Chasing Justice: A Matt Royal Mystery (29 page)

“I didn’t think that, but if they had a conflict of interest, we’d be the ones called in.”

“You didn’t know about the conflict of interest until you talked to the chief and Detective Robson, did you?”

“Right.”

“Then why would you have talked to your boss before you met with the chief? How would you have known about the conflict?”

“That didn’t happen. I talked to my boss first.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“And if Agent Strickland’s phone logs and his memory contradict you, if they show that you called him before your meeting with Detective Robson, would they be wrong?”

“They would have to be wrong. How would I have known about the murder or that Mrs. Lester would be the primary suspect?”

“Good question, Agent Lucas. But you knew about the murder before the Sarasota police did, didn’t you?”

“That’s absurd.” He was getting a bit agitated now. “How would I know such a thing?”

“Another good question. How did you know about the murder before you talked to Detective Robson?”

“I didn’t.”

“And, Abby Lester wasn’t the prime suspect, as you put it, when you got involved in the case, was she?”

“I’d say she was.”

“I think you testified that all you knew at the time you met with Detective Robson and his chief was that Abby’s fingerprints had been found in the condo.”

“That’s correct.”

“Along with prints belonging to at least ten other people.”

“Right.”

“Then how did that make Abby the prime suspect?”

“I guess that came about later.”

“It came about when you decided to focus on Abby and no one else.”

“It came about when I saw those emails.”

“Agent Lucas, you first heard about the scar on Abby’s left hip a few minutes ago, during the break, right?”

“No. I heard about it the day after I started the investigation.”

“Did you talk to either Mr. Swann or Ms. Madison about the scar during the break this morning?”

“We talked about a number of things.”

“Agent Lucas,” I said, my voice rising, “if I don’t get a straight answer out of you, I’m going to call Mr. Swann to the stand, put him under oath, and ask him the same question. Am I clear?”

“Objection,” Swann said. “He’s badgering the witness. And he can’t make me testify.”

“Counsel,” Judge Thomas said, “approach the bench.”

Swann and I and the court reporter gathered before the judge for a whispered conversation. “Mr. Swann, did you discuss the defendant’s scar with Agent Lucas during the break?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may take your seat, Mr. Swann, and you may continue, Mr. Royal,” the judge said.

I went back to the podium. “Agent Lucas, did you discuss my client’s scar during the break?”

“Yes, sir. We did.”

“I want you to take your time answering this question because you’ve shown a tendency to have a lousy memory and I want you to be very sure of your answer.” Sometimes a little sarcasm is warranted.

“Objection,” Swann said. “That wasn’t a question.”

“Agreed, Your Honor,” I said. “I’ll move on.”

“Please do, Mr. Royal,” the judge said.

“And this was the first time you’d heard about the scar?”

“I’m pretty sure I heard about it when I first interviewed Ms. Madison.”

“Did you attempt to investigate that any further?”

“You mean the scar?”

“Yes. Did you ever tell Mr. Swann about the scar or ask him to come to me to verify whether Abby had such a scar?”

“I don’t think I did.”

“Why not? Would that not have been of some importance to your investigation?”

“Yes, it’s important, but I had Ms. Madison’s testimony that she saw the scar, and that should have been enough.”

“Would it have been enough if you had found out that Abby Lester has no such scar?”

“I don’t understand your question.” He was playing for time, hoping to get an objection from Swann or come up with some plausible answer. He apparently wasn’t going to get either one.

“Agent Lucas, if there is evidence presented in this court showing that my client does not have a scar on her left hip, or her right one for that matter, will you still stand by your answer that you first heard about the scar the day after the investigation began? Subject yourself to a charge of perjury?”

“Objection,” Swann said. “Mr. Royal is badgering the witness, he’s argumentative, and there’s no evidence that his client doesn’t have such a scar.”

“I’ll present the evidence at the proper time, when I put on my case, Your Honor.”

“Overruled. You may answer the question, Agent Lucas.”

“I think that’s when I heard about the scar, but I couldn’t swear to it.”

“As a matter of fact, you never heard about the scar until the break we just finished.”

“That may be so.”

