Chasing Justice: A Matt Royal Mystery (9 page)

Maybe it was that innate idealism, the little flicker of what was left of it that still endured deep in my soul that was dragging me back into the courtroom. Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. But was I doing this for Abby Lester, or myself? I’d have to chew on that some. And my house, on this night, was very empty. I picked up my phone and called J.D.

“I need a place to sleep,” I said. “I’m not real choosy about where or with whom.”

“You did say sleep.”

“Yes.”

“Just sleep?”

“I think so. I’m tired.”

“Then come on over. I’ll make room for you.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I slept in on Wednesday morning. At some point I heard the shower running and a bit later, I felt J.D. kiss me on the forehead as she was leaving for work. I went back to sleep until a little after nine and woke up feeling like I could take on the world.

I showered in J.D.’s oversized shower, dressed, and drove the mile and a half to the Blue Dolphin Café for breakfast. Most of the locals had already left and the place was full of tourists. I sat at the counter and read the
Tampa Bay Times
while I ate. I was aware that someone had taken the stool next to me, but I was engrossed in the latest news out of Washington, which really wasn’t news, just a rehash of the same old political battles that were so meaningless to most people.

“Back to the courtroom, huh, buddy? You must be bored.”

I looked up to find my friend Logan Hamilton sitting next to me. I laughed. “Hey, Logan. You look a little peaked. Long night?”

“Tiny’s was jumping. I thought you and J.D. might stop in.”

“We had a quiet night. I got a pizza and salad from Ciao’s and we ate at her place. Anything special going on at Tiny’s?”

“Nah. A lot of snowbirds winding up their stays on the key. Most of them are headed north. I guess they wanted to make sure there wasn’t any liquor left on the island. Are you sure you’re doing the right thing by taking on Abby’s case?”

“I think so. What do you think?

“Matt, there’s no better lawyer in the state than you are. If anybody can get her off, it’s you.” He sat quietly.

“I appreciate the compliment, but you still haven’t said whether you think I ought to be on this case.”

“You think she’s being railroaded, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I don’t know why.”

“You want to get up on that white charger of yours and go do justice, don’t you?”

I laughed. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Then go do it. If somebody else takes this case, and she’s found guilty, you’ll never get over it.”

“Suppose I take the case and she’s still found guilty?”

“You’ll do everything you can to see that doesn’t happen, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then you won’t have any regrets.”

“If I lose, I will. I remember every case I ever lost. I regret them all.”

“In the cases you lost, were any of the clients innocent?”

“Probably not. But I still lost.”

“You were supposed to lose, buddy. Can’t have those guilty bastards on the streets.”

As usual, Logan had a point. “Well, I’m in it now.” I said. “For good or bad.”

“You’ll do fine. When are we going fishing?”

“October, probably.”

“October? Are you crazy?”

“Trial will be over by then.”

“You’re full of crap, Royal. You won’t be able to wait that long.”

“You’re probably right. How about Saturday?”

* * *

I went back to my cottage and called Gus Grantham. “I might have some work for you, Gus. Can you have lunch today?”

“Abby Lester?”

I was surprised. “How did you know about that?”

“You were on the front page of the
Herald-Tribune
this morning. Big piece about a beach-bum lawyer coming out of retirement to take the case. Don’t you read the paper?”

“I haven’t seen today’s Sarasota paper. I’ll pick up a copy. But, yes, this is about Abby’s case. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all. Where do you want to have lunch?”

“How about Cha Cha Coconut’s on the Circle. At noon.”

“See you then.”

I cranked up my computer and called a lawyer I knew in Jacksonville who had tried a case against George Swann. I identified myself and told him about my upcoming trial.

“I heard you had retired and were living the good life down in the keys.”

“You heard right, except that I’m on Longboat Key, near Sarasota. What can you tell me about Swann?”

“He’s a snake,” the lawyer said.

“Don’t mince words,” I said. “Tell me straight up.”

He laughed. “I wouldn’t usually talk about a lawyer like that, but Swann is just a bad guy.”

