Ascension Day (59 page)

Another thoughtful nod from Bearded-Man, one more quick note on his pad, Clean-cut following suit. But Beehive just kept staring at him imperiously, and finally she spoke:

‘This new-found literary expertise is all very well, but I’m more concerned with how it has been put to use.’ She puckered her mouth as if she’d encountered a sour taste as she turned the pages in the magazine before her, then held the position with one finger. She looked up again. ‘Mr Durrant’s article in issue nine of
Libre-View
.’

Rodriguez looked helplessly at the two magazines he’d brought along. Issue nine wasn’t one of them. ‘Right,’ he said, a faint flush rising as his mind desperately scrambled for which article that might have been.

‘In this edition he comments on the execution of Mary-Beth Fuller in Texas, and questions the Texas Governor’s stance in not offering her a last minute reprieve, because, and I quote, “Mary-Beth Fuller was clearly mad, yet the Eighth Amendment of the Constitution is equally clear in prohibiting execution of the insane…” ’ Beehive looked up sharply above her glasses, her eyes shifting more directly to Durrant this time. ‘You go on to say, Mr Durrant, that this is a subject uncomfortably close to home because of your own, and again I quote, “Poor state of mind and memory at the time of your arrest for the murder of Jessica Roche, which gave rise to your own good counsel questioning your own culpability”.’ This time Beehive hadn’t looked down for the quote, she’d just held the same steady stare, now alternating evenly between Durrant and Rodriguez.

‘Yeah, I wrote that,’ Larry said flatly, matter-of-factly. ‘But I’m somewhat lost as to what exac–’

‘I’m sure Mr Durrant wouldn’t for a minute dream of detaching himself from that article,’ Rodriguez cut in quickly, sensing Larry’s belligerent tone heading for a confrontation. ‘Just because it might now suit him to do so. He’s understandably proud of everything he’s written. But at the same time, it’s only an opinion.’

‘Yes, Mr Rodriguez.’ Beehive exhaled heavily, as if mustering patience to deal with an errant schoolchild. ‘But what concerns me about that
opinion
is the dilemma it now presents to this board. Two of the strongest factors we have to consider in recommending pardon is firstly that prisoners fully repent their crime, and secondly, and in hand with that, that they fully accept the judgement of the courts, justice system and our governor – upon whose mercy they now throw themselves. Yet here we have a prisoner who questions their very guilt – so how can we even get to the stage of acceptance and repentance?’ Beehive shrugged. ‘And on top is also questioning the judgement of our fair governor before he’s even considered the issue.’

Durrant blinked slowly, a faint smile creasing his lips – acceptance or challenge, Rodriguez wasn’t sure.

‘I can see that,’ Rodriguez said, eager to speak before Larry opened his mouth and possibly dug them in deeper. ‘But I’m sure that…’ Though as Rodriguez said it, he had no idea what he was sure of. His mouth was suddenly dry, his throat tight as Beehive stared at him curiously, expectantly. ‘I…I’m sure that’s not how Mr Durrant meant it.’ All he could think of quickly.

The stare stayed steadily, evenly on Rodriguez, one eyebrow now raised imperiously, doubtingly, and it was obvious to everyone in the room that he was floundering, desperately treading water. A few basic legalese phrases strung together from first-year law books combined with some fast talk from the streets and being on the radio – who was he kidding? She’d probably ridden roughshod over some of the toughest lawyers in the state. But this might be Larry’s very last chance; he couldn’t just give up at the first obstacle. ‘I can see how it might look,’ he said, injecting more conviction. ‘But that article’s just one of many that Larry Durrant’s written in
Libre-View
.
Diversion
, thought Rodriguez. If he couldn’t win on one front, shift to another. ‘If we look at some others… this one here for instance in issue eleven that I’ve brought along, we see that–’

‘Mr Rodriguez!’ Beehive cut in sharply with a tired sigh. She wasn’t about to be suckered in. ‘Mr Durrant’s literary expertise and comments in other areas are not in question. I brought up this particular article because it presents specific problems to this board in its recommendation for clemency.’