“Nothing further, Your Honor.”

Swann said, “No redirect, Your Honor, and at this time the state will rest its case.”

I wasn’t too surprised at Swann’s calling it quits. He’d done a professional job of presenting his case without trying to embellish it. I thought I’d defanged him a bit with the last two witnesses, but he’d put all the building blocks of his case into evidence, and in the absence of my being able to pick it apart or show the jury that other people had as much or more motive and opportunity to kill Bannister, he might convince the jury that Abby committed the murder. My case was about to begin, and all I had to do was plant reasonable doubt in the minds of the jurors. I didn’t have to prove Abby’s innocence.

“Okay,” the judge said, “Do you have motions, Mr. Royal?”

“I do, Your Honor. May we approach the bench?”

He waved us up. “Judge, I only have one motion and I can be very quick with it. But I would like to ask the court’s indulgence and recess until tomorrow morning. Mr. Swann has finished more quickly than I had anticipated.”

“This is quite unusual, Mr. Royal.”

“I know, Your Honor, but so is the entire case. I’ll be ready to go first thing tomorrow.”

“Okay. I’ll release the jury.”

“On another issue,” I said, “I have Agent Lucas under subpoena and would ask the court to instruct him to be available for recall.”

The judge gave the jury the usual instruction and recessed until nine o’clock on Thursday morning. On the way out of the jury box, the attractive fragrance executive shot me a quick smile.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Once the jury was out of the courtroom, I made a perfunctory motion for a directed verdict of acquittal, which is granted only when the judge thinks there is not enough evidence put on by the state to give the case to the jury. It is a finding as a matter of law that there is not enough evidence to proceed. Swann had put on a pretty good case, hitting all the bases he needed to hit. I’d suckered him on the scar issue, but at this point, it was still a question of fact for the jury. I didn’t expect to win the motion, and the judge ruled against me without even giving Swann a chance to argue.

I drove the few blocks downtown to meet with Bob Crites and review once again the contracts and other documents that Bob had found in Bannister’s safe deposit box. This was one of those exercises that the trial lawyer knows is probably a waste of time. I most likely wouldn’t need the documents at all, but in case I did, I wanted to be ready. We were spread out in Bob’s conference room, and when we finished with the documents, he left me to prepare for Thursday.

I had a lot of work to do, other than the documents. I had already been over everything, all the depositions, and the evidence that had been admitted so far in the trial. I went over them again. I worked on the questions I would present to the witnesses, making sure I didn’t leave anything out, and being careful not to make the biggest mistake the trial lawyer can make, asking a question to which he doesn’t know the answer. The trial lawyer’s fear of getting caught on something he had not anticipated, or had not prepared for, was nagging at me. I went over everything I could think of one more time. I expected a lot of fireworks from Swann over the next two days, and those days would be the most crucial since Abby had been charged.

When I was as prepared as I was going to get, Bob and I walked the couple of blocks to the Two Senoritas Mexican restaurant. I’d missed lunch and my growling stomach would welcome a couple of big burritos. They probably wouldn’t do much for the acid that was rumbling around in my gut, but a cold beer or two might cool it off.

* * *

The sun was sinking into the Gulf as I drove onto the key. I decided one more beer wouldn’t hurt me. I called J.D. “You in bed?”

“It’s not even eight o’clock.”

“Want to meet for a quick one at the Haye Loft?”

“Now?”

“I just crossed the New Pass Bridge.”

“I’ll meet you there. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“What?”

“It’s a surprise. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“Meet me in the parking lot. I need a hug.”

She laughed. “You’re on, sweetie.”

The last light of the day was moving over the island as I parked under the trees behind the building that housed the Euphemia Haye restaurant on the first floor and the Haye Loft bar on the second. The trees that arched over the shell parking lot blocked most of the waning light. As I parked, another car pulled into the lot and parked facing the road. I locked the Explorer and waited by the car for J.D. to arrive.

“Mr. Royal, a minute please.” It was a man’s voice coming from a shadow cast by one of the trees that bordered the street. I couldn’t see him. He must have been in the car that arrived right after I did.

“Yes?” I asked.

“We need to talk.”

