The Boys from Biloxi: A Legal Thriller (37 page)

Taylor ran his business out of a small shop in an old warehouse. A federal magistrate issued another eavesdropping warrant and the office phone was tapped. Its records were collected from the phone company and were being analyzed. Virtually all the calls were business-related; again, none seemed suspicious.

Agent Lewis was puzzled. To pull off such a spectacular bomb blast would almost certainly require phone activity. Where did the explosives come from? How did he get them? Lewis and Whitehead had searched his little bomb lab behind his home and found no explosives, only residue and gadgets for detonators. There had to be contact with the man with the money, or some go-between.

Several calls from his home revealed that his broken leg was causing considerable trouble and he was unable to work. He chatted with two part-time employees and wasn’t happy with either. One claimed Taylor owed some back wages; they argued. He called his doctor and complained. He tried to borrow money from a brother, but the conversation didn’t go well. There were fewer and fewer calls to his office from prospective customers.

His story was that he had gone fishing in the Gulf and slipped at a marina, breaking his leg. Six weeks after the murder, he was still on crutches and in constant pain.

He made an interesting call on October 14. A Mr. Ludlow took Taylor’s call at the bank and listened to his troubles. He wasn’t working much, broken leg and all, and he was in a bind, needed to
borrow some money. They seemed to know one another from past dealings. Henry wanted $10,000 and was willing to put a second mortgage on his home. Mr. Ludlow said he would ponder it. He called back the next day and said no.

A target in financial trouble. They kept listening.

The Harrison County Board of Supervisors decided to spend some money repairing its courthouse and went overboard on an office suite for its new district attorney. When Keith moved in a week before Thanksgiving, he was impressed with the remodeling, the fine furniture, the latest office equipment. The walls, floors, and ceilings still smelled of fresh paint. Handsome rugs were on all the floors. Modern art adorned the walls, though he would soon replace it. All in all it was a superb effort and a meaningful gesture.

His most pressing problem was the lack of a staff. Jesse’s longtime secretary refused to enter the courthouse and Keith could not coax her out of retirement. Nor was his own assistant ready to return. Egan Clement was depressed and still frightened. A lady from the land records office volunteered to answer the phone for two months.

During the first few days, he fought the emotions that surfaced every time he walked into his father’s old office, but finally found the resolve to move forward. Jesse wouldn’t want him moping around when there was work to do. The knot in his stomach eventually subsided, then went away. When he wasn’t busy he left the office and went for long drives in the country north of town. What he needed was his first jury trial; nothing like a good courtroom brawl to make a lawyer forget his troubles.

He called his first grand jury to order and presented half a dozen cases: small-time drug trafficking, an assault from a nasty domestic dispute, and an armed home invasion that almost turned deadly.

The case of
State of Mississippi v. Calvin Ball
involved a honky-tonk fistfight that turned into a shooting that left one dead. Jesse had barely squeezed an indictment out of his last grand jury six months earlier. Calvin Ball, the winner of the fight, claimed self-defense. No less than eight patrons were involved at some level, and all were drunk, stoned, or getting that way. It happened just after midnight on a Saturday in rural Stone County. Ball’s lawyer was pushing for a trial because his client wanted to clear his name. Keith finally said what the hell; a win for either side looked doubtful.

The trial lasted for three days in Wiggins and almost turned into another brawl. After eight hours of heated deliberations, the jury split 6–6 and the judge declared a mistrial. Driving back to Biloxi, Keith managed to find little humor in some of the testimony, and in the fact that he had lost his first trial as DA. He remembered that his father had told stories about the honky-tonk. Jesse did not want to put Calvin Ball on trial.

The following week, Keith got his first win in an embezzlement case. The week before Christmas he got convictions for two bikers from California who jumped a gas station attendant in Gulfport and beat him for no reason.

Keith had practically grown up in the courtroom. He was carrying his father’s briefcase to trials when he was a teenager. He knew the rules of evidence long before he started law school. He learned courtroom procedure, etiquette, and tactics from watching a hundred trials. Jesse loved to whisper tips, tricks, and slick maneuvers as if passing along insider information.

