The Election (17 page)

“I understand. I'll see what I can do.”

“And Juan—”

“Yes?”

“I need you to report directly to me. And only to me. I may have a mole in the Bureau, but I don't know who it is yet. The fewer people who know, the better at this point.”

Juan's voice was calm. “I understand. I'll call you in a few days.”

Assistant Deputy Director George McCullough entered Charlie's office just as he finished his telephone call with Juan. “Anything new on the Thompson murder?”

Charlie still wasn't sure whom he could trust. Someone was leaking information to the director. Was it George? Until the mole was revealed, Charlie had to be very careful.

“Nothing really,” he replied. “We may pull out of there in the next week or so.”

“We can't give up just like that, Charlie,” George insisted.

“We're not finding anything. There's no need to continue if we aren't getting any leads. The local authorities may have the right man in custody.”

“Why don't we give it at least through the end of the month?” George suggested. “If we don't find anything, then we can pull out.”

“OK, let's give it to the end of the month.” Charlie changed the subject slightly. “What are you hearing from the director's office about the investigation?”

George looked confused. “I thought Saul didn't know anything about this investigation.”

Good
, thought Charlie. The mole probably wasn't George.

“He knows all right,” Charlie said. “He came in here the other day asking about the investigation. I told him nothing was going on, but I'm pretty sure he knew I was lying.”

“How did he find out?”

“That's a good question. I have a leak somewhere, and I may need your help to plug it.”

“You know you can count on me.”

Charlie studied George's eyes. He watched his facial expressions. He'd been in the Bureau long enough to be able to tell, without the aid of a polygraph machine, when someone was lying. “Look at these photographs Ron and Jerry sent me.”

Law offices of Holcombe & Reed, Jackson, Tennessee

River City Laboratory faxed the results from the DNA testing to Jake on the Thursday of the second week of October. The results were conclusive. Jesse Thompson was Jed McClellan's father. Jake was the only person in the world who knew it, except for Naomi McClellan. Jake struggled with how to use the information for Jed's benefit. Perhaps his partner would have some ideas.

Barrett's office was upstairs and in the back of the building. It was directly over Jake's office below, and somewhat larger. Being the senior partner had some perks.

Jake headed upstairs and knocked on Barrett's door.

“Come in,” Barrett called.

“Do you have a minute?” Jake asked as he entered the office.

It was decorated with mounted animal heads. Barrett liked the great outdoors, but he kept his trophies at the office because his wife wouldn't let him display them at home. Barrett's favorite, Jake knew, was a moose head from a kill in Alaska.

“Sure. Have a seat.” Barrett smiled and gestured toward a chair.

Barrett's office was neat and orderly—a definite contrast to Jake's. The guest chairs weren't cluttered with manila file folders or court documents. Every book was in its place on the shelves behind his desk. Even the top of the eighteenth-century partners' desk was clear of debris and clutter.

Over the years Jake had come to appreciate Barrett as more than a law partner. He was fifty-eight, and for the last eleven years he had been Jake's mentor. Barrett had taught Jake the things a lawyer doesn't learn in law school. Things like how to treat a client with respect and how to negotiate without flinching. Above everything else, Barrett and Jake were friends, and Jake trusted him implicitly.

From the first time they had met, Jake knew why Barrett was so successful in law. He was an imposing figure—easily six-foot-five and 275 pounds—both in a courtroom and in his office. His quick mind and deep voice commanded attention from everyone within earshot. Barrett maintained the same military-style haircut he'd acquired nearly forty years earlier in the Marine Corps. Only now the flattop was mostly gray.

Barrett removed his reading glasses when Jake entered the room and gave Jake his full attention.

“I need some advice on the
McClellan
case,” Jake began. “You know Judge Prickett denied my motion to suppress.”

“I heard that,” Barrett said. “How did Jed take it?”

“Not good. I'm really worried about Jed. He didn't look well when I saw him last. I don't know how much more of this he can take.”

“Do you think Drake can convince a jury to sentence Jed to death?”

