The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8) (26 page)

54.

427 Lafayette Drive

Two Days Later

              It was a Saturday, a day of lazy recreation around the pool. Leon had administered the third trimming to the surrounding hedge in as many weeks. At Lang’s suggestion, he had abandoned his labors to join Manfred in some nameless aquatic game. The rules seemed unclear but the action involved much shouting along with diving for a shiny object tossed by one or the other.

              Now Leon, normally a source of endless kinetic energy, was as quiet in his recliner as the normally inert Grumps beside him. Perhaps like the dog, Leon, too, was dozing in the late spring sun, leaving Manfred paddling furious laps on his inflatable pool toy, a bright yellow porpoise with a red saddle on its back.

              Gurt, swathed in sun block despite the shade of the umbrella overhead, also seemed to be dozing in her recliner, her iPad on the cement beside her. Presumably, she had tired of her romance novel.

              Surrounded by this much indolence, Lang yawned. He might have dozed off, too, had his iPad not pinged with the receipt of an email. He was tempted to ignore it for the moment, thankful
Chattanooga Choo-Choo
was not summoning him to the more urgent phone call. More often than not, Saturday emails went into his spam blocker or belonged there: Jokes from friends, political electronic chain letters (“Pass on to at least ten of your friends”) or other forms of cyber junk.

              With another yawn, he picked up the iPad.

              E mail from Jacob. “James: Send Moonflower letter back to Nassau library.”

              Nothing further   

              Lang read it twice.

              Lang went over to Gurt who was snoring softly and shook her.

              “Huh?”

              Lang held up the screen of the iPad. “Looks like our little problem with MI5 is over.”

              Gurt lifted her oversize sunglasses to squint at the screen in front of her. “I suppose so.”

              “If Alred James and the St Georhge Society call it quits, we’re done. Nobody else is going to take up the cause. Once the head of the snake is cut off, the rest is ordinary rope.

              She looked at him. “Who said that?”

              He grinned. “I did.”

              “Sounds more like Francis.”

              “OK, so he said it first. Tribal proverb.”

              They were both silent for a moment. Then, as one, the turned heads to look at the house.

              “You thinking what I am?” Lang asked.

              Gurt gave an almost girlish giggle. “That we haven’t. . . you know, not in the daytime since. . .”

              He took her by the hand, pulling her erect. “Since way too long. C’mon before Manfred notices we’re gone.”

              She resisted. “Leaving him alone in the pool?”

              “Kid’s been alone in the pool most of the time this year. That’s why we spent the money for lessons, remember? He can swim like a fish.”

              An hour later, the bed in the master bedroom could have been scrambled with a giant egg beater. Lang drifted between sleep induced by weariness and a warm drowsiness. For an instant, he opened his eyes to watch Gurt put her bikini back on.             

              “Don’t worry about Manfred.”

              She gave him a wicked smile. “It is for you, not Manfred I get dressed.”

              “Huh?”

              “You are not as young as once. One more time may kill you.”

              She only pretended to dance out of his grasp as he dragged he back to bed.

              “I’ll die happy.”

              Afterwards, in good health for his age, it was Lang who got up.

              He was headed for the shower when Gurt’s voice stopped him. “Do you think he believed she did it?”

              The indefinite antecedent.

              Lang stood, hoping for clarification.

              “Alred James, the MI6 guy. Do you think he believed the Duchess was behind Harry Oakes’s murder, that he was willing to kill to hush it up?”

              Lang turned, the house’s air conditioning goose bumping his bare skin. “No doubt he was willing to kill through some warped sense of saving the monarchy embarrassment. But it wasn’t just the murder. Perhaps Oakes knew or suspected the Duchess, also known as Wallis Warfield Simpson, was giving aid and comfort to German submarines. In her mind, she had a crown to gain if Hitler won. Plus, how much did the Duke know? He pretty well foiled the murder investigation. Incompetence or cover up? Whatever, he was the present queen’s uncle. If he were involved in helping the enemy or thwarting a murder investigation, in James’s mind, it would reflect badly on her.”

              Gurt sighed and rolled over onto her back, sheets pushed aide form a body gleaming with sweat from sexual acrobatics. “Don’t suppose we will ever know for sure, will we?”

              Shower forgotten, Lang made a dive for the bed. “Probably not. As for me, I’ve got something else on my mind.”

55.

472 Lafayette Drive

Atlanta

7:22 am The Next Morning

              As Gurt came downstairs to the basement gym, she could hear the hum of the stationary bike as Lang increased speed. A selection of the day’s newspapers were beside the machine, one spread out of the handlebars’ reading stand. She shook her head.
Atlanta Journal- Constitution, New York Times, Wall Street Journal.
How many papers –and differing slants on today events- could one person absorb in the sixty minute daily workout?

              Plus, the wall mounted TV was tuned to FOX NEWS.

              Lang’s perpetual answer was that Fox plus
the Wall Street Journal
equaled the other two: Two leftist publications versus a conservative paper and a news network that advertised itself as ‘fair and balanced.’

              More like a tag team wrestling match more than a search for the day’s headlines.