A lawyer in a trial facing a jury has a dozen things on his mind. Getting to trial takes meticulous preparation. There was no time to grieve, fret, fear, to feel sorry for oneself. At the age of twenty-eight, Keith was becoming a good trial lawyer, one his father would be proud of.

His first three trials were exhilarating, and they at times diverted his mind from the nightmare.

Agnes was determined to lift the family’s spirits with a merry holiday season. She decorated the house as never before and planned at least three parties. Beverly, Laura, and Tim were home for Christmas. Keith and Ainsley lived four blocks away. Their kitchen became the gathering place as the family came and went and friends dropped by with cakes, flowers, and gifts. Though there were plenty of tears at night, and Jesse was never far from their thoughts, they went about their celebrations as if nothing was out of the ordinary. They sat together during Midnight Mass and were surrounded by friends when it was over.

A new chapter in their lives began the following day during Christmas lunch when Keith announced that Ainsley was two months pregnant. A new Rudy would enter the picture, and he or she was badly needed.

Agnes had managed to grit her teeth and plow through the season, but when she heard the wonderful news that she would be a grandmother, she finally broke down. The emotion was contagious, and in an instant the entire family was having a good cry. Tears of joy.

The apartment was in a large, aging complex. Henry Taylor had cleaned there before. Small, inexpensive units, the kind that attracted renters who often fled in the middle of the night, leaving behind nothing that wasn’t nailed down along with plenty of dirt and stains. The guy on the phone said he was moving in and wanted the carpets freshened up. They met at the door at the appointed hour, and the guy handed over $120 in cash for the job. Then he left, said he’d be back later.

Henry was working alone—couldn’t find decent help so soon after the holidays—and was limping, struggling, and already cursing his bum leg though it was only eight in the morning. He was carrying two large jugs of detergent into the apartment when a stranger appeared from nowhere at the door and startled him. Coat, tie, hard frown, the kind of look that often startled Henry because of his violent sideline. If folks only knew how easily Henry got spooked. A seasoned bomb-maker with steady hands and a cool head, he often lost a breath when confronted with exactly the type of man now staring at him from the doorway. Without a smile the man said, “Looking for Henry Taylor.”

Was he a cop? On his trail? Had Henry finally made some unknown mistake along the way and was about to get nailed by forensics?

“That’s me. What do you want?”

Finally, a faint smile. He handed him a business card and said, “J. W. Gross, Private Investigator.”

Henry actually exhaled but tried not to show it. The man was
offering a card, not a warrant. He took it, examined it, flipped it, found nothing on the back. A private eye with an address in Nashville. He offered the card back as if he had no interest whatsoever, but Gross ignored the gesture.

“A real pleasure,” Henry said.

“Same here. Got a minute?”

“No. I gotta job and I’m running late.”

Gross shrugged but made no effort to leave. “Two minutes is all I ask and it’ll be worth it, maybe.”

“One minute and talk fast.”

Gross glanced around and said, “Let’s step inside.”

Inside would certainly mean more than one minute, but Henry stood down and backed away. Gross closed the door behind him and Henry glanced at his watch like a real hard-ass.

Gross said, “I gotta client with a friend who’s loaded and needs a job, know what I mean?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“You come highly recommended, Mr. Taylor. A real pro with a lot of experience, a man who gets things done.”

“Are you a cop?”

“No, never have been. Don’t even like cops.”

“For all I know you’re wearing a wire. What the hell’s going on?”

Gross laughed, spread his arms wide, and said, “Search me. Want me to take off my shirt?”

“Oh no, I’m seeing enough. One minute’s up. I’m busy.”

Gross gave another fake smile and said, “Sure. But it’s a lot of money. A lot more than Biloxi.”

A mule kick in the gut could not have landed harder. Henry’s jaw dropped as he glared at Gross, unable to speak.

Gross took in his reaction and said, “Fifty grand, cash. You got my number.”

