The Heat Islands: A Doc Ford Novel (17 page)

It was the lone oversight in the carefully constructed system of checks and balances created by the nation's founding fathers. The oversight was this: Most legislators were also attorneys. The founding fathers had not foreseen it and probably had no reason to worry about it at the time. As a result, new laws favored the competition of law, not the society that the legislators were mandated to serve. Which was why social ethics and legal ethics—once nearly synonymous—were now strange antonyms, orbiting in concentric circles. Professional behavior that would be considered outrageous by any society on earth was now perfectly acceptable behavior in the outlander orbit of legal ethics. Which was why attorneys could use videos to coach criminals how to lie more effectively to juries. Which was why accident liability had become a predatory device. Which was why judges, if the letter of the law allowed, could, in perfectly good conscience, release murderers, rapists, child molesters, and thugs back into the social maelstrom. The legal ethic was always served, but that ethic—like justice—was a facade, a careful illusion propped up by those who had helped to destroy justice at its roots.

Successfully negotiating the legal system. Ford knew, required that an individual be shrewd. Or wealthy. Or both. And Jeth Nicholes was poorly equipped on all counts.

Driving into the center of town, slowing for traffic lights. Ford considered the two options. He could give them the information, then stay the hell out of it. Or he could get involved.

He thought.
I'll see how it goes....

The county seat had once been a nice little town. Still was a nice little town, in fact: old offices built of brick and coquina rock on the bank of the Caloosahatchee River, small restaurants, bookstores, and barbershops. The explosive growth of the last two decades had wedged the town in tight against the wide tidal river and threatened to absorb it into the anonymous urban sprawl. But the old power structure had done a good job of protecting the town core. It still retained its old Florida feel, with its park and narrow streets; the fortress anachronism while modern Florida crackled along beyond its walls.

Ford parked near the shade of the big banyan tree outside the courthouse, then headed straight for the men's room. Then he took the elevator to the sixth floor and found the public defender's office. He told the secretary he wanted to speak with Elizabeth Harper, then sat leafing through a
Harvard Law Review
until a door opened and a woman's voice said, "You wanted to see me?"

Ford looked up to meet the eyes of a compact woman in a business suit and heels who was staring at him through black horn-rimmed glasses, a manila folder under her arm. Maybe thirty years old, judging from the backs of her hands, the skin starting to gather a bit. A pale, handsome face and weak chin that looked better for the light makeup she wore. Straight black hair cut conservatively to match the no-nonsense elegance of the dark tropic-weight jacket and pleated skirt; a full-bodied woman on a tiny frame, and with a severe expression, her owlish brown eyes like those of a strict high school teacher.

Ford stood. "I'm a friend of Jeth Nicholes. Marion Ford. Do you have a minute to talk?"

"It concerns his case?"

"Yes."

The woman checked her wristwatch mechanically. "I have to be downstairs in fifteen minutes, so if you can make it fast."

Ford followed the woman into her office, a neon cubicle with a cluttered desk and diplomas on the wall: Brown University, Stetson, Florida bar. Two photographs in a cabinet frame on the desk: an older man and woman, arm in arm beneath a maple tree; parents, probably, so she had grown up in the East or Midwest. Another photograph of a college-age Elizabeth Harper in khaki clothes beside a mountain stream, grinning into the lens. A woman-to-lover grin, but no wedding ring on her hand now. An electric bill among the papers on her desk, so she probably lived alone.

She sat across the desk from him. arms folded, leaning back in the swivel chair. "How long have you known Mr. Nicholes. Mr. Ford?"

"A couple of years. I live right beside the marina where he's a fishing guide. I see him nearly every day."

"And you have something you want to tell me that concerns the case."

"Something to tell you. Ms. Harper, and a few things to ask. too."

The woman sat up straight. "Don't bother asking anything about Mr. Nicholes. because I'm not going to answer. Attorney-client privilege. If that's why you're here, then I think you're wasting time I don't have."

"Then I'll tell you what I know, and you judge for yourself."

"I'm waiting."

