Dead River (35 page)

“You’re right. In fact, he may have a closer relationship with Jacobson than he does with me. We haven’t seen each other socially for quite a while. On the other hand, Warren and Jacobson have been very close for the past couple of years.”

“Do you think their chummy relationship is related to the rumor that Jacobson has political aspirations? That he may be running for state attorney general?”

“I think that’s exactly it. So that option’s out. What’s your other plan?”

Harley leaned forward, planting his elbows on the mahogany table, and locking his fingers. “Let’s get someone from outside the firm to expose the lab scandal.”

Allison reared back in his chair and clapped his hands together once. A smile formed on his face. “I love it. Go on.”

“After the scandal breaks, we’ll file a motion for suppression of evidence, and at the same time we’ll also file a motion for dismissal of the charges against Sikes. The judge will have to throw out the hair analysis evidence for sure. Without that, the State really doesn’t have a case.”

“Is there any other significant evidence?”

“We haven’t seen any positive DNA results, and I doubt we will. But there are three concerns that we need to discuss. The first one is the prosecution’s witnesses, the McCarthys, who claim a voice on some audio tapes is Sikes. But I can tear that apart in court.”

Harley showed Allison the State’s witness list with Joe and Sally McCarthy’s names. He detailed how the tapes were obtained and how the caller distorted his voice. Then he went on to describe his plan for discrediting any expert witness the State would bring into court.

“I agree, Harley. How did the McCarthys get into the picture?”

“They’re linked to the second concern.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the note the Riley girl wrote, her Last Will and Testament.”

“Her Last Will and Testament?” Allison asked.

“Yes. She was probably forced to write a two-page letter that was mailed to the Rileys. The FBI lab in Quantico didn’t find any fingerprints, other than the girl’s.”

“How was the envelope sealed, was it self-sealing?”

“No, it was a regular lick-and-stick envelope, but no saliva was found. However, they did find something.”

“So this gets better?”

“Oh yeah. On the first page was a partial imprint of a phone number. So some detectives down at C.I.D. started calling all of the combinations of possible phone numbers and finally hit on one that gave them their lead. It was the son of the McCarthys. He’s attending Georgia Tech.”

“Keep going.”

“Sikes works for Joe McCarthy and was house sitting for them during the time of the kidnapping and murder of the Riley girl. That’s what led them to Sikes.”

“So then the McCarthy’s were asked to listen to the tapes.”

“That’s right.”

“So let’s go over what our friend Jacobson has.” Allison counted on his fingers. “There’s the hair sample analysis, but that will have to be thrown out. There are the audio tapes, but I agree they won’t be a factor. You mentioned the DNA results will probably come back negative. So the only piece of evidence that’s even remotely significant is the phone number imprinted on the letter the Riley girl wrote.”

“Yeah, but it’s too circumstantial. The paper the letter was written on could have come from McCarthy’s business.”

“True,” Allison agreed. “You said you had three concerns. What’s the third?”

“In ’89, a girl was found dead on the bank of a creek in Magee, Mississippi, after the city’s centennial celebration. She had the letters CXJ carved on her forehead. Sikes is from Magee, and Sara Ann Riley had the same letters carved on her forehead.”

“Were there any suspects in the Magee murder?”

“Two, but they both had alibis.”

“Was one of them Sikes?”

“Nope.”

Both men sat silent for several moments.

“So what do you think?” Harley finally asked.

Allison still didn’t say anything. He stroked his chin, his eyes circling around the room. Then his hand dropped and he stared at Harley. “I think Mr. Slick doesn’t have a case. That’s what I think.”

A wide grin formed on Harley’s face as he leaned back in his chair. “That’s what I’m thinking too.”

“The falsified report will be the thing that’ll do him in. You have someone in mind to break the story about the lab report?”

“I believe I do. He’d be perfect, if he’ll do it.”

“I’m waiting.”

Harley paused for several seconds. “Jason Tannenbaum,” he blurted out.

Allison sat up straight in his chair and slapped the table top with both hands. “The Tan-Man? That little prick? I love it, Harley.”

Allison had given Tannenbaum the ‘Tan-Man’ moniker two years ago because of the George Hamilton-style deep-bronze tan he wore year-round.

“I knew you would,” Harley replied, still grinning.

“Hell yes. That asshole jumps on every bandwagon that’s moving slow enough and loves to see his name in the newspapers. He’ll end up on television, and maybe the national news.”

“Probably.”

“Excellent choice to champion the cause.”

 76

THE FOLLOWING MONDAY Harley called Jason Tannenbaum’s office. Tannenbaum’s law firm consisted of himself, a secretary, and a paralegal. His father started the firm and built a substantial business with three other partners. Jason was brought into the firm out of law school, four years before his father decided to retire. After his father’s retirement, Jason managed to reduce the firm to three people within a year.

Harley’s secretary, Maureen, keyed in Tannenbaum’s phone number, then turned on the speaker phone.

“Good morning, Mr. Tannenbaum’s office, Ms. Wormington speaking. How may I help you?”

“This is Maureen, Mr. Buckwald’s secretary, at Buckwald, Allison, and Crumley. Mr. Buckwald would like to speak to Mr. Tannenbaum.”

“Please hold. I’m not sure he’s in yet this morning.”

“Thank you.”

A few seconds went by before the hold music stopped on the other end of the line. “Okay, he’s in but unavailable. May I have him call Mr. Buckwald back later this morning?”

“Sure, that will be fine. Can you give me a time?”

“It will probably be around eleven.”

“Let me give you Mr. Buckwald’s direct line.”

“No need, I have it.”

Harley was standing beside Maureen the entire time. He looked at her and, with a half-smile, walked back to his office shaking his head. This arrogant ass is going to be perfect, Harley thought.

