“I prefer to have them. Why’d you go to law school?”
“My father is a lawyer in Omaha and it just seemed like the thing to do. I never thought about changing the world, like most first-year law students; I was just thinking of a nice job. My father has done pretty well, and I actually practiced with him for a year. Got bored real fast and decided it was time to leave Nebraska.”
“Why the FBI?”
“Excitement. No eight to five, behind-the-desk routine. When you’re chasing crooks-big ones, small ones, smart ones, dumb ones-there aren’t too many dull moments. And you? What made you want to investigate judges?”
“Well, it wasn’t something I was dreaming about when I started law school. The job market was pretty soft when I graduated, plus I had no desire to do the big-firm routine. They’re finally hiring a lot of women, half my class was female, but I didn’t want to work a hundred hours a week. I have friends who went that route and they’re all miserable. My parents had retired to Florida. I was here and I saw an ad for a job with the Board on Judicial Conduct.”
“You interviewed and got the job. What a surprise.”
The oysters arrived on platters of ice, and the conversation stopped as they went about the ritual, New Orleans style, of squeezing lemons and adding horseradish to the cocktail sauce. Pacheco gulped his from the shells while Lacy used saltines, both acceptable methods.
He said, “So you visited Junior Mace yesterday.”
“I did, for the second time. Ever been to death row?”
“No, but I’m sure I will one day. Anything interesting?”
“Are you fishing for information?”
“Always. I can’t help it. It’s in my DNA.”
“Maybe a tip, a lead, or something. Junior may have information. Mainly, though, I think he just enjoys visitors.”
“So you’re not going to tell me anything new?”
“No, well, maybe. You’ve no doubt studied our exhibit detailing his trial and conviction.”
“I’ve read every word.”
“So you remember the part of the story where the two jailhouse snitches disappeared shortly after the trial.”
“Todd Short and Digger Robles.”
She smiled. Impressive. “Right. For years, the legend was that they were taken out before they could recant, which is often what snitches do. It appears as if one is really gone. The other, though, has made a miraculous comeback. Back from the dead, sort of, and he’s talking. He’s dying of cancer and wants to set the record straight.”
“That’s great news, right?”
“Maybe. Junior’s lawyers from D.C. were at Starke yesterday, and they asked me to sit in. They’re pretty excited about his chances of, first, staying the execution and, second, getting a new trial.”
“A new trial? It’s been, what, fifteen years?”
“Fifteen. Seems like a long shot to me, but these guys know their stuff.”
“But this is not your case, right? You’re not involved with Junior’s habeas appeals. So you went to see him for some other reason.”
“Right. Like I said, he thinks he might know something.”
Allie smiled and let it pass. It was obvious she was not sharing anything else. They finished the oysters and debated the entrées. He decided to settle for another dozen. She ordered a bowl of gumbo.
“Whose turn is it?” he asked.
“Yours, I think.”
“Okay, what other interesting cases are you working on?”
She smiled and sipped more wine. “Well, within the bounds of confidentiality, with no names being mentioned, we’re trying to remove a judge who’s hitting the bottle pretty hard. Two lawyers and two litigants have complained. Poor guy has been fighting alcoholism for a long time and now he’s losing badly. He won’t schedule hearings until after lunch. Sometimes he forgets them altogether. One of his court reporters says he keeps a flask under his robe and pours the stuff in his coffee cup. His docket has a backlog and no one’s happy. Pretty sad, really.”
“Should be easy then.”
“It’s never easy to remove a judge. They like their jobs and usually have no place to land when they hang up their robes. My turn. What are you working on?”
For an hour they traded war stories. Pacheco’s world of tracking sleeper cells and narco-traffickers was far more exciting than hounding derelict judges, but he was not judgmental and seemed fascinated by her work. When the wine was gone, they ordered coffee and kept talking.
At her apartment, he walked her to the steps like a gentleman and stopped at the door. “Can we talk business?” he asked.
“If you mean sex, the answer is no. I’m still too sore to get in the mood.”
“I wasn’t thinking about sex.”
“Is that your first lie of the night?”
“Maybe the second.” He faced her and stepped closer. “Luna is close, Lacy. The disappearance of Myers has our attention. I spent most of the day trying to convince him that this case is potentially much bigger than we can imagine. We need something else, another smoking gun, and Luna might be ready.”
“What about your big boss in Jacksonville?”
“He’s tough, but he’s also ambitious. If he sees the potential the way we do, he’ll reconsider. Just give us something else.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know you are. And I’m waiting by the phone.”
“Enjoyed the evening.”
“And so did I.” He pecked her on the cheek and said good night.
30
Wilton Mace said he was calling from a pay phone, and he did indeed sound nervous, even jumpy, as if looking over his shoulder. Tomorrow, Lyman Gritt was taking his wife to see a doctor in Panama City, a specialist of some variety. He wanted to meet Lacy at the doctor’s office, a place no one would suspect. Wilton gave her the details and asked if she could identify Gritt. She said no, she had never met him, but her boss could. And her boss would insist on being with her. Wilton wasn’t sure how this would sit with Gritt, but they could figure things out at the doctor’s office. Don’t be surprised, though, if Gritt didn’t like it.
Lacy and Michael arrived an hour early. While he stayed in the car, she entered the building, part of a busy medical arts complex with doctors and dentists on four levels. She loitered around the ground floor, read the directory, stopped by a café, then took the elevator to the third floor. The office belonged to a group of gynecologists, and its large, modern waiting room was filled with women, only two accompanied by men. Lacy returned to the car and waited while Michael went inside and covered the same territory. When he returned, they agreed the place was harmless. A perfect spot for a clandestine meeting. Dozens of patients were entering and leaving the building. At 1:45, Michael nodded to a couple leaving their car and said, “That’s Gritt.” About six feet tall, thin but with a potbelly. His wife had long dark hair that was braided, and she was much shorter and stockier.
“Got ’em?” Michael asked.
“Yep.” When they entered the building, Lacy eased out of the car and followed. Michael would sit and wait and hope there was no frantic call. He watched the foot traffic carefully, hoping to see nothing suspicious. Inside, Lacy read the directory again, killed a few minutes, and took the elevator to the third floor. She entered the waiting room and saw Gritt and his wife sitting against a far wall, looking as uncomfortable as everybody else. She picked up a magazine and found a chair on the other side of the room. Amy Gritt stared at the floor as if she might be expecting some awful news. Lyman casually flipped through a People magazine. Lacy had no idea if Wilton had described her looks to Gritt, but he seemed to have no interest in her. The receptionist was too busy to notice the young lady who had not bothered to check in. A name was called. The patient slowly walked to the desk, was greeted by a harried nurse, and disappeared around a corner. The languid pace continued for half an hour as more women arrived to replace those who were leaving. Lacy peered over her magazine and watched Gritt. After an hour, he glanced at his watch as if growing frustrated. Finally, the name of Amy Gritt was called, and she walked to the desk. As soon as she was out of sight, Lacy stood and stared at Lyman. When he made eye contact, she nodded slightly and left the waiting room. She walked to the end of the hallway and waited only a few seconds before Gritt closed the door behind him and walked to her.