

“Ha-ha. You’re clever. You want a deal, Swanger? If not, I’m butting out. I got more important things on my mind these days.”

“Fifty grand, Rudd. Cash. Fifty grand and I’ll tell you and you alone where the girl is right now. If this is a setup or if I smell a cop anywhere around, I’ll bolt, make a call, and the girl will be gone for good. Understand?”

“I got it. I’m not sure about the money, but all I can do is pass this along to my contact.”

“Work fast, Rudd, my patience is running thin.”

“Oh, you’ll find the time if the money’s on the table. Who are you kidding, Swanger?”

The line goes dead. So much for a good night’s sleep.

15.

Three hours later, I stop at an all-night convenience store and buy a bottle of water. Outside, I’m approached by a cop in plain clothes who grunts, “You Rudd?” Since I am, he hands me a brown paper grocery bag with a cigar box inside. “Fifty grand,” he says. “All in hundreds.”

“That’ll do,” I say. What am I supposed to say? “Thanks”?

I leave the City, alone. During my last conversation with Swanger, about an hour ago, he instructed me to ditch my “thug” and do the driving myself. He also told me to forget the fancy new van and drive something else. I explained that, at the moment, I had nothing else and didn’t have time to run get a rental. The van will have to do.

I try not to dwell on the fact that this guy is watching me. He knew the moment Partner and I began buzzing around in a U-Haul van. Now he knows I have new wheels. It’s astonishing that he’s in the City enough to know these things, yet still undiscovered by the police. I suspect he’ll finally disappear when he gets the money, which will not be a bad thing.

As instructed, I call him as I leave the City on the southern bypass of the interstate. His directions are precise: “Go sixteen miles south to exit 184, take Route 63 east to the town of Jobes.” As I drive, I remind myself that I have this trial that’s supposed to kick off in just a few hours, or is it? If Judge Fabineau is really in the loop, what does that mean for the rest of the day?

I have no idea how much surveillance is tracking me right now, but I’m sure it is substantial. I didn’t ask questions, didn’t have time to, but I know Roy Kemp and his team have called in all the bloodhounds. There are two mikes in my van and a tracking device inside the rear bumper. I’ve allowed them to listen to my cell phone, but just for the next few hours. I’ll bet they already have people closing in on the town of Jobes. A helicopter or two in the air above me would not be a surprise. I’m not frightened—Swanger has no reason to harm me—but my nerves are jumping nonetheless.

The money is unmarked and cannot be traced. The police don’t care if they get it back; they just want the girl. They’re also assuming Swanger is smart enough to spot anything fishy.

Jobes is a small town of three thousand. When I pass a Shell station on the edge of town, I call Swanger, as instructed. He says, “Stay on the line. Turn left just past the car wash.” I turn left onto a dark, paved street with a few old houses on both sides. He says, “You swear you got fifty grand, Rudd?”

“I do.”

“Take a right and go over the railroad tracks.” I do as I’m told, and he says, “Now turn right onto that first street. It has no name. Stop at the first stop sign and wait.”

When I stop, a figure suddenly appears from the darkness and yanks the passenger door handle. I press the button to unlock it and Swanger jumps inside. He points left, says, “Go that way and take your time. We’re headed back to the interstate.”

“Great to see you again, Arch.” He’s wearing a black do-rag that covers his eyebrows and ears. Everything else is black too, from the bandanna around his neck to his combat boots. I almost ask him where he parked, but why bother?

“Where’s the money?” he demands.

I nod over my shoulder and he grabs the bag. He opens the cigar box, and with a small key-chain light counts the money. He looks up, says, “Take a right,” then keeps counting. As we are leaving the town, he takes a deep, satisfied breath, and offers me a goofy grin. “All here,” he says.

“You doubt me?”

“Damned right I doubt you, Rudd.” He points to the Shell station and says, “You want a beer?”

“No. I don’t normally drink beer at five-thirty in the morning.”

“It’s the best time. Pull in.”

He goes inside without the money. He takes his time, selects a bag of chips to go with his six-pack, and strolls back to the van as if he has no concerns whatsoever. When we’re moving again, he rips off a can and pops the top. He slurps it and opens the chips.

“Where are we going, Arch?” I ask with no small amount of irritation.

“Get on the interstate and head south. This van still smells new, you know that, Rudd? I think I liked the old one better.” He crunches a mouthful of chips and washes it all down with a gulp of beer.

“Too bad. Don’t spill any crumbs, okay? Partner gets really pissed off if he finds crumbs in the van.”

“That your thug?”

“You know who it is.” We’re on Route 63, still dark and deserted. No sign of sunrise. I keep glancing around thinking I’ll see some of the surveillance, but of course they’re too good for that. They’re back there, or up there, or waiting at the interstate. Then again, what do I know about such things? I’m a lawyer.

He pulls a small phone out of his shirt pocket and holds it up for me to see. He says, “Know one thing, Rudd. If I see a cop, smell a cop, or hear a cop, all I do is push this button on this phone, and somewhere, far away, bad things happen. You understand?”

“Got it. Now, where, Arch? That’s the first thing. Where, when, how? You have the money; now you owe us the story. Where is the girl and how do we get her?”

He drains the first can, smacks his lips, reloads another mouthful of chips, and for a few miles it seems as though he has gone mute. Then he opens another beer. At the intersection, he says, “Go south.”

Traffic in the northbound lane is busy as the early commuters head for the City. The southbound, though, is practically deserted. I look at him and want to slap the smirk off his face. “Arch?”