“That's what scares me the most,” Jake admitted. “You know how I despise losing control of a situation. So I spoke with Drake about a plea, but he refused to even talk about the possibility. Since then I'm beginning to find some helpful leads, but I'm not sure it's going to be enough.”

“What type of leads?”

“Wanda Lacy passed away the other day, and her daughter came to see me. She brought some pictures that appeared to show someone else was at the murder scene.”

“That sounds promising,” Barrett remarked.

“I know. But the murder weapon was found in Jed's truck, and he certainly had motive.”

“Keep at it,” Barrett encouraged. “The photographs might create reasonable doubt with a jury. Maybe you'll catch another break like the photographs.”

“Maybe I have already,” Jake continued. “Jed's mother came to see me the week after he was arrested with a shocking story. You're the first person I'm telling this to, and I don't know any way to tell it other than to come right out and say it.” He paused for a second so Barrett would understand the import of his next statement. “Naomi McClellan told me that Jesse Thompson was Jed's father.”

Barrett's eyes grew wide. He was obviously startled. “You've got to be kidding! Jed's
father
?”

“I know.” Jake shook his head slightly. “I was skeptical at first, but the DNA test just proved it was true.”

“DNA test? Where did you get a sample from Thompson?”

Jake avoided the issue. “It's not important. What is important is deciding what to do with this information. I doubt it will be admissible. Do you have any suggestions?”

Barrett paused, his face thoughtful. “Why don't you sue Thompson's estate for a child's share? Jed and his children are heirs of Jesse Thompson, right?”

“Right.”

“That means he's entitled to part of the estate.”

“Do you think that will work?”

“You certainly have grounds to make the claim. And proof with the DNA testing. I suspect Mrs. Thompson will take the position that Jed can't profit from his alleged crime, but she might want to reach a financial settlement to keep word of this from getting out. And she might even try to influence Highfill for you. Who knows?”

Jake thought about Barrett's suggestion. Jed was a blood descendant of Jesse Thompson, and that meant he was entitled to inherit money from Thompson's estate. Thompson was probably worth $15 million dollars when he died. Jed could make a claim against part of that, and Mrs. Thompson would probably settle.

“Who's representing the estate?” Jake asked Barrett.

“I believe Bob Whitfield is the estate's attorney.”

Jake lifted an eyebrow. “Bob Whitfield? Are you sure?”

“I'm sure,” assured Barrett. “I was in probate court the day the estate was opened. The judge adjourned for a few minutes so Bob could go into chambers to swear in Mrs. Thompson as the personal representative.”

Jake thought about how Bob Whitfield handled the Lillian Scott case and smiled. “I wonder what they would do to keep this quiet?”

 

Agents Boyd and Simon rewound the tape of the conversation between Jake and Barrett and played it again. Jake clearly said that Jesse Thompson was the father of Jed McClellan, the prime suspect. They dubbed the recording into the computer's hard drive, logged in to the Internet, and sent a secure e-mail with the recording as an attachment to Deputy Director Armacost. He would be able to hear it for himself in a few minutes. This assignment was finally beginning to get interesting.

 

Jake stood behind Madge as he dictated the letter to Bob Whitfield over her shoulder.

When she heard him say that Jesse Thompson was Jed McClellan's father, she stopped typing and turned around. “What did you say?”

“I'll explain later. For now, just type.”

After a couple of revisions the final text was ready to be faxed to Bob Whitfield.

In less than an hour after the letter was faxed to Bob Whitfield, the receptionist informed Jake that Whitfield was on the phone.

“Jake, this is Bob Whitfield. We need to talk.”

“I thought you might say that.”

“I think I have more to offer you than money,” Bob said coyly.

“What does that mean?”

“I can't discuss it over the telephone. Meet me at the Downtown Grill at six o'clock tonight. I'll be in the booth in the far back.”

“I'll be there.”

 

The Downtown Grill, Jackson, Tennessee

The Downtown Grill was located three blocks west of the court square in Jackson on Shannon Street. It was one of the locals' favorite eating establishments. The Grill, as most everyone called it, was a two-story building with a yellowish wooden exterior.