‘I understand.’ Rodriguez nodded, suitably humbled. A light buzzing now in his head, feeling slightly dizzy, disorientated.
Where else to head, what else to try?
And as that owlish, unwavering gaze cut through him, his cheeks burning and the room starting to sway uncertainly around him, he wished that he was anywhere than here at this moment.

‘And so until such time as those issues are answered, if they can be, then I don’t see the point in–’

Beehive broke off sharply and looked past Rodriguez’ shoulder as the door opened behind them. ‘…
Yes
?’

‘I apologize profusely for the late intrusion. Darrell Ayliss, attorney at law.’

All eyes in the room were fixed on the man – late forties, overweight, oiled-down black hair greying at the sides, horn-rimmed glasses, a cream suit as if he’d just returned from Havana – as he stepped forward and handed cards to each of the BOP panel, then nodded briefly towards Durrant and Rodriguez.

‘Because of the unfortunate turn of events with Mr McElroy, I was not informed of the situation until late in the day by my old colleague Michael Coultaine – who, as you are all probably aware, handled the original trial and appeal for Mr Durrant – and I got here as soon as I could.’ Ayliss adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose and pushed a tight smile to all present. ‘Now you were saying, Mrs...?’

‘Elleridge. Gloria Elleridge.’

‘Mrs Elleridge. Your reputation precedes you. Heard much about your good work on the board.’ Ayliss’s pronounced southern accent had a smooth, lilting sing-song edge. The compliment raised a faint blush from Beehive. ‘Now you just go right ahead.’

Someone else in on it
? Carmen Malastra should have realized that from the outset: to prevent skimming, all employees, including the manager, were searched going in and out of his casinos, and were allowed no more than fifty bucks in their pockets. And Malastra regularly changed the security guards, in case they might get involved. So that meant to get any significant cash out of the Bay-Tree regularly, Jouliern would have needed a courier.

The search for George Jouliern’s likely money courier had gone well at first. From the video library of the Bay-Tree Casino floor, Malastra built up a strong picture of who Jouliern had met with during the eighteen months to two years the scam had been running.

Jouliern was a popular man. Very popular. Very sociable. A greeting for everyone, a few gracious words spoken before he’d touch their arm, smile and move on. But it was the occasions when more than a few words were spoken that drew Malastra’s interest, or when a look of concern might cross Jouliern’s face. Perhaps it might be someone he’d just sit next to nonchalantly, hardly paying them any attention; except that it would have to happen on a regular basis, and there’d be that moment when an envelope or small package would be passed between them, even if half-concealed beneath a table or left under a jacket draped over a bar-stool.  

   Malastra followed every inch of Jouliern’s movements over that period, fast-forwarding, stopping, leaning closer to the screen when something caught his interest, zooming in, tracing one finger over Jouliern and the face next to him in the frame, wondering ‘
Could it be you
?’ But the problem was there were too many faces, too many that Jouliern met with regularly and shared more than a few words with. Malastra had started off with forty or more possible suspects, but after days at the computer was finding it hard to narrow down beyond eighteen; no regular tell-tale envelopes passed from Jouliern that would immediately lift one of them from the pack.

 Malastra became convinced that he wasn’t going to be able to find Jouliern’s courier, it was going to remain a mystery. He decided to pay a personal visit to the Bay-Tree Casino floor, in case there was something he’d overlooked. 

The new manager there, Tony Caccia, greeted him with a wide smile. ‘Mr Malastra. So nice to see you here.’

‘Yeah,’ Malastra said curtly. He visited rarely, and usually went straight to the upstairs office without visiting the casino floor. He promptly turned his back on Caccia and went round the casino checking the angles of the video cameras, the manager following uncertainly from four paces behind. Having done a full circuit of the room, he turned back to Caccia. ‘Any blind spots on the video cams that you’re aware of?’