              And she was more curious about something else than (choose one ) the President’s latest (a) overreach of his constitutional authority or (b) stunning success in spite of an uncooperative congress.

              She turned on the treadmill and dialed in the speed she desired. “I saw the letter and the cardboard cutout on the dining room table.”

              No response.

              She repeated herself, turning up the volume.

              Same response.

              With a sigh of frustration, she reached over and removed the wireless buds from Lang’s ears. “I saw the letter and the cardboard cutout on the dining room table,” she repeated somewhat louder than necessary.

              He shook his head as though to clear it. “No need to shout. I heard you the first time.”

              “Then why didn’t you answer?”

              “Answer?” He looked at her. “Was there a question?”

              And Lang accused her of Teutonic literalism.

              She momentarily slowed, almost slipped as the treadmill kept its preset pace and said, “The letter, the one Celeste’s roommate stole, and the cutout. You have it on the dining room table.” She noted this wasn’t getting an answer, either. “Exactly what are you planning to do with it?”

              An expression of enlightenment spread across his face, Champollion comprehending the Rosetta Stone. He stopped pedaling. “So, that’s the question that’s been hovering around!”

              Gurt fought the urge to slap him on the general grounds of being an ass but she waited instead.

              “I’m FedEx’ing it back to the Nassau Library, just like James requested.”

              Her eyebrows asked the next question.

              “The only real proof the Duchess was a Nazi sympathizer. I’m guessing James wants it as far away from London as he can get it.”

              “Why not burn it?”

              Lang wiped a band of sweat from his forehead. “Can’t answer that. Reluctance to destroy history, the fact he might need it someday. Who knows?”

              “What about the murder of Sir Harry Oakes?”

              Lang shrugged, an answerless question. “People can think whatever they wish. Any real chance of solving that mystery is long past.”

              “And Celeste?”

              It was Lang’s turn to silently inquire.

              “Celeste,” Gurt repeated. “Does she know you’re sending it back?”

              “The thing got Livia, the love of her life, killed. She sure doesn’t want it around. Besides, it doesn’t belong to her.”

              The two were quiet as Gurt mounted the treadmill.

              She looked at Lang, knowing there was something else.

              “What?”

              “You were going to say?”

              Lang grunted as he swung his leg over the bike, done with the ride for the day. “If we ever want a job in London, Alred James would love to hear from us.”

              “Why would we want a job in London?”

              Lang was walking toward the stairs. “We wouldn’t. Just nice to know we are still employable.”

56.

Government House

Nassau

November 13, 1943

              The Duke and his wife were in his study, each slouched in easy chairs. Between them, a low mahogany commode held a crystal decanter half full of sherry and four glasses. The Duke held today’s
Guardian,
Nassau’s newspaper. The Mutual Network’s evening newscast from Miami, just finished, had contained much more about the recent trial than the war.

              The Duchess lowered a fashion magazine, months old before it reached these islands. “They implied the case should never have been prosecuted, that you were somehow at fault for mismanaging it. Only took the jury three hours to acquit him.”

              He didn’t look up from the paper. “Rank has its privileges but it also has its downside.”

              “And judging by the headlines, that paper shares that view.”

              “Sometimes freedom of the press can be tiresome.”

              She put down the magazine and reached for the decanter. “David, I just can’t bear to see you castigated so.”

              “I did what I had to, Wally. Don’t think that I enjoyed any of it. I suggest you take this whole affair as a lesson in where ambition leads.”

              The decanter stopped in midair, glass held beneath it empty. Her eyebrows arched. “What
do
you mean?”

              “I rather think you know bloody well. Now, no more discussion of the matter,
ever.
Be a love and pour me a glass of the Sherry, will you?” 

EPILOGUE

Fulton County Justice Center

Atlanta

September

              Superior Court Judge Duncan Wells was not a legal scholar. For that, Lang was grateful. So-called “scholarly” judges rarely admitted mistakes much less an ignorance of the particular area of the law in question. They tended to micro manage litigation about which the lawyers involved were far more knowledgeable.

              In short, they were a pain in the legal ass.

              Judge Wells was quick to admit ignorance, not too proud to request exhaustive briefs to fill in what he good naturedly described as ‘a gap in my legal education.’ Oral arguments were encouraged, although frequently peppered with questions from the bench that indicated perhaps the judge understood more than he admitted. As long as lawyers remained within the confines of the rules of civility, evidence and procedure, they were left to present their cases as they saw fit.

              It was, in Lang’s opinion, a blessing that mere chance had landed the thirty-four principals, teachers and school administrators plus his client accused of changing answers on the CRT Test here rather in front of someone who would have dithered for months before rendering a decision on whether or not to try each defendant separately or consolidate them for a single trial. Since well over eighty percent of the prosecution’s evidence would be the same in each case, Wells saw economy of judicial time prevailing over claims of potential prejudice.

              Judge Wells tended toward what worked. If the appellate courts didn’t agree, he often observed, well, that was their problem.      

              It was with a sense of confidence Lang strode to the podium as thirty-four other lawyers plus a fair number of their clients watched.

              After the customary exchange of greetings, the judge peered over half moon glasses, his finger resting on a stack of papers in front of him. “Says here you are the movant, Mr. Reilly. What you have for us today?”

