Shake the Trees (27 page)

Again a tittering spread thru the courtroom.  And again Pierson’s ears pinked up.  “Yes, Your Honor.  I mean no, Your Honor.”

CHAPTER 41

James was pacing behind his father’s antique desk.  He’d pulled the heavy drapes closed, but the muted light of the late morning sun still filtered thru.  He’d told his temporary judicial assistant to hold his calls.  His chambers felt serene, or maybe even somber.  The funereal mood he’d created seemed appropriate to the task at hand.

Instinct told him that the end game was unfolding.  That the sand was draining swiftly from the glass, and there would be no chance to start the process anew.  He picked up the disposable cell phone lying on the desk and pushed the button.

“Hello?”  Elizabeth answered in a fog of sleep and medication.  After returning from her nighttime outing, she’d used the keys recovered from the now deceased big-bellied man to enter the unit next door.  She’d found a bottle of bleach and cleaned the blood from the floor of her unit, and even a few splatters from the walls.  Then she took a couple of sleeping pills and fell into a deep slumber. 

“It’s me, Elizabeth.”

“I’ve been waiting to hear from you.  Is everything okay?”  Elizabeth struggled to infuse emotion into words crushed flat by medication and depression.

“No, Elizabeth.  Everything is very much not okay.  The police - the FBI or the FDLE - have identified you.  And now they’re following me.  They’ve connected you to me, Elizabeth.”  James’ accusatory tone held no trace of kindness.

Elizabeth began to cry.  “I’m so sorry, James.  It’s all my fault.  Everything has gone wrong.  I’m sorry.”

“You do understand that we can’t be together now.  Don’t you?”

“I know, James.  We have to wait until this blows over. We have to be patient.”

“No, Elizabeth,” James snapped.  “The theft of $150 million doesn’t blow over.  I can’t be connected to you.  Ever.  It’s over, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth began to sob in a pitiful childlike way, but James was unmoved.  “I’m not him, Elizabeth.”

“What?”

“I’m not your father.”

“I know that, James.”

“He was a very special man.”  James answered softly.

Elizabeth began to weep again, and James knew that he was treading a very fine line.

“I miss him, James.” Elizabeth spoke with tender sincerity.

“I know.  I know you do.”  A compassionate note had finally found its way into his words.  “Someday you’ll be together again.  In a better place.”

“Do you really think so?”  She haltingly choked out the words between sniffles.

“Goodbye, Elizabeth.”  James hit the end button and pondered the conversation.  Had been too kind?  Did he push hard enough?  

Judge Turnbull had called a ten-minute recess, and Tillis found Sally sitting on a bench down the hall peering into her laptop.  She’d arrived a few minutes late for the hearing, and discovered that the doors to Courtroom A were locked.  Apparently His Honor didn’t like interruptions.  From lawyers or spectators.

Fortunately, the federal courthouse had free wireless, and she put her involuntary downtime to good use.  Sally knew that Tillis would be monitoring his BlackBerry, so she’d emailed him.  And told him she’d uncovered something interesting.

Sally sensed Tillis standing over her.  “Did you know the federal courthouse has free wireless?”  She asked as her fingers continued to ply the keyboard.

Tillis nodded.  “What do you have for me?”

“I’ve been Googling combinations of surnames.”

“What?”

“You know.  Like ‘Tillis Brown’.”  Sally looked up and smiled endearingly.  “Nothing on you two.  Yet.”

Tillis looked around to make sure no one was within earshot.

“Still not entirely comfortable with the relationship, I see.”  Sally noted with professional disinterest.

“Is this why you wanted to talk to me?  To bust my balls about The Mouth?”

Sally chuckled quietly.  “I also Googled ‘Hayes Norden’.  After wading thru a lot of crap, I stumbled upon an interesting article in The San Diego Union.  From November, 2000.”

“Really?”  Tillis struggled to see the laptop screen.

“Um-hm.  In the fall of 2000, an insurance company executive by the name of Charles Hayes was shot and killed in an apparent home invasion in Orange County.  There were suggestions that the home invasion was staged, and that Hayes killed himself.  But eventually his life insurance paid off on a million dollar policy.”

“Why was suicide suspected?”

“A few months earlier, Hayes had lost everything in the tech meltdown.  Apparently, he’d hit a few home runs in the market before that, and was getting ready to retire to a life of leisure.”  Sally explained.

“Any children?”  Tillis asked with raised eyebrow.

“One.  A daughter.  Name of Elizabeth Ellen Hayes.”