He turned around, left the room, and shut the door.

Henry stared at it for a long time as his mind spun out of
control. No one knew about Biloxi but himself and his contact there. Or did they? Obviously so. Henry had told no one; he never did. It was impossible to survive in his business if secrets were divulged. Someone in Biloxi had loose lips. Word had spread through the underworld that Henry Taylor had struck again. Henry, though, didn’t care for the reputation. That would only attract cops.

He cleaned the filthy carpets for two hours, then needed a break and some pain pills. He drove to the downtown library in Union City and flipped through the phone directories of the largest cities and towns in Tennessee. In the Nashville yellow pages he found a small ad for J. W. Gross, Private Investigator. Honest. Reliable. Twenty Years’ Experience.

He scoffed at anyone who advertised honesty.

He went to his office, took a pain pill, and stretched out on an army cot he often used for naps. The meds finally kicked in and the pain subsided. He picked up the phone and called a friend. The number was traced to a home in Brentwood, Tennessee, in the Nashville metro area.

They were listening.

Henry said, “Say, met a private dick from your hometown. Know anybody named J. W. Gross?”

The friend replied, “Why should I know a private dick?”

“Thought you knew everyone on the shadier side.”

“Well, I know you.”

“Ha ha. You mind making a call or two, check the guy out?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“My everlasting friendship.”

“Been trying to shake that for years.”

“Come on. You owe me one.”

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Don’t break your neck. Just want to make sure he’s legit, you know?”

They talked about women for a few moments and rang off.

Henry began thinking about the cash. He’d been paid $20,000
to blow up Jesse Rudy and he should have asked for more. Taking out a high-profile elected official was worth twice that much. Who in the world was worth $50,000? And, if the guy was really loaded and offering fifty grand as a starting point, then he could certainly go higher. Greed entered his thoughts, along with survival.

He began to smile and nodded off.

The skinny on J. W. Gross was satisfactory. Solid reputation, nice little firm with himself at the helm and a couple of younger guys in the office. Worked high-end divorces and did some corporate security. No law enforcement background.

Henry was obsessed with the money. He called the number on the business card and arranged a meeting in the parking lot of a softball field on the east side of Union City. No traffic, no witnesses. It was early January, so no softball.

It was cold and the wind was blowing. J.W. followed Henry, using a cane, to the concession stand where the door was unlocked. They stepped inside to get out of the wind.

“How do I know you’re not wired?” Henry asked.

Again, J.W. spread his arms and said, “Go ahead.”

“Mind taking off the coat?”

Gross looked frustrated but took off his coat. Under it was a cheap black blazer. Henry stepped forward and began tapping his chest and belt. He stopped at the right hip. “Got a piece?”

J.W. pulled back his blazer and showed Henry an automatic pistol in a holster. “Always carry it, Mr. Taylor. Want to see the permit?”

“That’s not necessary. Turn around.”

Gross did as he was instructed and Henry patted down his neck, underarms, and waist. “Okay, looks like you’re clean.”

“Thank you.” Gross put on his coat.

“I’m listening,” Henry said.

“I don’t know the man with the money, don’t know his real name, so let’s call him Mr. Getty. He’s about sixty years old, lives somewhere in this state, but has a collection of fine homes around the country. His wife is twenty years younger, number three I think. Typical setup—older guy with money, younger gal with a body. The good life, except she’s got a boyfriend on the side, actually one of her ex-husbands she’s still quite fond of. Mr. Getty is upset, heartbroken, angry, and not the kind of man who’s accustomed to getting dumped on. Even worse, he also suspects she and her stud might be planning a number on him to get his money. It’s complicated. A few years back, Mr. Getty and some rich pals developed a resort near Gatlinburg, in the mountains.”

“I know Gatlinburg.”

“His wife loves the mountains, likes to spend time there with her girlfriends, sometimes alone. Sometimes with Mr. Getty. And often with her boyfriend. It’s their favorite little love nest.”

“The job is to blow it up.”

