‘Yeah, I wrote that,’ Larry said flatly, matter-of-factly. ‘But I’m somewhat lost as to what exac-’
‘I’m sure Mr Durrant wouldn’t for a minute dream of detaching himself from that article,’ Rodriguez cut in quickly, sensing Larry’s belligerent tone heading for a confrontation. ‘Just because it might now suit him to do so. He’s understandably proud of everything he’s written. But at the same time, it’s only an opinion.’
‘Yes, Mr Rodriguez.’ Beehive exhaled heavily, as if mustering patience to deal with an errant schoolchild. ‘But what concerns me about that opinionis the dilemma it now presents to this board. Two of the strongest factors we have to consider in recommending pardon is firstly that prisoners fully repent their crime, and secondly, and in hand with that, that they fully accept the judgement of the courts, justice system and our governor — upon whose mercy they now throw themselves. Yet here we have a prisoner who questions their very guilt — so how can we even get to the stage of acceptance and repentance?’ Beehive shrugged. ‘And on top is also questioning the judgement of our fair governor before he’s even considered the issue.’
Durrant blinked slowly, a faint smile creasing his lips — acceptance or challenge, Rodriguez wasn’t sure.
‘I can see that,’ Rodriguez said, eager to speak before Larry opened his mouth and possibly dug them in deeper. ‘But I’m sure that…’ Though as Rodriguez said it, he had no idea what he was sure of. His mouth was suddenly dry, his throat tight as Beehive stared at him curiously, expectantly. ‘I…I’m sure that’s not how Mr Durrant meant it.’ All he could think of quickly.
The stare stayed steadily, evenly on Rodriguez, one eyebrow now raised imperiously, doubtingly, and it was obvious to everyone in the room that he was floundering, desperately treading water. A few basic legalese phrases strung together from first-year law books combined with some fast talk from the streets and being on the radio — who was he kidding? She’d probably ridden roughshod over some of the toughest lawyers in the state. But this might be Larry’s very last chance; he couldn’t just give up at the first obstacle. ‘I can see how it might look,’ he said, injecting more conviction. ‘But that article’s just one of many that Larry Durrant’s written in Libre-View. Diversion, thought Rodriguez. If he couldn’t win on one front, shift to another. ‘If we look at some others… this one here for instance in issue eleven that I’ve brought along, we see that-’
‘Mr Rodriguez!’ Beehive cut in sharply with a tired sigh. She wasn’t about to be suckered in. ‘Mr Durrant’s literary expertise and comments in other areas are not in question. I brought up this particular article because it presents specific problems to this board in its recommendation for clemency.’
‘I understand.’ Rodriguez nodded, suitably humbled. A light buzzing now in his head, feeling slightly dizzy, disorientated. Where else to head, what else to try?And as that owlish, unwavering gaze cut through him, his cheeks burning and the room starting to sway uncertainly around him, he wished that he was anywhere than here at this moment.
‘And so until such time as those issues are answered, if they can be, then I don’t see the point in-’
Beehive broke off sharply and looked past Rodriguez’ shoulder as the door opened behind them. ‘… Yes?’
‘I apologize profusely for the late intrusion. Darrell Ayliss, attorney at law.’
All eyes in the room were fixed on the man — late forties, overweight, oiled-down black hair greying at the sides, horn-rimmed glasses, a cream suit as if he’d just returned from Havana — as he stepped forward and handed cards to each of the BOP panel, then nodded briefly towards Durrant and Rodriguez.
‘Because of the unfortunate turn of events with Mr McElroy, I was not informed of the situation until late in the day by my old colleague Michael Coultaine — who, as you are all probably aware, handled the original trial and appeal for Mr Durrant — and I got here as soon as I could.’ Ayliss adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose and pushed a tight smile to all present. ‘Now you were saying, Mrs…?’
‘Elleridge. Gloria Elleridge.’
‘Mrs Elleridge. Your reputation precedes you. Heard much about your good work on the board.’ Ayliss’s pronounced southern accent had a smooth, lilting sing-song edge. The compliment raised a faint blush from Beehive. ‘Now you just go right ahead.’
Someone else in on it? Carmen Malastra should have realized that from the outset: to prevent skimming, all employees, including the manager, were searched going in and out of his casinos, and were allowed no more than fifty bucks in their pockets. And Malastra regularly changed the security guards, in case they might get involved. So that meant to get any significant cash out of the Bay-Tree regularly, Jouliern would have needed a courier.
The search for George Jouliern’s likely money courier had gone well at first. From the video library of the Bay-Tree Casino floor, Malastra built up a strong picture of who Jouliern had met with during the eighteen months to two years the scam had been running.
Jouliern was a popular man. Very popular. Very sociable. A greeting for everyone, a few gracious words spoken before he’d touch their arm, smile and move on. But it was the occasions when more than a few words were spoken that drew Malastra’s interest, or when a look of concern might cross Jouliern’s face. Perhaps it might be someone he’d just sit next to nonchalantly, hardly paying them any attention; except that it would have to happen on a regular basis, and there’d be that moment when an envelope or small package would be passed between them, even if half-concealed beneath a table or left under a jacket draped over a bar-stool.
Malastra followed every inch of Jouliern’s movements over that period, fast-forwarding, stopping, leaning closer to the screen when something caught his interest, zooming in, tracing one finger over Jouliern and the face next to him in the frame, wondering ‘ Could it be you?’ But the problem was there were too many faces, too many that Jouliern met with regularly and shared more than a few words with. Malastra had started off with forty or more possible suspects, but after days at the computer was finding it hard to narrow down beyond eighteen; no regular tell-tale envelopes passed from Jouliern that would immediately lift one of them from the pack.
Malastra became convinced that he wasn’t going to be able to find Jouliern’s courier, it was going to remain a mystery. He decided to pay a personal visit to the Bay-Tree Casino floor, in case there was something he’d overlooked.
The new manager there, Tony Caccia, greeted him with a wide smile. ‘Mr Malastra. So nice to see you here.’
‘Yeah,’ Malastra said curtly. He visited rarely, and usually went straight to the upstairs office without visiting the casino floor. He promptly turned his back on Caccia and went round the casino checking the angles of the video cameras, the manager following uncertainly from four paces behind. Having done a full circuit of the room, he turned back to Caccia. ‘Any blind spots on the video cams that you’re aware of?’
‘No, don’t think so. Why?’
Malastra looked at him sharply. ‘If you’re going to continue working for me, the first thing to get clear is never answer my questions with a question. Only Jewish businessmen and wily old Italians like myself do that. It’s fucking annoying. Okay?’