A Mighty Fortress (47 page)

“You’re jumping to conclusions, Porter.”

“Then let me ask you this, since this is your partner we’re talking about:
 
did you have any idea he was there tonight?”

He took a sip of his beer and sighed before he shook his head. “I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean—”

“I know it doesn’t prove it, but all signs point in that direction. I mean, what a coincidence that the day I tell him about the video, Wilcox’s office gets cleaned out.”

He rubbed his brow. “Have you heard anything from Wilcox?”

“Not a peep. But back to my theory. What are the chances C-Rod would be there at the hotel tonight when that all went down?”

“And you say this guy’s name was Tony Abner?”

I nodded. Shields sighed again as he thought it all over. “Please look into it,” I said.

“I’m thinking about it, Porter.”

“And talk to Mitchell. Tell him about the hearing tomorrow. See if he isn’t eager to go. Hell, I bet he already knows about it.”

He sighed again, picked up the drink again, and made it disappear. “Give me a minute.”

I watched him walk outside to the sidewalk. I hadn’t told him about the DVDs; I saw no reason to tell him more than what was necessary to get him to do what I wanted him to do. Now it was just a matter of whether he was going to do it or not.

It looked like he was doing just that. First he looked at his phone, apparently reading emails, and shook his head. Then he turned so that his back was to me and he was facing UT across the river. He dialed. It looked like someone answered quickly, as Shields was shaking his head and gesticulating as he talked in no time flat. A moment later, it looked like he was making another call and duplicating the entire drill.

Finally, he closed the phone, slid it into his pocket, and slowly walked back to the barroom. He took his seat and glanced past his empty glass. It looked like I wasn’t the only one who wanted another pull. “Well?” I said.

“You’re right about this Abner guy. Looks like he was some kind of professional or something.”

“And C-Rod?” I asked.

He shook his head, and then nodded wearily. “Yeah, C-Rod had no reason to be there.” He sighed. “Mitchell checked out too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re right. He’s already planning on attending the hearing tomorrow.”

I tried not to gloat. “Can you get C-Rod there, too? There’s someone I’d like to get a good look at him.”

He studied me for a moment. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Why the hell are we even going to this hearing?” Angie leaned forward on Pinkerton’s couch, glaring at me. “Talk about stepping right into the devil’s den.”

Pinkerton nodded. “She does have a point, Porter.”

“I know she does. But what place is safer than the courthouse? There are bailiffs and deputies everywhere.”

Pinkerton shook his head. “One problem with that, Porter. You think this Rodriguez is the bad guy, and he’s the only interested person allowed to bring his gun into the courtroom.”

I looked to Angie and tried to get us back on track. “I just want you to take a look at him. That’s all.”

“So you really think he’s Mr. Silver?” she asked.

“I think Mitchell is Mr. Silver. I think Rodriguez is helping him.”

“And if I recognize them?” she asked.

“Let me worry about that.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then we can cross him off the list too.”

Pinkerton rose out of his recliner, obviously uneasy with my plan. “Isn’t there another way she can ID him?” he asked.

“There might be,” I said. “But it’s a long shot.”

They both looked for me to elaborate.

I pulled out the envelope with the DVDs. “Alexi planted this for me the day he died.”

“What is it?” Angie asked.

“I think it’s a backup of all the videos Alexi was using to blackmail Scalzo and Pilka’s clients.” I handed the discs to Pinkerton.

“What do you want me to do with these?” he said.

“I want you to get your computer.”

“What are we looking for?”

I glanced at Angie and replied, “Mr. Silver, of course.”

We didn’t sleep much that night; there was too much work to do.

We started with the first disc. It was the same grainy footage I’d seen on the video of McSwain. Since she was most familiar with the layout of the rooms, Angie helped me confirm that Alexi must have planted hidden cameras and taped all of the customers—including the ordinary ones like McSwain, who only came in for a tug and run, not just those who came in to record their escapades for a high-definition souvenir. Little did Scalzo’s clients know that Alexi was making his own set of tapes that probably made him at least a hundred grand but, eventually, cost him his life.