“Tell me about him.”

“First of all, he’s very particular about the cases he tries.”

“How do you mean?”

“If there’s a solid defense, or even a chance of a defense, he’ll either plead it out or dismiss the case. He only goes to trial on slam dunks.”

“Give me an example.”

“One of his wins had to do with a murder where a man with a record as long as my arm killed a cop. Three other cops witnessed the shoot-out. Swann opted to go for the death penalty and wouldn’t agree to anything less. The public defender put up as good a defense as he could, but the trial took one day. Swann put the three cops on the stand, the defense put on no case, and the jury was out for twenty minutes.”

“Are there others like that?”

“You mean big wins?” he said, sarcastically. “Yes.”

“Most of them.”

“What about the case you tried against him?”

“Pretty much the same kind of case. I was appointed because the public defender had a conflict. My guy was guilty and the evidence was pretty much stacked against me. I tried for an insanity defense because there was no other chance. I think Swann was afraid his precious win record might be compromised, so he did everything he could to screw with me. I had a hell of a time getting the discovery done. Everything I filed was contested, put off with motions, anything he could do to keep me from getting the stuff I was entitled to.”

“Your judge didn’t do anything about it?”

“He ruled with me every time, but refused to order sanctions.”

“Why?”

“The state attorney is a big political power up here, and the judge has to run for reelection. He wasn’t about to piss off the man.”

“How did your case come out?”

“The judge ruled against us on the insanity plea and we lost. I won in the penalty phase, though. No death penalty. But Swann still puts that one in his win column. In fact, a lot of those wins are where he had slam dunks, and he got the conviction, but lost the death penalty. The defendants still went away for life without parole.”

A little small talk and I thanked him and hung up. I made two more calls to lawyers in Jacksonville, and got pretty much the same opinions. Swann was not an ethical man, and it didn’t sound like his boss was either. My suspicions were confirmed. I’d have to keep my eyes open and expect the worst kind of lawyering. But then, two could play that game.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The department geek had left a report on J.D.’s desk concerning the tattoo on Linda Favereaux’s arm. He had found its twin in a database that was restricted to law enforcement agencies. Over the years, the federal agencies had collected thousands of pictures of tattoos found on drug dealers, terrorists, white supremacy groups, criminal gangs, and others who would do harm to the rest of us. Curiously, Linda’s tattoo matched the secret logo of a neo-Nazi group that, according to the geek’s report, was still marginally active in Louisiana. A web address was included.

J.D. typed it into her computer and up popped a picture of a man in a brown shirt wearing a red armband bearing the swastika of the Nazi party. His right arm was straight out in the Nazi salute. A banner above him screamed, “
TAKE AMERICA BACK FROM THE MONGRELS
.” The group’s name was emblazoned across the bottom: “
THE WHITE AMERICA PARTY
.”

The text made J.D. wince. It was an exhortation to kill black people, brown people, Jews, and Muslims; anybody who wasn’t of the Aryan race, whatever that was. The party seemed to be small, but was proud that it had existed for more than forty years, doing its best to transform America into what the Founders had envisioned, a democratic utopia where the white race could achieve its God-given rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, without the nettlesome problems presented by the inferior races.

J.D. clicked off the site and sat for a few minutes, wondering at the insanity of these people. What could have happened to them to cause such hatred, such paranoia? She shook herself out of her reverie and called Lyn Haycock to ask her if either of the Favereauxes had ever said anything racist in their meetings.

“No,” Lyn said. “To the contrary, I know they had some black friends. I’ve seen them on the island at least twice with a black couple who live on the mainland. They introduced them to Mike and me as old friends.”

“Do you remember their names?”

“I can’t come up with a last name, but their first names were Mark and Julie. They’re both professors at the Sarasota campus of the University of South Florida.”

“Thanks, Lyn. That’ll narrow the search substantially.”

The USF branch at Sarasota only enrolled a couple thousand students, so the faculty would be fairly small. It shouldn’t be too hard to find the professors. She called the Human Resources Department and asked to speak to the director.