              “In the case of
State vs Rountree
, a motion to quash certain evidence, Your Honor.”

              The judge was scanning the pleadings, his fingers running through a neatly trimmed white beard. “And what evidence might that be?”

              “Your Honor, this defendant, Dr. Rountree, upon being hired was required to sign a contract with the Atlanta Public School System. That contract is before the Court as exhibit A attached to the motion.” Lang flipped pages of the stack resting on the podium. “As you will note from paragraph eighteen, sub paragraph g, Dr. Rountree is required, upon the school board’s request, to submit to examination under oath. On July 10, 2010, she complied with that agreement. The pertinent pages of what amounts to a deposition are attached as exhibit B.”

              Lang side-stepped to counsel table and poured himself a paper cup of water. He wasn’t particularly thirsty but it gave the judge time to absorb what he had said so far.

              Returning to the podium, he resumed. “The defendant Rountree moves to quash any and all evidence the State may glean from that deposition or any of that deposition which may lead the State to other evidence on the grounds Dr. Rountree’s statement amounts to compelled self-incrimination, a statement made without reference to her
Miranda
rights and any evidence gathered by knowledge gained from the statement is fruit of the poisoned tree and therefore also inadmissible.”

              Judge Wells held up a hand, stop. “What you got to say to that, Mr. Prosecutor?”

              At the other counsel table, David Hamilton leaned over to listen to last-minute whispers from the young assistant district attorney at his side before standing as he buttoned his jacket. “What we say, Your Honor, is that Mr. Reilly here got his legal theories a bit mixed up. First, Dr. Rountree was under no criminal indictment when she gave that statement. Second, she could have declined to give it and taken the civil-not criminal- consequences. Finally, Judge, every other defendant in this room signed pretty much the same requirement to give a statement under oath. Mr. Reilly here is the only one to have a quarrel with it.”

              “A situation I expect will rapidly change if the motion is granted,” the judge observed to no one in particular. “Mr. Reilly, you have a reply?”

              The argument went back and for a full twenty minutes until Judge Wells seems satisfied. “Mr. Hamilton, your final words?”

              “Your Honor has foreseen, correctly I suspect, that if this motion is granted, not only will the perpetrator of this crime against Atlanta school children go unpunished, so will all her fellow conspirators. I can’t believe this court will let that happen.”

             
One of the oldest legal adages: If the law is against you, argue the facts. If the facts are against you, argue the law. If they are both against you, argue justice.

              Lang stood, as movant entitled to the last word. “Your Honor, we are bound to follow constitutional law and that law is quite clear. The Fifth Amendment prohibition against self-incrimination as applied by the due process clause of the Fourteenth prohibits any branch of state government, whether it be a school board or a police force, from using force or intimidation to obtain the sort of potentially incriminating statement Dr. Rountree gave. Under the poison tree doctrine, it really doesn’t matter whether a school board or the highway department or the Department of Natural Resources forced the defendant to make it. The prosecution cannot now use it.”

              There was a silence in the courtroom. Lang imagined thirty-four lawyers scribbling notes that would become the basis of motions. There is, after all, little reward for originality in the law business.

              Judge Wells was tapping the stack of papers on the bench to align the edges. “Very well, gentlemen, the Court takes the matter under advisement. I will accept additional briefs submitted in the next ten days. Note I said ‘will accept,’ not require. The court has sufficient reading material already.”

              “Your Honor?”

              A voice from the back of the room.

              “Yes, Mr. . .?”

              “Johnson, Willy Johnson, counsel for one of the other defendants.”

              “Yes, Mr. Johnson?”

              “Will the court accept
amicus
, friend of the Court, briefs?”

              Judge Wells stood, the hearing over. “The court needs any friend it can get. Take that as a ‘yes.’”

              Minutes later, Lang and his client were exiting the building on the Prior Street side. As they descended the steps, a black Lincoln Town Car slid into place between No Parking signs and police and sheriff’s vehicles. A uniformed chauffeur popped out and dashed to hold open the door to the passenger compartment. Lang did not recall Dr. Rountree making a phone call. The car must have been circling the block for hours.

              “Need a lift, Mr. Reilly?”

              “Ah. . .no, thanks.”

              She paused on the bottom step. “How do you think the judge will rule?”

              Lang gave a short bark of a laugh. “I gave up second-guessing judges a long time ago. I will say if we win, the State no longer has enough evidence to convict, or, for that matter, even submit the issue to a jury.”

              Her eyebrows formed perfect ‘U’s. “You mean they will have to drop the prosecution?”

              “Unless they can cobble together a case without using any evidence from the thirty-plus statements. Or any evidence those statements led them to.”

              She ducked into the passenger seat, looking up at him with a wry smile. “In that case, then, there would be a substantial part of the $100,000 I gave you unearned, right?”

              “Possible,” Lang admitted. “When and if the prosecution surrenders, I’ll have to take a look at my hours, add them up.”

              “Be careful, Mr. Reilly,” she said coyly before tinted glass slid into place. “Be careful to do the math correctly. Changing answers can get a person in trouble.”