The Grill was already beginning to fill for the evening meal when Agent Ronald Boyd entered at 5:45 and asked the hostess where the restroom was located. She directed him toward the back of the restaurant. No one was sitting in the last booth closest to the restroom.
I bet that's where they're planning to meet.
As he walked by the booth, Ron very discreetly stuck a small transmitter underneath the table.

After he was in the rest room long enough to look like he'd actually used it, he walked out and saw a man and a woman sitting at the last booth. He smiled. He'd guessed right.

The meeting would begin in just a few minutes.

He walked toward the front door of the Grill just as Jake Reed entered.

 

Jake Reed was standing just inside the entrance of the Downtown Grill, scanning the crowd for Bob and Mrs. Thompson, when he overheard a conversation.

“Aren't you one of the men who's opening the interior-design business?” one of the waitresses asked a black-haired man.

“I am,” replied the man. “We hope to be open in a few weeks.”

Now is as good a time as any to meet a neighbor,
Jake thought. He stepped over toward the newcomer and extended his hand. “I'm Jake Reed. I have the office across the street from you.”

“Ralph Jones,” the man said and shook Jake's hand without meeting his eyes. “It's nice to meet you, but I really must be going. Will you excuse me?”

“Sure. I didn't mean to hold you up.”

Jake watched as Mr. Jones quickly exited the restaurant. The man had an athletic build, and his hand was calloused.

Odd
.
I would have suspected a softer hand from an interior-design consultant,
Jake thought briefly.

Then he turned back to the main dining room and saw Bob Whitfield sitting in the back booth with a woman who looked like Mrs. Thompson. The seat closest to the back wall was left empty for Jake, and he preferred that seat anyway. It gave him the opportunity to see who came in the front door of the restaurant.

“Hello, Bob,” Jake said as he sat down. “Hello, Mrs. Thompson. I didn't expect to see you here.”

“I didn't expect to be here when I awoke this morning either, but here we are,” Earline stated, exhibiting a forced smile.

Earline Thompson was doing quite well, Jake thought, for a woman whose husband had been murdered only seven weeks ago. The period of grieving had been short, Jake heard. The day after her husband was buried, she swept into First National Bank to inform all the employees that she was now in charge. Rumor was, she told the staff that her father had built First National Bank anyway, and now it was time to run it the way her daddy had meant for it to be run.

“I had my suspicions about Jesse and Naomi, but Naomi never told me about it,” Earline continued. “What did she tell you?”

“That Mr. Thompson raped her, and that Jed was Mr. Thompson's son,” replied Jake without hesitation.

Earline's lips tightened. “I guessed years ago that Jesse raped her, but I wasn't sure whether Jed was his son or not. Now I know for sure.”

How could you continue to live with him if you knew? Why didn't you go to the authorities? You come from one of the most influential families in the county. The authorities would have listened to you,
he couldn't help but think.

“What is this meeting about?” Jake asked, looking back and forth between Bob Whitfield and Earline Thompson for an answer. “I really need to get home.”

“You know the law doesn't allow Mr. McClellan to profit from his crime,” Bob said in his best lawyer's voice.

“That's true,” Jake replied. “But his children might, and you're assuming he gets convicted.”

“You're a good lawyer, Jake, but I doubt even you can win this one.”

“We'll see,” Jake said, his gaze steely. “But win or lose, I suspect Mrs. Thompson doesn't want word getting out about Mr. Thompson and Naomi McClellan.” Jake looked at Earline. “Isn't that right, Mrs. Thompson?”

Earline studied Jake briefly, and then turned her eyes back to Bob.

“I'm going to ask you one more time,” Jake said, growing irritated. “What's this meeting really about?”

“Go ahead,” Bob urged Earline. “Tell him.”

“After I became president of the bank,” Earline explained, “I started looking over some records, and I found these.” She slid an envelope full of documents across the table to Jake.

“What's in here?” Jake asked without opening the envelope.

“Those are bank records regarding several accounts for F-PAC, a Democratic political-action committee. As best I can tell, F-PAC was laundering money under different names through the bank for the last two years. Jesse was skimming money from the accounts.”