“No shit?”

Sally looked up.  “No shit, Tillis.”

“What about Norden?”

“Charles Hayes had a young hot-shot stock broker.  During the late nineties, this kid was being touted in the media as some kind of tech stock wizard.  He had Hayes 100% invested in internet stocks.  When the shit hit the fan, the wizard hit the road.  Lots of lawsuits.  Lots of bad press.”

“Sam Norden.”

Sally nodded.  “Turns out he was taking care of his mother in Nebraska.  She was dying from terminal breast cancer.  A widow.  Her husband - Sam’s father - had died a little more than a year earlier.  From a heart attack.”

“Talk about between a rock and a hard place.”  Tillis mumbled.

Sally again nodded her head.  “After that Sam Norden falls off the face of the earth for a couple of years.  Then he turns up owning a small real estate brokerage in the mountains of New Mexico.  A tiny little place called San Luis.”

Tillis smiled knowingly.  “Sounds familiar.  A good place to run away to.”

“I guess Elizabeth Ellen Hayes blamed Sam for the death of her father.”  Sally added and then studied the floor for a long moment.  “I feel sorry for the guy.  I think he’s paid his debt.”

“Yeah.  With interest.”  Tillis agreed.  “You think its time I did something about all of this, don’t you?”

Sally met Tillis’ gaze.  “You worried Franklin Pierson’s gonna take you off his Christmas card list?”

“No.  I’m worried that The Mouth is going to make the news.  Again.”

“Think of it this way.  You’ll be part of something bigger than yourself.  You’re helping create a new American hero.”

Tillis snorted.  “Hero my ass.  I’m helping create a monster.  An attention-loving publicity-seeking bullshit-breathing American monster.”

“It is my intention to review the issuance of the arrest warrant by the Judge Magistrate.  On my own motion.”  Judge Turnbull said with set jaw.  “I am scheduling an evidentiary hearing for that purpose.  The government will produce the affiant FBI agent for cross-examination, and offer any additional evidence it may wish to submit in support of the warrant.  How does next Monday sound?”  Turnbull looked at Franklin Pierson, and then at The Mouth.

As both Pierson and The Mouth began to stab buttons on their BlackBerrys to check their calendars, Tillis completed an e-mail marked urgent and hit send.  In a moment, Pierson turned around in his chair and studied Tillis’ face.  Tillis nodded.  Then Pierson stood.

“Your Honor, the United States of America is ready to proceed.”

“Now?”  Judge Turnbull asked incredulously.  “Is the FBI agent present?”

“The government withdraws the affidavit, and will present live testimony.  Of a single witness, Your Honor.  I think we can wrap this matter up before lunch.  Unless, of course, Mr. Brown is unprepared to respond on such short notice.”  Pierson said tauntingly.

“And who is this witness, counsel?”  Turnbull asked with obvious curiosity.

“FDLE Special Agent Tillis.”

Turnbull and The Mouth looked at Tillis’ blank face.  Then Judge Turnbull turned to The Mouth.  “Mr. Brown, I realize this is short notice.  On the other hand, we are all assembled here today.  Do you have any objections to proceeding?”

The Mouth had been taken by surprise, but thought he’d caught the slightest wink by Tillis.  He stood and looked down.  He studied Sam’s face for an uncomfortably long period of time.  Then placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder and looked up at Turnbull.  “Innocence and truth are the shield and sword of the wrongfully accused.  Sam Norden is ready to proceed.”

Tillis brought his hand to his forehead.  As if to shield his eyes from a bright light.  Then took a deep breath as his stomach slowly rolled over.  

Turnbull turned to Pierson and spoke with touch of disbelief.  “Call your witness, counsel.”

“The United States of America calls Florida Department of Law Enforcement Special Agent Tillis to the stand.”

Tillis briskly made his way to the witness stand and was sworn.

“Please state your name for the record,” Pierson asked.

“Tillis.  FDLE Special Agent Tillis.”

“Hold on a minute,” Turnbull interjected.  “What did you say your name was?”

Tillis scowled.  “Tillis.  Just Tillis.”

Turnbull turned to face Tillis.  He held a straight face, but his eyes were smiling.  “I’m confused.  Do you mean you have one of those one-word names?  Like those singers?”

Turnbull pointed at his bailiff while continuing to hold Tillis’ gaze.  “Who am I talking about, Dave?”

Dave shrugged.  “Madonna?  Prince?”