Ford said, "Marvin Rios's body was found in Pine Island Sound. The night he died, on that same body of water, someone was out using explosives to kill fish. The tarpon tournament Rios's marina was sponsoring took place the next day. Grand prize, eighty thousand dollars." The woman looked at him blankly. "So what are you telling me?"

"I'm telling you that someone used explosives to kill tarpon so they could win the tournament."

"And Mr. Nicholes was in the tournament?"

"No."

"Then how does that affect Mr. Nicholes, or me, or anything else?"

"Don't you see—"

"Mr. Ford, I have no interest in fishing, none. In the two years I've lived here. I've never been on a boat. So I'm afraid you're going to have to be a little more lucid"— checking her wristwatch again—"and concise.
Please."
Impatient, or maybe trying to cover her unfamiliarity with the topic.

Ford said. "All right. Late Thursday night or early Friday morning—the approximate time Rios was killed—a person or persons look a boat or boats into Pine Island Sound and detonated explosives. There was a thunderstorm that night, so the noise was covered."

"So far, so good. Now, is Pine Island Sound a large body of water, or small?"

"Do you have a phone book? There's a map in the phone book."

''Well... yes-right here."

Ford leaned across her desk as she opened the book in front of him, sensing her uneasiness at his closeness; smelling the light perfume she wore and the stale coffee in the Styrofoam cup at her arm as he leafed through the pages. "Right here is the approximate area where Rios was found on Friday." He tapped his finger on the page. "Sanibel here. Captiva here. Pine Island Sound here. I waited with the body. Less than two miles away, that same morning, I collected specimens from a small fish kill. I'm convinced the fish were killed in an explosion."

"And how would you have known that?"

"I run a biological supply business, my own little lab. My findings were tentatively confirmed by two other biologists, and they're willing to review the necropsies if I want."

The woman closed the phone book and leaned back, putting some distance between them. "So I'll ask one more time: What are you telling me?"

"I'm telling you that Rios either caught the person or persons using the explosives and was killed by them, or he participated so he could profit from his own tournament and maybe was killed in an explosion. The man who won the tournament is a guy named Karl Sutter, who was Rios's former brother-in-law. Sutter works out of Rios's marina. I know from personal experience that Sutter is tricky and mean." Leaning on the desk hurt his back, bending like that, so he straightened himself. "I'm telling you that Sutter should be the prime suspect, not Jeth. Or that Rios died accidentally."

The woman said, "That's very interesting," now making notes on a yellow pad; a nice looping script.

"Did you talk to Jeth this morning, Ms. Harper'?"

Still writing as she talked, she said. "I did. but I'm not going to tell you anything about it."

"I want to help."

"I realize that, Mr. Ford. And I appreciate you taking the time to come in." Putting the pen down, finished with the notes and him, and already rising to show him out.

"Ms. Harper, a moment ago you admitted that you knew nothing about fishing and very little about the area. I know a lot about both."

"I'm sure you do—"

"How many eases are you working on right now?"

"I don't see what that has to do with—"

"It comes down to how much time you have to invest. I know how overworked people in public law are—how many eases?"

That stopped her. She considered him for a moment, touching her fingers together. "Fourteen cases—no, fifteen, with Nicholes," dropping the shields just a little. "They put it on my desk this morning."

"Do you have an assistant?"

"No. But we have two investigators."

"Who handle all your eases, plus the eases of your fellow public defenders."

"I see what you're driving at, Mr. Ford. But I am not about to authorize a layman to—"

"And I'm not about to pass myself off as something I'm not. Ms. Harper. I have no secret fantasy of being a private eye. I have absolutely no desire to get involved with the legal system. I don't want to strut around and ask strangers for just the facts, please, just the facts. I'm very happy doing the work I've chosen to do. But you don't know the water, and you don't know the people who live around the water. I do. I can be your eyes and ears out there. Maybe I'll come up with something that will help."

The woman moved some papers on her desk, thinking, before she looked at the office door, as if to make sure it was closed, then looked at Ford. "What do you want to know? I'm not saying I'll tell you, but go ahead and ask." Ford said, "I heard that someone claims to be an eyewitness. Who was it, and what do they say they saw?"