The biggest problem with reviewing the videos was that Alexi’s backups included hours upon hours of blank footage. It seemed the cameras were running constantly, and there were hours of footage on each disc. It was difficult to safely fast-forward, or click on a later time frame, without skipping over valuable minutes of footage.

So we played the discs on fast forward and took turns watching all the footage. Still, it took us almost all night to cover one disc, and Alexi had sent me six. “What’s the point of this?” Pinkerton asked as I popped the first disc out of the computer.

“Angie says there are only a few clients of Scalzo’s that he’d want to keep happy enough to call her away from her date with Blare. He’d have to be someone with connections. A LEO, or someone running for office. Mitchell fits both bills.”

Pinkerton nodded, but not in agreement.
 

It was nearly four A.M. “We need to get some sleep,” Angie said.

“What kind of hearing is this going to be?” I asked the judge.

“UMC,” he muttered. “Uniform motion calendar.”

“What’s that mean?” Angie asked.

“It means it will be a zoo,” I said. “Dozens of cases will be heard.” And that gave me an idea. “It also means you can go undercover easier.”

I got up and told them to get what sleep they could. I had an errand to run.

I wasn’t happy to find Val sleeping at her house. I was hoping I’d find her house empty, so I could borrow what I needed without bothering her. I knocked on the door, knowing she wouldn’t be happy to be woken up at five in the morning.

In no time she opened the door, already dressed for a run. “Glad to see you’re still alive,” she said.

“And I’m glad to be alive. And glad you’re glad.”

She looked me up and down, and lifted her brow to ask me what I wanted. I admitted, “I need a favor.”

“I’d rather not talk to you.”

“Then you don’t want to hear the favor I need.”

Angie and Pinkerton were still sleeping when I returned. Val had given me what I asked for—nothing more, nothing less. Not even a kiss goodbye. I couldn’t wait to be able to make this up to her, though I wondered if that opportunity would ever come, and if I could if it did.

Pinkerton snored in his recliner, and Angie slept on her side on the couch, her legs bent so her feet were almost behind her. I thought about what I was about to put her through. I wondered whether it was the right thing to do: taking her, as she rightly put it, into the devil’s den, to be a pawn in a ruse the extent and implications of which she would never understand. Still, I didn’t see that we had a choice.

I set the alarm on my iPhone for 7:15. I closed my eyes, hoping that Angie’s mom wouldn’t visit me in my dreams.

Or maybe I hoped that she would.

If anyone visited me in the short sleep I had, I didn’t remember. I may have been awake when the alarm sounded. My internal clock had already told me it was time to wake up, and the sorry excuse for sleep I’d flirted with all morning seemed eager to leave me at the altar.

I stood and pointed the ringing alarm at the judge and Angie. His snoring diminished, but he didn’t move. Angie sat up and rubbed her eyes. Then she looked at the ladies’ business suit I’d taken from Val’s house, now hanging on a chair in Pinkerton’s kitchen. “What’s that?” she asked.

“Your costume for the day.”

“Please explain this to me one more time,” she said on the drive over. The Monday morning traffic was horrendous, and every street corner leading downtown was lined with campaign volunteers waving signs. The primary was exactly one day away, and I was sure someone was eager to get this case—and Angie—dismissed before then.

“When you enter the courtroom, you’re going to see a row of women, maybe a dude or two, sitting where the jury would sit during a trial. They’re court reporters. You’re going to hide out there, like you’re one of them. That way, they’ll let you in the courtroom early. And you won’t be associated with me.”

“Where are you going to be?”

“I’ll be in the gallery, not far away.” I could hear that her breathing was deep and fast. “Listen, Angie, no plan is ever foolproof.”

“What do you mean?””

“Well, I mean …” I sighed, took a deep breath, and found my footing. “I mean, like when I was in the service, I used to plan things, and I was actually pretty good at it.”

“Milo, I already told you, I trust you.”

I thought back to the kid from Texas, and how much he’d probably trusted me, just because I had a higher rank. “Well, trust is fine, but in times like this, it gets put to the test.”

“What do you think is going to happen?”