Judge Turnbull nodded.  “Like Madonna or Prince?”

Tillis looked at Turnbull sternly.  “No.  My last name is Tillis.  I go by Tillis.”

Turnbull looked displeased.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Tillis.  We’ll need your full legal name, please.  For the record.”

Tillis pursed his lips for a moment and then pronounced his name as if it were one long multi-syllable word.  “Elmer Winfield Tillis.”

“Is that it?”  Turnbull asked airily.

“Junior.”

Now Turnbull looked satisfied.  “You may proceed with your questions for Mr. Elmer Winfield Tillis, Jr., counsel.”

“Were you able to gain access to the file, Mr. Tillis?”  U.S. Attorney Franklin Pierson asked in the most serious tone he could muster.

“Yes.  The file was password protected and encrypted, but we were able to access the file.”

“What was the nature of the information contained in the file?”

“The file literally contained hundreds of lines of programming code.  It took several FDLE computer experts all night to fully decipher it.  Essentially the program broke down $150 million of money market funds held by American Senior Security into much smaller electronic packets of funds and bounced those electronic packets around the globe.  Ultimately they all ended up in the nation of Myanmar.  Formerly Burma.  We don’t know what happened to the money after that.”

“And Mr. Norden has a degree in computer engineering and programming, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.  That is my understanding.”  Tillis answered.

Pierson immediately spit out his next question.  “And he has a MBA from the prestigious Wharton School of Finance, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.  I believe you are correct.”

The Mouth was starting to get worried.  Wondering if he’d been wrong about Tillis.  Thinking maybe he’d been suckered.

Franklin Pierson paused until it was evident to everyone that the next question was the crux of his direct examination.  “And is it reasonable to assume that Mr. Norden was involved as President and CEO of American Senior Security in the transfer of those funds to the nation of Myanmar?”

“No, sir.  It is not.”  Tillis answered confidently.

Pierson inhaled.  The Mouth exhaled.  Both stared at Tillis.  As did Judge Turnbull.  And everyone else in the courtroom.  Then in his confusion, Pierson again violated the cardinal rule.  The rule every trial lawyer has ground into his or her brain from day one.  He asked another question to which he did not know the answer.

“Why not?”

“The file was date stamped by an independent remote server.  That date stamp has been authenticated and verified.  The program was written in late summer of 2007.  Long before Sam Norden ever came to work at American Senior Security.  Long before he was ever contacted and asked to interview for an executive position there.  It appears that someone within that organization framed Sam Norden.  And that he was hired solely for that purpose.”

CHAPTER 42

U.S. Attorney Franklin Pierson glared malevolently, but the crack of the bat was unmistakable.  He’d tried enough cases to know the sound of a home run when he heard it.  “The government has no more questions for this witness.”

Turnbull turned to The Mouth.  “Cross examination, Mr. Brown?”

“We’re good, Judge.”

Turnbull again directed his attention to Pierson.  “Five minutes for argument, counsel.”

“The government reserves its time for rebuttal, Your Honor.”  Pierson responded in a downcast tone.  Then took his seat.  Knowing he was about to have his ass handed to him on a silver platter.  With grits and gravy on the side.

Turnbull looked over the top of his reading glasses at Jefferson Davis Brown, and offered a stern admonition.  “Five minutes, Mr. Brown.”

The Mouth of the South stood and smiled pleasingly at the Fox News and CNN cameras that stood at the rear of the courtroom.  Sentinels on either side of massive double wooden doors that had been locked when the proceedings resumed.  Then he strolled into the well - the open space between counsel tables and the bench.

“I grew up in a tiny little town in South Georgia.  Mama and Daddy raised seven children in a two-bedroom shotgun shack with five picnic tables in the front yard.  We made a living sellin’ barbeque lunches and Brunswick stew to the white folks.

“I say we because that’s the way it was.  My two brothers and I slept on the screened-in back porch most nights.  The pit where we buried the pig was right there in the backyard.  Every morning at the crack of dawn, my daddy would pull the palm fronds off the pit and take a deep breath.

“You see, he could tell by the smell.  By that wonderful smell.  If the meat was still moist and juicy, but ready to fall apart in your hands.  Ready to fall apart at the slightest touch.  And if it was ready, my daddy would yell at us boys.  And our work would begin.”

An anticipatory rustling and whispering among the spectators signaled that this particular story was not unknown to the most seasoned of the group.  And Judge Turnbull had become impatient for a different reason.