He takes another drink and sits taller. “They’ve taken the girls from Chicago to Atlanta. They move around a lot, every four or five months. They’ll work a town pretty hard, but then after a while people start talking, the cops start sniffing around, and so they disappear, set up shop somewhere else. It’s hard to keep secrets when you’re offering pretty young women at good prices.”

“If you say so. Is Jiliana Kemp still alive?”

“Oh yes. Very much so. She’s quite active, not like she has a choice.”

“And she’s in Atlanta?”

“The Atlanta area.”

“It’s a big city, Arch, and we don’t have time to play games. If you have an address, then give it to me. That’s the deal.”

He takes a deep breath and another long drink. “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.”

I start to rebuke him and curse him, remind him of his rather important role in a business he seems to detest, but it would serve no purpose. Instead, I go along with him. “How many girls now?”

“It’s hard to say. They split ’em up, move ’em around. A few have disappeared for good.”

I don’t really want to pursue this. Only a creep involved in the business would know so much about it.

He points and says, “Turn around at this exit and go back north.”

“Where are we going, Arch?”

“I’ll show you. Just hang on.”

“Okay. Now about that address.”

“Here’s what I would do if I were the cops,” he says with a sudden voice of authority. “I’d watch the place, Atlas, and I’d nab a john when he comes out, fresh from therapy. He’s probably a local insurance agent who’s not getting any at home and he’s taken a shine to one of the girls—you can actually ask for your favorite but the request is nonbinding; they got their rules—or maybe he’s a local ambulance chaser like you, Rudd, just another sleazy lawyer who’s hitting on everything but not scoring much, and for three hundred bucks he gets his therapy.”

“Anyway.”

“Anyway, they grab the guy, scare the living shit out of him, and within minutes he’s singing like a choirboy. He tells them everything, especially the layout of the interior. They make him cry, then let him go. They, the cops, already have a warrant. They surround the place with one of those SWAT squads, and it goes down beautifully. The girls are rescued. The traffickers are caught red-handed, and if the cops do it right they can flip one of them instantly. If he sings, he’ll implicate the entire ring. There could be hundreds of girls and dozens of goons. Could be huge, Rudd, all because of you and me.”

“Yeah, we’re a real team, Swanger.”

I take the exit ramp, cross over the interstate, and reenter it headed north. All the eyes watching my van must be wondering what the hell. My passenger pops another top, his third. The chips are gone and I’m sure there are crumbs left behind. I push it to seventy miles an hour and say, “The address, Arch.”

“It’s in the suburb of Vista View, about ten miles due west of downtown Atlanta. The strip mall is called West Ivy. Atlas Physical Therapy is next door to Sunny Boy Cleaners. The girls will get there around 1:00 p.m.”

“And Jiliana Kemp is one of them?”

“I’ve already answered that, Rudd. You think I’d tell you all this if she wasn’t there. But the cops better go in quick. These people can roll up and move in a matter of minutes.”

I have what I want, so I go quiet. For some reason I say, “Can I have a beer?” For a second he looks irritated, as if he needs all six himself, but then he smiles and hands one over.

16.

A few miles down the road, and after a long, pleasant stretch of silence, Swanger nods and says, “There it is. Dr. Woo and his billboard for vasectomy reversals. Brings back memories, right, Rudd?”

“I spent a long night there, watching them dig. Why’d you do that, Arch?”

“Why do I do anything, Rudd? Why did I grab that girl? And mistreat her? And sell her? She’s not the first, you know?”

“I really don’t care at this point. I just hope she’s the last.”

He shakes his head and says with some sadness, “No way. Pull over here on the shoulder.”

I hit the brakes and the van rolls to a stop under the bright lights from Dr. Woo. Swanger grabs the sackful of money, leaves the beer behind, and yanks the door handle. He says, “Tell those dumb-ass cops they’ll never find me.” He jumps out, slams the door, and bounces down the shoulder into some tall grass, over a fence, and under the billboard. The last image is Swanger ducking low between the thick posts, scrambling fast, and making tracks, then disappearing into the tall corn.

To be safe, I drive half a mile down the interstate, pull off again, and call the cops. They’ve listened to every word spoken in the van for the past hour, so there’s little for me to say. I do stress that it would be a mistake to try and corner Swanger until the raid takes place in Atlanta. They seem to agree. I see no activity in and around the cornfield by the billboard.

As I’m driving back to the City, my cell phone buzzes. Max Mancini. I say, “Good morning.”

“I just spoke with Judge Fabineau. Seems as if she’s been stricken with severe food poisoning. No court today.”

“Gee, that’s awful.”

“I knew you’d be disappointed. Get some sleep and we’ll talk later.”

“Okay. Am I supposed to check in with you?”

“Yes. And, Rudd, nice work.”

“We’ll see.”

I pick up Partner at his apartment and we settle in for a long breakfast at a waffle place. I recount the adventures of the past seven hours, and he, typically, listens without a word. I need to lie down and try to sleep, but I’m too wired. I try to kill time around the courthouse, but I’m so preoccupied with the raid in Atlanta I can think of nothing else.

Normally, I would be frantically preparing for Tadeo’s trial, but now I doubt it will take place. I’ve kept my end of the bargain, and regardless of what happens to Jiliana Kemp, we should have a deal. A nice little plea bargain that will allow my client to fight again, and soon. But I trust no one I’m dealing with at the moment. If the raid produces nothing, it would not be a surprise if the mayor, Max Mancini, Moss Korgan, Go Slow Fabineau, and the police brass all get together in a room and decide, “Screw Rudd and his client! Let’s go to trial.”