“This is Detective J.D. Duncan, Longboat Key police. I’m trying to identify a couple of your professors who might have some information about a case I’m working on.”

“I don’t know what I can tell you, Detective,” the woman on the other end of the line said. “We have a lot of privacy concerns here.”

“Actually, I just need a last name. The professors are married, they’re black and their first names are Mark and Julie.”

“Oh, I know just who you’re talking about, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable giving out any information on them. Suppose I take your number and ask one of them to call you?”

“I’d appreciate that,” J.D. said, and gave the woman the phone number of the station.

An hour later J.D. picked up her ringing phone. “Detective Duncan?” the voice said.

“Yes.”

“This is Julie Erickson. The human resources director at USF said you were looking for me and my husband.”

“Thank you for calling, Professor. I’m investigating the murder of Linda Favereaux.”

“Oh, my. I heard about that. It’s just terrible.”

“I have a very sensitive question to ask you, but I assure you it has a place in my investigation.”

“Okay.”

“Are you and your husband African-American?”

There was a bit of surprise in her voice. “Yes.”

“I apologize for having to ask that. I understand that you and your husband were old friends of the Favereauxes. I have also developed some information that the Favereauxes may have at one time been involved with a white supremacy or neo-Nazi group?”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

“Usually,” J.D. said. “Did the Favereauxes ever indicate any racist feelings to you?”

“My Lord, no. They were the most color-blind people I’ve ever known. We first met them a couple of years ago when they endowed a chair that my husband and I now jointly hold.”

“An endowed chair is a fund set aside to support and pay a professor for teaching in a particular subject area, right?”

“Right.”

“Do you mind my asking in what academic discipline the chair is funded?”

“African American studies.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. That doesn’t sound like something a couple of racists would do, now does it?”

“No, Professor. It certainly doesn’t. Let me ask you something else. Have you heard from Mr. Favereaux in the past few days?”

“No, we haven’t. We read in the paper that he’d disappeared. We’re concerned about his safety.”

“Did you see any indication that there was trouble in their marriage, or that they were concerned about anything?”

“Nothing.”

“When was the last time you saw them?”

“We had dinner last Thursday at Michaels on East.”

“Anything out of the ordinary come up?”

“No. It was just a pleasant evening. Like so many others we’ve had.”

“Would you mind giving me your contact information in case I need to get in touch with you again?”

Julie Erickson gave J.D. an address and a phone number.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Professor. I apologize again about the question about your race.”

“Don’t worry about it, Detective. I know you’re just doing your job. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything else.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I drove south on the key, headed for St. Armands Circle, one of the premier shopping and dining venues in Florida. It was a gorgeous spring day, the temperature in the mid-seventies, and the air drifting off the Gulf was sweet with the smell of the sea. The sidewalks were full of walkers, joggers, and bicyclists, all jockeying good-naturedly for space. I had the sunroof of the Explorer open and was listening to soft classical music on the radio. A guy just can’t beat living in paradise.

Gus Grantham was waiting for me when I walked into Cha Cha’s, a restaurant and bar on St. Armands Circle. I was wearing a pair of cargo shorts, a t-shirt with a beach scene airbrushed on the back, and boat shoes.

“You look more beach bum than lawyer,” Gus said.

“That’s what I am, truly,” I said. “The lawyer thing is just temporary.”

“How’s J.D.?”

“Covered up on a murder case.”

“I read about that one, too. She’s good. She’ll crack it soon enough.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“It’s good to see you, Matt. Are you going to be able to spring Abby?”

“That may depend on what a good investigator can turn up. Are you interested in taking on the case?”

“Sure.”

“Abby has money to pay you. So this won’t be pro bono.”

“That’s always good to hear. What do you need me to do?”

“Maybe some things that aren’t quite aboveboard.”

“Uh, oh.”

I grinned. “Nothing illegal. It’s just that I’m told my opponent is a slimy bastard who isn’t going to be very compliant with the discovery rules.”