“Counsel, be forewarned that you’ve made the Court hungry.  And when the Court gets hungry, it also tends to get cranky.  Inasmuch as the lunch hour is nearly upon us, I suggest that you get on with it.”

The Mouth grinned.  “Surely, Judge.”  Then he looked over at Pierson and grinned again.  “This morning as I listened to Special Agent Tillis testify, I couldn’t help but think about that pig.  This case reminded me of that pig.  Of the way it looked so perfect.  But fell apart in your hands.  Fell apart at the slightest touch. And I thought about my daddy, and what he used to say after he pulled those palm fronds off the pit and took a big deep breath.  About what he’d say if everything was right.  How he would yell at us boys.  In that big sweet voice of his.”

And then The Mouth slowly turned to face the cameras and pointed his big brown finger at Franklin Roosevelt Pierson.  And spoke in a deep and booming voice.  “That pig is done.”

Suddenly the courtroom erupted.  Most laughed.  Some slapped their thighs, while others stamped their feet.  A few let out a rebel yell. 

Turnbull pounded his gavel with all the force he could muster, demanding order and quiet at the top of his voice.  All without the least bit of effect.  Finally, he pulled the microphone up close to his increasingly red face and yelled.  “The arrest warrant is dismissed without prejudice.  Mr. Norden, you are free to go.  Court adjourned.”  Then slammed the gavel one final time before he tossed it aside and left the bench.

The Mouth remembered the 17.5 million dollar check.  He turned to Sam, and explained that the charges had been dismissed.  But without prejudice.  Not without prejudice to Sam.  There was plenty of prejudice for Sam.  The charges had been dismissed without prejudice to the government.  Without prejudice to the underlying charges. 

The Mouth explained that suspects were often rearrested on the courthouse steps.  The same charges could be refiled based on new or additional evidence.  Or slightly different charges could be filed.  Or a grand jury could indict.  Which was how the case should have proceeded from the very beginning.  A battle had been won - not necessarily the war.  Winning a war required work and preparation.  And wars were expensive.

Sam ignored the warning.  He’d heard Tillis testify.  He wasn’t going back to the detention center.  It was a good day.  The first one he’d had in a while.   

Tillis continued to sit in the witness box.  His expression running the gamut from amusement to disgust to satisfaction.  The Mouth had been rushed by adoring hangers-on, and he was obviously enjoying himself immensely.  Sam, Sandi, Dustin and Rodger had come together in a huddle.  Sam and Sandi were sobbing. Rodger and Dustin were smiling, but dry-eyed.  Soon they began to make their way toward the door.  The camera crews had already rushed out to Federal Plaza to set up for the post-game interviews and analysis.

“You blind-sided me, you son of a bitch.”  The words tumbled out of Franklin Pierson’s mouth with a venomous sting.

Tillis turned to look the young lawyer in the eye.  “Look.  You put self-promotion ahead of the careful and deliberate pursuit of justice.  And it bit you in the ass.  Take it as a life lesson learned and move on.”

“Like hell I will.  You lying bastard.”

“No, Franklin.  What I e-mailed you was accurate.  That the FDLE had decrypted the computer program that transferred the stolen funds offshore. That was and is true.  Anything else you inferred.  Because you wanted it to be true.”

“I’ll have your job, Tillis.”

Tillis chuckled.  “Let’s see.  You serve at the pleasure of the President.  And I serve at the pleasure of?  Wait a minute.  I almost have it.  Oh, that’s right.  I serve at the pleasure of me.  Kiss my ass, Franklin.”

“You better watch your step, Tillis.  Because I’ll be watching your every move.”

“Listen, Franklin.  The President’s brother and the Governor are coming up to my place in Thomasville to shoot birds in a few weeks.  I’m sure your name will come up.  And it doesn’t seem right.  You not being there to defend yourself.  So why don’t you join us.  I’m almost positive it will be a day you’ll remember.”

“Go to hell, Tillis.”

Pierson stormed past Sally as she made her way thru the milling crowd to the witness box.  “I hope you didn’t take any shortcuts on your federal income tax return last year.  Because I have a feeling someone’s going thru it line by line as we speak.”

Tillis waived his hand dismissively.  “Wrong man for the job, Sally.  To him it’s just a stepping stone.”

Sally nodded at the entourage surrounding The Mouth.  “I guess all that pig talk explains his feelings about barbeque.”

“Huh?”

“You remember. Our little dinner party.  The Mouth has a problem with barbeque.”

Tillis stood and smiled.  “What do you say we get out of here?”

