The Partner (44 page)

“So who was the client?” Sandy asked.

“That’s my question. It’s gotta be the girl, right?”

Sandy’s reaction was delayed a bit. He grunted as if to laugh, but there was no humor in it. It came back to him slowly, her story about using Pluto to monitor Stephano, who of course was searching for Patrick.

“Where is she now?” Stephano asked.

“I don’t know,” Sandy said. She was in London, but it was certainly none of his business.

“We paid a total of one million, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to this mysterious client, and she, or he, delivered. Just like Judas.”

“It’s over. What do you want from me?”

“As I said, I’m just curious. One of these days, if you learn the truth, I’d appreciate a call. I have nothing to gain or lose, but I won’t rest well until I know if she took our money.”

Sandy made a vague promise to perhaps one day give a call if he learned the truth, and Stephano left.

Sheriff Raymond Sweeney got wind of the deal during lunch, and didn’t like it at all. He called Parrish and Judge Trussel, but both were too busy to talk to him. Cutter was out of the office.

Sweeney went to the courthouse to be seen. He parked himself in the hallway between the judges’ offices, so that if a deal was struck he would somehow be
in the middle of it. He whispered with the bailiffs and deputies. Something was coming down.

The lawyers showed up around two with tight lips and solemn faces. They gathered in Trussel’s office behind a locked door. After ten minutes, Sweeney knocked on it. He crashed the meeting with a demand to know what was going on with his prisoner. Judge Trussel calmly explained that there would soon be a guilty plea, the result of a plea bargain, which, in his opinion, and in the collective opinions of everyone present, was in the best interests of justice.

Sweeney had his own opinion, which he readily shared. “It makes us look like fools. Folks out there are hot about this. You catch a rich crook, and he buys his way outta jail. What are we, a bunch of clowns?”

“What do you suggest, Raymond?” Parrish asked.

“I’m glad you asked. First, I’d put him in the county jail and let him sit for a while, same as all prisoners. Then I’d prosecute him to the fullest extent.”

“For what crime?”

“He stole the damned money, didn’t he? He burned up that dead body. Let the boy serve ten years in Parchman. That’s justice.”

“He didn’t steal the money here,” Trussel explained. “We have no jurisdiction. It was a federal matter, and the federal boys have already dismissed the charges.” Sandy was in a corner, his eyes fixed on a document.

“Then somebody screwed up, didn’t they?”

“It wasn’t us,” Parrish said quickly.

“That’s great. Go sell that to the people who elected you. Blame it on the feds because they don’t
run for office. What about burning the corpse? He gets to walk after admitting he did it?”

“You think he should be prosecuted for it?” Trussel asked.

“Damned right I do.”

“Good. How do you think we should prove our case?” Parrish asked.

“You’re the prosecutor. That’s your job.”

“Yeah, but you seem to know everything. Tell me, how would you prove the case?”

“He said he did it, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, and do you think Patrick Lanigan will take the witness stand in his own criminal trial and confess to the jury that he burned a corpse? Is that your idea of trial strategy?”

“He won’t,” Sandy inserted helpfully.

Sweeney’s neck and cheeks were red, and his arms were flailing in all directions. He glared at Parrish, then at Sandy.

And when he realized that these lawyers had all the answers, he brought himself under control. “When will this happen?” he asked.

“Late this afternoon,” Trussel said.

Sweeney didn’t like this either. He stuck his hands deep in his pockets and headed for the door. “You lawyers take care of your own,” he said, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

“One big happy family,” Parrish said, the sarcasm heavy.

Sweeney slammed the door and huffed down the hallway. He left the courthouse in his unmarked cruiser. Using his car phone, he called his own personal informant, a reporter with the Coast daily.

Since the family, such as it was, had given blanket approval, as had Patrick, the executor of the estate, the digging up of the grave was a simple matter. Judge Trussel and Parrish and Sandy didn’t miss the irony of having Patrick, Clovis’ only friend, sign an affidavit granting permission to open the casket so that Patrick could be cleared. Every decision seemed to be layered with irony.

It was far different from an exhumation, a procedure that required a court order, after a proper motion and sometimes even a hearing. It was simply a look-see, a procedure unknown to the Mississippi Code, and therefore Judge Trussel took great latitude with it. Who could be harmed? Certainly not the family. Certainly not the casket; evidently it was serving little purpose anyway.

Rolland still owned the funeral home up in Wiggins. How well he remembered Mr. Clovis Goodman and his lawyer, and the odd little wake out there in the county, at the home of Mr. Goodman, where no one showed up but the lawyer. Yes, he recalled it well, he told the Judge on the phone. Yes, he’d read something about Mr. Lanigan, and no, he hadn’t made the connection.

Judge Trussel gave him a quick summary, which led immediately to Clovis’ involvement in the plot. No, he had not opened the casket after the wake, had had no need to, never did in those situations. While the Judge talked, Parrish faxed to Rolland copies of the consents signed by Deena Postell and by Patrick Lanigan, the executor.

Rolland was suddenly eager to help. He’d never had a corpse stolen before, folks just didn’t do those things in Wiggins, and, well, yes, he could certainly have the grave opened in no time flat. He owned the cemetery too.

Judge Trussel sent his law clerk and two deputies to the cemetery. Under the handsome headstone:

CLOVIS F. GOODMAN
JANUARY 23, 1907, TO FEBRUARY 6, 1992
GONE ON TO GLORY

a backhoe carefully picked through the loamy soil as Rolland gave directions and waited with a shovel. It took less than fifteen minutes to reach the casket. Rolland and a helper stepped into the grave and shoveled away more dirt. The poplar had started to rot around the edges of the coffin. Rolland straddled the lower half of the casket and with dirty hands inserted the church key. He jerked and pried until the lid made a cracking sound, then he slowly opened it.