It was eleven-thirty when Tannenbaum called.

“Hello, Mr. Tannenbaum. We met last December at a fundraiser for the I Have a Dream Foundation in Tampa.”

“Yes, I remember. What do you need?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

“This better be good.”

Harley ignored Tannenbaum’s contemptuous attitude and explained the situation in detail, emphasizing the potential publicity that could result, maybe even national television exposure.

“Who knows how long and how many reports Weber’s falsified since he’s been at the FDLE lab in Orlando?” Harley stressed. “So what do you think? Are you interested in getting involved in this?”

“Yes, but I want to talk to your source, the person who dug this up.”

“Not possible. You’ll only talk to me. I’ll give you all the information you’ll need.”

“No deal. I want to do my own questioning, gather information my way. In order to do that, I need a name. Otherwise, we end the discussion on this matter right now.”

Harley expected Tannenbaum wouldn’t ask why Harley’s firm didn’t go forward with the information, but he didn’t anticipate him getting pushy about wanting to talk to Mark Master’s informant. Harley understood the game he was playing. It was simple. Try to gain access to Master’s informant and then use him as his own source of information. Harley had to give in on something. Tannenbaum could actually turn down the offer. However, under no circumstances could he reveal Master’s informant.

“Hold on there, son. I already told you the essential information. But you drive a hard bargain. I’ll tell you what; you can talk to Garrett Townsend. That’s the best I can do.”

Several seconds passed by in silence.

“Okay, but if I don’t have the information I need to take this forward, I’ll bow out of it. Agreed?”

“Agreed. I really appreciate your help, son. Let’s talk in the morning. I’ll be able to let you know when Garrett Townsend’s available.”

Harley hung the phone up, and a smile formed on his face.

 77

FOUR DAYS AFTER Harley first spoke to Jason Tannenbaum on the phone, Tannenbaum’s picture appeared in the Orlando Sentinel, Florida Today, the Miami Herald and several other Florida newspapers. The Tan-Man had showed up for the press conference in a three-button, navy-blue Carlo Palazzi that appeared to have been worn the previous evening on an all-night bender. His four-in-hand-knotted necktie hung loose around his neck. Apparently Tannenbaum was unaware of the utility of collar stays for his white Savile Row dress shirt, because the tips of his collar curled upward, accentuating the “I Don’t Give a Shit” aspect of his appearance, which contrasted with his dark, even suntan.

Local TV news shot out the story of the scandal with fervor. It was hard-hitting. Tannenbaum exposed every detail of Sam Weber’s practices at the FDLE lab, taking full credit for the discovery. That was part of the deal Harley made with him: leave Harley’s firm completely out of it and tell the media he uncovered the entire scandal himself.

Owen Jacobson read the story in the Sentinel and later watched the Tannenbaum interview on Channel 6. He liked having a TV in his office to follow important breaking news, mostly when the news was about him. This time, he wished he didn’t own a TV.

Jacobson knew what the scandal meant, and the media was giving their own take on the ramifications of Weber’s falsified report. The news analysis specifically mentioned David Allen Sikes’s case, and the possibility of the murder charges against him being dropped.

Jacobson was infuriated. He snapped off the TV with the remote control and slammed it down hard on his desk. He sat for a few moments, staring at the bronze statue of a Rottweiler on the floor next to his office door.

How can I recover from this? He had no solutions. The DNA results were negative, and Harley Buckwald would certainly file a motion for suppression of evidence. The voice analysis wasn’t working out, and the rest of the evidence was circumstantial.

The audio tapes were being analyzed at the University of Florida, with no success. They desperately needed a recording of Sikes’s voice, but Jacobson’s team had been unsuccessful in obtaining one. The judge was still reviewing Harley’s objections to the recording of his client’s voice. Vetter had yet to make a decision on the matter. Jacobson was confident the judge would rule in his favor, but time was running out.

If Judge Vetter didn’t allow Sikes’s voice to be recorded, the testimony of the McCarthys would be weak, very weak. Jacobson knew that Harley Buckwald could easily discredit their testimony in court and convince a jury that it is difficult, if not impossible, to state with a high degree of confidence that Sikes’s voice is the one on the tapes. And if there was a trial, Jacobson also knew that Harley would never allow his client to testify and run the risk of the jury matching up Sikes’s voice with the one on the tapes, in spite of the distortion.

So that left the letter written by Sara Ann Riley, her Last Will and Testament. Deep inside, Jacobson was coming to grips with the reality of the situation. The two-pager wouldn’t be enough to give him a murder conviction. There would be vast uncertainty, too much doubt for any juror. Reasonable doubt. Right now Jacobson despised those fucking words.

But he wouldn’t give up or give in, not to Harley Buckwald.

 78

SLOUCHED IN HIS CHAIR, Sikes stared mindlessly at the glow of the TV picture tube. He was drifting off into another dimension. The torrid air in the inmate’s TV lounge hung thick with cigarette smoke, mixed with the heavy, cutting odor of sweat. The wall-mounted thirty-two-inch RCA that angled downward toward the rows of metal chairs blasted the noon news. An overweight blonde anchorwoman stammered through her script like it was her debut in high school speech class. And then it came, bringing the yelping, chattering and grab-assing to a sudden stop.

Sikes snapped out of his trance and slowly rose out of his chair. He gazed around the room, capturing the glimpses of steely-eyed low-lifes, their leers boring into him like a hundred drill bits. He shifted his attention to the newscast and heard Tannenbaum finishing up his spiel on the FDLE scandal. Then the camera panned to the reporter standing nearby, who proceeded to speculate on the possibility of Sikes’s release. The excitement quivering inside him quickly gave way to a string of fear that threaded through his entire body. That was when all hell broke loose.