I sighed. “Well, that’s just the thing. You can’t predict everything that’s going to happen. That’s what we call random variables. You can try to predict them, but by their very nature, they’re impossible to predict.”

“What are you saying, Milo?”

“Just put it this way: if things go wrong today, if we get separated—”

“Separated?”

I nodded. “You heard me. We’re talking about preparing for the worst. If that happens, I need you to remember something very important.”

“What?” she asked sullenly.

“Remember the videos. If we get separated, and you’re in danger, tell them that we have copies of all the videos. That I have a copy, and there are others that only I know about. Tell them that if anything happens to you, the videos will come out.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just tell me you understand that, Angie.”

“I understand, Milo. I’ll tell them about the videos.” She took a few deep breaths and bit her lower lip. “So this is worst-case scenario we’re talking about?”

“That’s right,” I lied. Then I took her hand and squeezed.
 

She squeezed back. “Thank you,” she said, the last words she spoke before we reached the courthouse.

I parked in the covered garage and let Angie get a head start on me. Val’s suit fit her surprisingly well, and the flats we’d bought at Target the day before somehow worked. She pulled the empty roller briefcase we’d found in the judge’s study, which, along with the reading glasses on his desk, had completed Angie’s disguise as a court reporter.
 

We left the garage, and she crossed Twiggs first. The line to get into the courthouse stretched around the building. Mondays are always crowded, because that’s when the new jury pool has to report for the week. Most of those jurors would be dismissed that day, so less than half would return Tuesday. I got in the line, a few dozen people separating me from Angie. It was eight o’clock, and it already felt like it was ninety degrees outside. There was no breeze; the air felt like a mist of sweat.

Angie looked back to me from time to time, and I nodded for her to keep going. When the main line separated into three different lines for security, Angie took the center line. I’d be too close to her if I took that line, so I went with the line to the right, keeping my eyes open for certain law enforcement officers and candidates for political office who were on my radar, not to mention my newfound friend Giuseppe.

I watched as Angie put her case on the security belt. I hoped the bailiff wouldn’t question why she was entering the courthouse with an empty attaché. The bag passed through without raising any eyebrows. A moment later, Angie had cleared security, and seemed to be hovering around the lobby waiting for me, unsure where to go.

I held up 5 fingers.

She winced like she didn’t understand. Maybe she thought I was telling her five minutes. So I mouthed, “Fifth floor.”

She nodded, but didn’t move.

As I approached the security scanner, I mouthed “go on,” as I didn’t want to ride the elevator with her. Then I held up five fingers, one finger, and then five fingers, to remind her it was courtroom 515.

She seemed to get it, and disappeared.

The elevator I took up was filled to the brim with foreclosure attorneys and courthouse employees. A few people got off on the third floor, but it seemed even more got on to replace them. We bypassed the fourth floor, and there was a mass exodus on the fifth, the floor where most of the civil judges had courtrooms and chambers.

I stopped short of courtroom 515. There was a healthy crowd waiting for the bailiff to open the door. Angie wasn’t far away. She nodded when she saw me, her face jittery and white. All I could do was give her a subtle nod in return. I didn’t know if it was subtle as a precaution or because I didn’t much believe it.

Not long after 8:30, the double doors to the courtroom opened, and a bailiff appeared and said, “Court reporters can come in and set up.”
 

I nodded again for her to go on. She took a deep breath and got in line.

We were allowed in the courtroom about five minutes later. Angie was already sitting in the jury box with her legs crossed. Most of the real court reporters already had their stenography machines set up, ready to go. If anyone asked why she wasn’t setting up, I’d told her to explain that the attorney who had hired her expected a consent judgment, and that she was just there as a precaution in case the other side changed their mind.

I sat on the back row, on the same side of the courtroom as Angie. I had a direct line of vision to her and most rows in the gallery. The courtroom was filling up quickly, mainly with lawyers who were making last minute attempts to resolve their disputes before going in front of the judge. I heard guys offering 120-day sale dates, offering to produce documents in twenty days, and another guy agreeing to amend his complaint in ten days.