To no one’s surprise, the casket was empty.

Except, of course, for the four cinder blocks.

The plan was to do it in open court, as required by law, but to wait until almost five, when the courthouse was closing and many of the county employees were leaving. Five o’clock sounded fine to everyone, especially to the Judge and the District Attorney, who were convinced they were doing the right and proper thing, but were nervous about it nonetheless. Throughout the day, Sandy had pushed hard for a quick disposal once the plea agreement had been
reached and the casket opened. There was no reason to wait. His client was incarcerated, though this received little sympathy. The court was in the middle of a scheduled term. The timing was perfect. What could be gained by waiting?

Nothing, His Honor finally decided. Parrish did not object. He had eight trials scheduled over the next three weeks, and unloading Lanigan was a relief.

Five was most satisfactory for the defense. With a bit of luck, they could be in and out of the courtroom in less than ten minutes. Another bit of luck, and no one would see them. Five was perfect for Patrick. What else did he have to do?

He changed into a pair of loose-fitting khakis and a large white cotton shirt. He wore new Bass loafers, no socks because of the rope-burned ankle. He hugged Hayani and thanked him for his friendship. He hugged the nurses and thanked the orderlies, and promised them all he’d be back soon to visit again. He wouldn’t, and everyone knew it.

After more than two weeks as a patient and prisoner, Patrick left the hospital, his lawyer at his side, his armed escorts following dutifully behind.

Forty-two

Evidently five was a perfect time for everyone. Not a single courthouse employee left for home once word reached every corner of every office, a process that took only minutes.

A real estate secretary for a large law firm was busy checking a land title in the office of the Chancery Clerk when she overheard the latest Patrick report. She raced to the phone and called her office. Within minutes the entire legal community along the Coast knew that Lanigan was about to plead guilty in some strange deal, and would attempt to do so secretly at five in the main courtroom.

The notion of a clandestine hearing to complete a backroom deal made for a frenzy of phone calls; calls to other lawyers, to wives, to favorite reporters, to partners out of town. In less than thirty minutes, half the city knew Patrick was about to make an appearance and a deal, and most likely walk.

The hearing would have attracted less attention had it been advertised in the newspaper and posted on billboards. It was to be quick and secretive. Mystery engulfed it. It was the legal system protecting one of its own.

They grouped in pockets of hushed gossip in the courtroom, whispering while watching people stream in, and guarding their seats. The crowd grew and gave further credence to the hearsay. All these people couldn’t be wrong. And when the reporters arrived, the rumors were immediately confirmed as facts.

“He’s here,” someone said, a court clerk up near the bench, and the curious began finding seats.

Patrick smiled for the two cameramen rushing to meet him by the back door. He was led to the same jury room on the second floor, where the handcuffs were removed. His khakis were an inch too long, so he methodically rolled them up and cuffed them. Karl entered and asked the deputies to wait in the hall.

“So much for a quiet little appearance,” Patrick said.

“Secrets are hard to keep around here. Nice clothes.”

“Thanks.”

“This reporter I know from the Jackson paper asked me to ask you—”

“Absolutely not. Not a word to anybody.”

“That’s what I figured. When are you leaving?”

“I don’t know. Soon.”

“Where’s the girl?”

“Europe.”

“Can I go with you?”

“Why?”

“Just want to watch.”

“I’ll send you a video.”

“Gee thanks.”

“Would you really leave? If you had the chance to walk away, to vanish right now, would you do it?”

“With or without ninety million?”

“Either way.”

“Of course not. It’s not the same. I love my wife, you didn’t. I have three great kids, your situation was different. No, I wouldn’t run. But I don’t blame you.”

“Everybody wants to run, Karl. At some point in life, everybody thinks about walking away. Life’s always better on the beach or in the mountains. Problems can be left behind. It’s inbred in us. We’re the products of immigrants who left miserable conditions and came here in search of a better life. And they kept moving west, packing up and leaving, always looking for the pot of gold. Now, there’s no place to go.”

“Wow. I hadn’t thought of it through a historical perspective.”

“It’s a stretch.”

“I wish my grandparents had clipped someone for ninety million before they left Poland.”

“I gave it back.”

“I hear there might be a small nest egg left over.”

“One of many unfounded rumors.”

“So you’re saying the next trend will be looting of clients’ money, the burning of dead bodies, and the flight to South America, where, of course, there are beautiful women just waiting to be caressed?”

“It’s working well so far.”

“Those poor Brazilians. All these crooked lawyers coming their way.”

Sandy entered the room with yet another sheet of paper for another signature. “Trussel is really edgy,” he said to Karl. “The pressure is getting to him. His phone is ringing off the hook.”

“What about Parrish?”

“Nervous as a whore in church.”

“Let’s get it done before they get cold feet,” Patrick said as he signed his name.

A bailiff walked to the bar and announced that court was about to convene, so please have a seat. People hushed and moved hurriedly for empty spaces. Another bailiff closed the double doors. Spectators lined the walls. Every clerk in the courthouse had business near the bench. It was almost five-thirty.

Judge Trussel entered with his customary rigid dignity, and everybody stood. He welcomed them, thanked them for their interest in justice, especially at this late hour of the day. He and the District Attorney had agreed that a quick hearing would reek of a sleazy deal, so things would proceed deliberately. They had even discussed postponing it, but decided a delay would give the impression that they had been caught trying to sneak something through.

Patrick was led through the door by the jury box, and stood next to Sandy in front of the bench. He did not look at his audience. Parrish stood nearby, anxious to perform. Judge Trussel flipped through the file, inspecting every word on every page.