“Okay.”

“Over here.”

“Show yourself.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then we have nothing to talk about,” I said.

“I’ve got a nine millimeter pistol trained on you, and I’m a good shot. If you don’t get your ass over here, I’ll prove it. And you’ll be dead.”

“That’ll cut our conversation pretty short, don’t you think?”

I just needed a little time. J.D. was on her way, and she was always armed. I reached into my pocket and used the speed-dial setting to call her. The man was too far away to hear her answer.

I heard the muffled voice of J.D. coming from my pocket. “I’m on my way.”

“So,” I said loud enough for J.D. to hear through the phone, “you’ve got a nine mil and you’re a good shot. I’m standing here in the parking lot like a staked goat. You’re hiding under a tree. Why don’t we just try to talk this out?”

“I need some information from you, Mr. Royal, but if you don’t cooperate, your being dead will be good enough, I guess.”

“Are you working for Mark Erickson?”

The man was silent for a moment and then laughed. “You’re pretty good. A lot better than I expected from a beach bum.”

I was facing Gulf Bay Drive, the side street on which the parking lot was located. I saw J.D.’s Camry turn off Gulf of Mexico Drive onto Gulf Bay. She slowed almost to a stop and then continued down the road. Maybe she was going to park farther down and sneak back. She’d better hurry or this jerk was going to take his shot.

“I have my moments,” I said.

“Well, those moments are over,” he said. And then, he screamed in pain.

“Come on over here, podna. Let’s see who this pissant is.”

“Jock?”

“Surprise.”

The screams had turned into low moans. I walked toward the shadows and found Jock Algren, my lifelong best friend, standing over a large man. The tableau reminded me of those pictures you see of Teddy Roosevelt standing over the big game he’d just shot, usually with his booted foot on the carcass. The man on the ground was no carcass. He was moaning and writhing, holding his right arm, which was twisted unnaturally at the elbow, a bone poking out of his lower arm.

J.D. came running up, a pistol in her hand. “Looks like I’m not needed.” She hugged me. “You okay?”

“Yes. Nice surprise. Just when I needed him.”

“Who is this guy?” Jock asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Who is this Mark Erickson you mentioned on the phone?” Jock asked.

“A name that turned up in an investigation of the trial I’m involved in. Never met him.”

“This isn’t Erickson,” J.D. said. “Erickson is black.”

“Who are you?” I asked the man on the ground.

“Fuck you,” he mumbled through clenched teeth.

Jock kicked him on his broken elbow. The man screamed. “My friend asked you a question,” Jock said.

“I need a doctor.”

“Tell us who sent you and what the hell this is all about,” I said, “and we’ll get you to a hospital.”

“I ain’t got anything to say.”

Jock kicked his elbow again. The man screamed, and Jock squatted down and put his face close to the injured man’s ear. He sad, “You need to understand something, my friend. You’re going to tell me what I need to know sooner or later. I can keep kicking your elbow, or break something else, or put one of your eyes out, maybe cut your dick off, but you’re going to tell me what I need to know. You think you’re tough? You’ve never seen tough. Until now.”

“Who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter. Tell me what I want to know, and we’ll get you to a hospital.”

The guy evidently believed Jock. He started talking at about the same time I heard a siren. Within moments, a Longboat Key Police cruiser turned onto Gulf Bay Drive and pulled into the parking lot, his blue lights flashing. J.D. went to meet the officer. They chatted for a moment and both walked back toward us.

“Hey, Matt,” the cop said. It was Sergeant Doug Coffman, an old friend. “J.D. filled me in. Somebody called 911 and said they’d heard screaming coming from the parking lot.”

“The guy on the ground threatened to shoot me,” I said. “He ended up with a broken arm, a busted elbow, and a shoulder that looks as if it’s out of joint.”

Doug chuckled. “J.D. tells me our buddy Jock has shown up on the island. Things always get interesting when he’s here.”

“He took the shooter out. Can you give me a couple more minutes with him?”

“J.D.’s in charge. Whatever she says.”

“Doug, can you get an ambulance over here?” J.D. asked. “Get him a ride to the hospital and put him under guard?”