The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(17)
“And how do they feel about you?” Lacy asked.
“As I said, most of them believe I killed Son, their leader, so there’s not much sympathy. Those who supported the casino hated me from the beginning. Needless to say, I don’t have a lot of fans among my people. And my family pays the price.”
Hugo asked, “If Judge McDover is exposed and the corruption is proven, is there a chance it could help your case?”
Mace stood slowly and stretched as if in pain, then took a few steps to the door, then back to the table. He stretched some more, cracked his knuckles, sat down, and picked up the phone. “I don’t see it. My trial was over a long time ago. All of her rulings have been picked apart on appeal, and by some very good lawyers. We think she was wrong on several of them. We think a new trial should have been granted a decade ago, and so on, but the appellate courts have all agreed with her. Not unanimously; indeed, all of the decisions in my case have been split, with very strong dissents in my favor. But the majority rules and here I am. The two jailhouse snitches who effectively nailed my conviction and sent me away disappeared years ago. Did you know that?”
Lacy said, “I saw it in a memo.”
“Both vanished at about the same time.”
“Any ideas?”
“Two theories. One, and the best, is that both were rubbed out not long after my conviction was affirmed. Both were career criminals, real lizards who cleaned up nicely at trial and convinced the jury that I had bragged about the killings in jail. Well, the problem with snitches is that they often recant, so the first theory is that the real killers took out the snitches before they had the chance to change their stories. This I believe.”
“And the second theory?” Hugo asked.
“That they were taken out by my people in revenge. I doubt this, but it’s not completely far-fetched. Emotions were high and I guess anything was possible. Regardless, the two snitches vanished and have not been seen in years. I hope they’re dead. They put me here.”
Lacy said, “We’re not supposed to be talking about your case.”
“It’s all I have to talk about, and who really cares? This is all a matter of public record now.”
“So that’s at least four dead bodies,” Hugo said.
“At least.”
“Are there more?” Lacy asked.
He was nodding steadily, but they couldn’t tell if it was just a nervous tic or an answer in the affirmative. Finally, he said, “Depends on how hard you dig.”
6
The first courthouse built by the taxpayers of Brunswick County burned to the ground. The second one was blown away. After the hurricane in 1970, the county leaders approved a design that included a lot of brick, concrete, and steel. The result was a hideous, Soviet-style hangar with three levels, few windows, and sweeping metal roofs that leaked from day one. At the time, the county, halfway between Pensacola and Tallahassee, was sparsely populated, its beaches free of sprawl and clutter. According to the 1970 census, there were 8,100 whites, 1,570 blacks, and 411 Native Americans. A few years after the “new courthouse,” as it was known, opened for business, the coast along the Florida Panhandle sprang to life as developers rushed to build condos and hotels. With miles of wide and untouched beaches, the “Emerald Coast” became an even more popular destination. The population increased, and in 1984 Brunswick County was forced to expand its courthouse. Holding true to the postmodern motif, it built a perplexing phallic-shaped annex that reminded many of a cancerous growth. Indeed, the locals referred to it as the Tumor, as opposed to its official designation of the Annex. Twelve years later, as the population continued to grow, the county added a matching tumor at the opposite end of the “new courthouse” and declared itself ready for any and all business.
The county seat was the town of Sterling. Brunswick and two adjoining counties comprised Florida’s Twenty-Fourth Judicial District. Of the two circuit court judges, Claudia McDover was the only one headquartered in Sterling; thus, she pretty much ruled the courthouse. She had seniority and clout and all county employees walked softly around her. Her spacious office was on the third floor, where she enjoyed a pleasant view and some sunlight from one of the few windows. She despised the building and often dreamed of ways to acquire enough power to tear it down and start over. But that was just a dream.
After a quiet day at her desk, she informed her secretary that she would be leaving at four, an early exit for her. Her timid and well-trained secretary absorbed this information but asked no questions. No one asked Claudia McDover why she did anything.
She left Sterling in her late-model Lexus and took a county road south. Twenty minutes later she turned in to the grand entryway of Treasure Key, a place she privately considered “her casino.” She was convinced that it would not exist but for her efforts. She had the power to shut it down tomorrow if she wanted. That, though, would not be happening.
She took the periphery road along the edge of the property and smiled, as always, at the crowded parking lots, the busy shuttles running gamblers to and from their hotels, the gaudy neon billboards advertising shows by washed-up country crooners and cheap circus acts. All of it made her smile because it meant the Indians were prospering. People had jobs. People were having fun. Families were on vacation. Treasure Key was a wonderful place, and the fact that she was siphoning only a small piece of the action bothered her not in the least.