As they sat in front of the church, where the smoky light from the sacristy cast a warm gold upon the night, justice Knox received a phone call at his office from Burr. He wanted to meet, that evening if possible, to negotiate a deal for his client with the BOI, offering in exchange relevant information about a smuggling operation.
The girl pointed to John Lourdes's pocket for his notepad and pencil. She wrote: / do/i4 4 even know your name.
He wrote: John Lourdes. I know yours-Teresa. /4 is a lovely name.
She drew on a new page a simple cross with lines from it fanning out. He pitched up his arms and shoulders as if to ask what this means.
She wrote beneath the cross: God will signs down of you when you are mos4 i/1 need.
He thanked her and slipped the pad into his pocket. He sat with a far-off stare and when he finally turned to her, she looked away. She'd been looking at him too long and too intensely and when she realized it, she became self-conscious.
He suddenly had this feeling of boyhood, of who he'd been before ... the fall of angels, so to speak. The feeling was all around him in the scented dark, in the light from the church doorway, on the dry sage breeze. And above all, in the simple portraiture of that young girl with hands folded across her lap.
The pure aesthetic of being truly alive and filled with possibility possessed him. He closed his eyes and tried to completely absorb the feeling and so hold on to it. Then she touched his arm to say she was getting out of the car.
He tried to sleep that night, but he could not. He lay in bed in the tiny room he rented that was his whole world. This day in 1910 had washed upon the opposing shores of his existence, and while he lay there a deal was being exacted that would cast him upon the shores of yet another existence.
In the morning he was awakened by his landlord. There was a call on the hall phone. Justice Knox ordered him to come immediately to the courthouse, and to speak with no one. Rawbone was going to be released.
SEVEN
There was no official federal courthouse; the U.S. court and federal offices were housed on the second floor. The building had a dome, and light from that dome spilled down through a ceiling well.
Justice Knox was in conversation with an attorney when John Lourdes arrived. He waited impatiently, the coming sunlight from the dome hot against his neck until the conversation was done. Knox, alone, approached him.
"Mr. Lourdes. I appreciate your promptness. We have a lot to-"
"Sir. Am I to understand that-"
"Mr. Lourdes, you will understand when I am done explaining. And then you will have no need to jump-start my conversation."
"My apologies, sir."
Knox took him by the arm and they paced off a few steps. Knox spoke privately about the previous night. The district judge had given Knox use of his private office so as few people as possible would know about the meeting. Knox had sat behind the judge's desk. He'd removed the one comfortable attorney's chair, leaving only a stiff-backed shaker for Burr when he arrived. Burr, dressed in an elegant evening suit, could well have been going to the opera. He'd sat in that rigid chair with his legs crossed and smoked with one hand while letting the ashes drop into the palm of the other.
"You had an operative in the Mills Building when my client arrived," he said.
"Yes," said Knox.
"And unless he was having coffee at the Modern Cafe or shopping at that pedestrian department store, he was on duty."
Knox did not proffer an answer.
"We both know what profligates that building has started to attract since it became apparent there was going to be an insurrection. As I have indicated, my client possesses information you might find acutely relevant to an ongoing or future investigation."
"We'll have him deposed and if his information proves to be reliable and valuable, then-"
"I have no intention of allowing my client to rely on the future goodwill of the federal government."
"I see. That being the case, in what small way can you be of service to us?"
"My client has unique access to certain parties operating in strict violation of American law. My client has a singular curriculum vitae that allows him to come and go freely and without exception amongst the very element that you need to unearth, investigate and ultimately indict. In short ... for my client's services, you guarantee in writing an earned immunity."
Burr stood. He walked to the window, opened it, then flicked his ashes out into the night. He let time pass before coming about. He was smiling when he did. "It seems one of the judge's chairs is missing."
"Really?" said Knox. "I wouldn't know."
"It was here last week when I came to see him. No matter." He remained at the window, leaning back against the sill.
"One day, Mr. Knox, the government will come to the purely utilitarian decision that to efficiently and successfully deal with profligates it must enlist the services of efficient and successful profligates. As a matter of fact, I could foresee a time when our law enforcement hierarchy, the backbone of your prized bureaucracy, will all be onetime members of that wayward class."
"I guess that means my job would be in jeopardy under your definition of government service."
"Is it better to hire good men and fail, or solicit men who are ... contra bonos mores ... and succeed?"
Knox leaned forward. Thoughts were forming, possible plans of action, the weighing of realities. He rested his elbows on the table, set his chin on clasped and upturned hands. He studied Burr. The electric light from the wall sconce left the lawyer's complexion all the more sallow; his neck was noticeably too thin for the ruffled shirt collar. "Was it the drugs?" he asked.
Burr exhaled a rail-thin line of smoke.
"The morphine. It is morphine, that-"
"Turned me into a dissolute." Burr fingered his cigarette out the window. "I have had a taste for the unsavory . . . ever since childhood. Perhaps that's what makes me such an effective and successful attorney."
"What you are proposing would demand crossing the border, would it not?"
"Yes."
"We have no authority there."
"That doesn't mean you couldn't, or shouldn't, send an operative with him, for the gathering of evidence, the ascertainment of fact, against individuals or groups that have the potential to negatively affect domestic security. This operative could have authority over my client. We would agree to that."
"How does one have authority over someone with his biography?"
"There's a way."
"You said a few minutes ago you would never allow your client-"
"To rely on the future goodwill of the government. I emphasized the word-future."
When John Lourdes heard justice Knox say "earned immunity" he wanted to vomit with rage. He stood in the light of that great dome trying to grasp the implications of the meeting with Burr.
"Now," said justice Knox, "there will be an operative with him when he goes into Mexico. That operative will have complete authority, or at least tactical control. I'm considering you for this assignment."
"Sir?"
"You don't have the most field experience, but you're the only one who's truly bilingual. I'm going to be honest. I have reservations."
He kept hearing himself say, "Sir?"
"It's about character."
"Character ... my character?"
He could feel the anger coming through in his voice.
"Not a lack of character. It's ... I noted your reaction to Howell when we were interrogating the girl. I heard the anger in your voice just a minute ago when I told you what is going to happen. I do not question your dedication. But I need to be assured the operative I send can remain dispassionate and view this as ... a practical application of strategy. Just as I have to remain dispassionate in my judgments."