“And her. And him. Mr. Getty wants a dramatic event, preferably when they’re in the bed.”

“That might present timing problems.”

“Understood. I’m just passing along the info, Mr. Taylor.”

“What about the building?”

“Two-thousand-square-foot condo, one of four units. The other three are weekend places and seldom used, especially in cold weather. My contact will get drawings, plans, photos, whatever. Miss Getty and her boy are under surveillance so we’ll know when they retire to the mountains.”

“You said your contact was the client of a friend, or the friend of a client. That’s pretty vague.”

“It’ll have to stay that way. I’ll never meet Mr. Getty. As I understand things, he’s a client of a friend who’s in this same business. Private work.”

“And who knew my name?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Fair enough. Two high-profile targets is worth a lot more than fifty grand.”

“I don’t have the authority to negotiate, Mr. Taylor. I’m just relaying messages.”

“A hundred grand.”

Gross flinched a bit and gave a frown, but recovered like a pro. “Don’t blame you at all. I’ll pass it along.”

“What’s the time frame?”

“Sooner rather than later. Mr. Getty has plenty of security and he’s watching them closely. He is obviously concerned. Also, as warm weather approaches this spring the resort will get busier. He thinks the best time is between now and early April.”

“I’ll have to check my schedule.”

Gross shrugged, wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Get me the drawings and photos and I’ll take a look.”

The trackers and listeners tightened the net around Taylor.

He left home in his pickup on Saturday, January 22, and drove three hours to Nashville where he met Gross in the parking lot of a shopping center and took a folder with the necessary info. From there he drove four hours to Pigeon Forge and checked into a budget motel in the shadows of the Great Smoky Mountains. He paid twenty-four dollars in cash for one night and used a bogus driver’s license as an ID. He walked next door to a grill, ate a sandwich, and drove eight miles to Gatlinburg. He got lost in the steep, winding roads but eventually found the resort at dusk.

While he was away, a team of FBI technicians entered his motel room, tapped the phone, and planted six listening devices.

Taylor had been assured by Gross that the condo would be empty during the weekend and there was no alarm system. He left the resort, drove to a diner, and killed some time drinking coffee. At nine, he returned to the resort, which was virtually deserted,
and crept in the darkness to the condo. With little effort he jimmied the lock and went inside.

The FBI trackers were impressed with Taylor’s ability to move around without being noticed.

He returned to the motel at 11:00
p.m.
and called J. W. Gross. They agreed to meet Sunday morning at a truck stop on Interstate 40 east of Nashville. He made no other calls and went to bed.

Sleet was falling and the truck stop was packed with eighteen-wheelers trying to get off the road. Gross found Taylor’s pickup parked near the restaurant, but Taylor was not in it. He waited a few moments as 11:30, their agreed-upon time, came and went. Taylor appeared from the restaurant, walked over, and Gross nodded to get inside where it was warm and dry. Taylor got in the passenger’s side and said, “Place is packed in there. Couldn’t get a table.”

The cab of the truck was wired. The listeners, already on high alert and hiding about fifty feet away, held their breaths. What a lucky break. What a dumb move by Taylor.

Gross asked, “You found the condo?”

“Yes, it was easy,” Taylor replied smugly. “I don’t see a problem, other than timing. I’ll need at least three days’ notice.”

“In three weeks, February eleventh, Mr. Getty and his wife plan to get away for the weekend. He won’t make it, some business emergency. She’ll probably go anyway and substitute her boyfriend for a little fun. That looks like our first opportunity. Can you do it then?”

“That works. And you want them both dead?”

“No, personally I don’t care. But Mr. Getty wants both of them killed and the condo blown to hell and back.”

“I can’t guarantee it, you understand?”

“What can you guarantee? I mean, hell, for a hundred grand you gotta make some promises, Mr. Taylor.”

“I know that. I also know that no two projects are the same, no two bombs behave alike. It’s an art, J.W., not a science. I’ll set it
for three
a.m.
when it’s safe to assume they’ll be in the same bed, right?”