Sam walked out of the courthouse and onto the granite steps of Federal Plaza. His left arm encircled Sandi’s midsection, and the other was draped across Dustin’s narrow shoulders.  Somehow they’d become separated from Rodger.

Sandi stopped and looked back toward the building.  “I’ll be right back.  I’m going to find Dad.”  Then she squeezed Sam’s hand and moved away.  Sam leaned his head back and looked up at the clear blue sky.  He had just closed his eyes to let the sun warm his face as a .38 caliber slug ripped thru the muscle, sinew, and blood vessels of his left shoulder.

The back of his head hit the granite step hard as he went down, and it took a moment for his vision to clear.  The first thing he saw as he looked up was Dustin’s shocked face.  And then the pistol that was held to the temple of the young boy’s head.

“Where’s my money, Norden?  Tell me now or I’ll blow the kid’s brains out.”

Sam immediately noticed his eyes.  They weren’t the same.  They weren’t the confident even cocky eyes he’d known.  The eyes told the story.  These eyes weren’t the eyes of a rational being.  Sam tried to shake the cobwebs from his brain.  He knew he’d need to have his senses about him if Dustin was to survive.

“I don’t have the money.  I didn’t take it.  Please.  You have to believe me.  I had nothing to do with it.”  Sam pleaded.

The gun was briefly lowered as Sam held the stare of those unnerving bloodshot eyes.

Tillis heard the crack as he and Sally were still down the hallway from the front entrance.  He thought it was the retort of a .38.  Possibly a nine mil.  But probably a .38.  Tillis brought his cell to his head as he began to run toward the front entrance.

“This is FDLE Special Agent Tillis.  Shots fired on Federal Plaza.  Fire rescue and backup.  Now.”

As Tillis burst thru a set of double glass doors with weapon drawn, he heard a deep-throated bark echo across Federal Plaza.  He knew what that meant.   

Then in the strange way that the mind works, he was eleven years old.  On the Tillis ranch.  He and T-Bone had been riding and fixing fence all afternoon.  They were hot, sweaty, and tired.  T-Bone told Tillis to run get the watermelon he’d put on ice that morning.  Tillis galloped up the steps of the front porch two at a time, grabbed the melon from the cooler, and began to descend the stairs as he’d climbed them.  But his gangly legs and feet became ensnared with each other, and his body gradually tipped forward and the watermelon took flight.  As Tillis fell in slow motion, he’d watched the watermelon arc thru the air on its inevitable path to the concrete sidewalk below.

And in a millisecond, Tillis was back in the present.  Watching Sam lying in an ever-expanding pool of blood.  Watching Rodger Rimes across Federal Plaza with feet firmly planted and arm fully extended.  Watching a small tuft of smoke curl away from the barrel of the Colt Peacemaker he held in his work-worn hands.  And watching bits and pieces of Marc Mason’s brain and skull shower across Dustin and the granite steps beyond.

James Mason had been unable to concentrate on his work, and had the tiny television on his desk tuned to CNN.  He’d watched the unexpected dismissal of the arrest warrant for Sam Norden, and the pandemonium surrounding his resulting release.  And he’d watched the whole horrible scene on Federal Plaza unfold live and unedited.  He immediately realized that he’d made a horrible miscalculation.  That he’d given Marc far too much credit.  He reached for the disposable cell phone, and hoped that he wasn’t too late.

“Hello?”  Elizabeth answered through her tears. 

James bowed his head in relief and took a deep breath before he spoke.  “It’s me again, Elizabeth.”

“I was just trying to compose myself.  So I could call you, James.  To tell you that I love you.  That I’ll always love you.  To apologize.  And to say goodbye.  One last time.”

“Elizabeth, you need to help me make things right.”  James paused, searching for the right words.  “Before you go.”

“What do you want me to do, James?”  Elizabeth asked with resignation and sincerity.

“You need to tell me, Elizabeth.  You need to tell me what happened to the money.”

“What?”  Elizabeth stuttered plaintively.

“You need to tell me what happened to the money.  So I can try and make things right.  After you’re gone.”

There was a very long pause.  Finally James spoke again.  “Elizabeth, are you there?”

“Read the note.”

“What?”  James asked with confusion in his voice.

“You heard me.”  And the connection went dead.

James looked at the cell phone oddly.  He thought those final words didn’t sound like Elizabeth.  The voice was deeper and huskier.  But she’d been crying.  And she was upset.  So he pushed the thought from his mind.