The woman nodded but made no move to reply. "Well?"

She said, "Keep asking. I want to hear the questions."

"Okay. The police took traces of hair samples and what appeared to be blood from Nicholes's boat. And that was only a few hours
after
Nicholes washed down his boat. I was there—I saw him wash it. I'm assuming the police lab already did the DNA tests on the hair—I doubt if they had enough blood to do a precipitin test. But was the hair taken from Nicholes's boat consistent with the samples taken from Rios's body?"

Her eyes focused slightly in reappraisal. "Have you done police work before?"

"No, but I'm familiar with lab procedures."

"I see. Go on."

"And the last question is, what did Jeth tell you this morning? I was just out at Glades Detention and he refused to see me."

"I thought you said you were a friend."

"I am. That's why I want to know what he told you." Harper was standing, checking her watch once more, and beginning to press Ford toward the door. "I'll tell you this. Mr. Ford. I asked him to sign a written invocation of rights this morning, and he refused to do it. Which means the DA or the police or anybody else can go to Mr. Nicholes's cell any time they want and ask him anything they want—which is very distressing for the person trying to defend the man. In other words, he seems to have very little interest in protecting himself. He told me he didn't want to make anybody mad by not talking to them."

"That sounds like Jeth."

"Yes. I don't let myself get emotionally involved with clients, but I must admit there is something ... very childlike about Mr. Nicholes. A nice quality. Why he wouldn't talk with you, I don't know."

"I don't believe he's capable of murder, Ms. Harper."

"Which will be up to me to prove. Now, I would like to ask you a question. Can you think of any reason why Mr. Nicholes would be ...abnormally concerned with the amount of time that passed between someone being sentenced to die in the electric chair and actually having the sentence carried out?" A serious question, carefully couched.

"Christ, he asked you that? Like he was guilty?"

"I'm asking you the question."

"And what about the questions I asked you?"

"Do you have a business card, Mr. Ford?"

"What? No. I mean, I don't use them."

Elizabeth Harper was holding the door open. "Then leave your number and address with the secretary. Think about my question. I'll get back with you."

Ford stopped at the medical examiner's office, and found a jolly pathologist and a jollier investigator laughing over coffee outside the double doors of the autopsy suite. Big new building with lab tile on the floors and a Cauzatron air filtering system that whispered refrigerated air into the place, removing most traces of human odor. Ford introduced himself, and told the men why he was there. As he expected, they told him they could say nothing about Rios unless it was cleared through the district attorney's office. Ford explained what he had discovered while dissecting the fish, hoping it would spark at least a minor reaction. It did not. The men were smart and articulate, and they weren't about to be steered anywhere.

Ford tried another approach. "Then let's consider a hypothetical situation. A man is in a boat, and he's killed in an explosion. What would you expect to find?"

The investigator looked at the pathologist, shrugged, and then they were both smiling again. "Oh, so you want to be hypothetical, huh? Sure, we can do that!" Which was good for another laugh.

Ford waited, smiling himself. These men were happy in their work; happier than most, perhaps because their daily dealings with death produced in them a more essential awareness of fragile, transient life.

The pathologist said. "Death by explosion is pretty obvious. A lot of major trauma to the side of the body facing the blast. In the case of a boat, probably a lot of wood or fiberglass fragments would pepper one side of the victim. Some thermal injuries, too, depending on the kind of explosion."

"It couldn't be confused with the damage done by a severe beating?"

The pathologist hooted. "See there. Keith, he's second-guessing us!"

The investigator said. "Sorry, Mr. Ford, but I don't think so."

"What kind of injuries would be consistent with a person who had been beaten to death?"

"Are we still being hypothetical?"

"Of course."

The investigator said. "Okay. In that ease, it depends on what was used to beat the victim, and how he was beaten. If the victim was beaten and choked, you might find severe trauma to the strap muscles. The horns of the hyoid bones might be broken, too." He turned to the pathologist. "Right?"