‘No, don’t think so. Why?’

Malastra looked at him sharply. ‘If you’re going to continue working for me, the first thing to get clear is never answer my questions with a question. Only Jewish businessmen and wily old Italians like myself do that. It’s fucking annoying. Okay?’

‘Okay. Sorry.’ 

Then only two days later, when he’d all but given up on it, Malastra saw the news item on Jac McElroy, lawyer to Larry Durrant, Jessica Roche’s murderer of twelve years ago. But what piqued Malastra’s interest was the victim’s name, Gerald Strelloff. It rang a bell, and minutes later he found it on his computer. Strelloff had worked as a barman at the Bay-Tree at the time of the scam, and the ex-girlfriend named in the news bulletin as part of the love triangle that led to the murder, Alaysha Reyner, still worked at one of his clubs, Pinkies.

Then Malastra recalled that Nel-M had phoned him when he’d first latched on to Jouliern’s scam to apologize for Raoul Ferrer’s hit. A coincidence, maybe, but it left Malastra with an uneasy feeling. 

Maybe that’s how Jouliern had done it? Instead of handing to the courier directly, he’d used the barman, Gerry Strelloff. Countless conversations between them every week, and numerous papers and envelopes with till receipts and stock re-order lists passed between them – the ideal cover.

But then Strelloff would also have been searched in and out of the casino, so would have needed someone else to pass on to. Malastra got back to his computer and started searching for the person Strelloff might have used. 

Over the following forty-eight hours, Lieutenant Jerome Derminget’s department fielded over twenty possible sightings of Jac McElroy. Seventy percent of them could be discounted straightaway, and of the remaining thirty percent they followed up, only one sounded like it might be bona fide: an elderly farm cooperative worker from a small settlement out by the Great River Road.

If McElroy had got a lift at the Morrison Interchange, as they suspected, then the timing of the sighting coincided with when he might have been dropped off in that area.

But the man didn’t phone in with the sighting until the next morning when he first saw a news report, and by then, understandably, McElroy had long gone from the area. Though what most worried Derminget was that McElroy seemed to have disappeared from every other area. From the other suspected sightings, a couple of close-but-no-cigars, the rest had been a mile off the mark.

Broughlan had been screaming for results, yet with each passing hour the chances of finding McElroy were looking slimmer. After twenty-four hours with no more firm sightings, despite McElroy’s face appearing on every local news bulletin and in the newspapers, the first real concerns began to fester at the Eight District station house. After forty-eight hours still with nothing, it was all but official: Jac McElroy had disappeared from the face of the earth. Had without doubt left the State, if not the country.

‘He was incredible. Fuckin’ awesome. The Zoro of how to cream the BOP with a few swift strokes.’ Rodriguez mimed two elaborate sword strokes with one hand.

Rodriguez was holding court in the prison canteen the morning after the BOP hearing, and had the attention of everyone at his long table, with some heads also turned from the tables each side. ‘First thing is he gets her to repeat her beef, which o’ course straight-off gets her more shaky of her ground. Then, like he was doing her a favour, he cuts in halfway and says he knows and respects the point she’s makin’ and is glad she’s raised it. “Only someone as astute as yourself, Mrs Elleridge, would pick up on the worrying sub-text of Mr Durrant’s articles in the way you have”.

‘He’s laying on the compliments like thick treacle to soften her up, and she’s blushin’ and so open to anything by now that she might as well have her panties down by her ankles. So then he gives her the first test jab, sayin’ that he’s sure that’s not what Larry Durrant meant by that article. “What makes you say that?” she quizzes, knees twitchin’ now, worried that she might have made a big mistake leaving herself so open. But it’s too late; with a little teasin’ smile, he rams home wit’ the “Fuck you”, says that if she noticed in the article, Durrant uses the third person throughout: he sites Texas statutes regarding Mary-Beth Fuller, and his own lawyer with culpability doubts in his own case. At no time does he express those opinions as his own.