The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(4)
“Why do you have a client?” Lacy asked, ignoring the file.
“He’s the friend of an old friend who knows my shady past and figures I’ll roll the dice for a fat fee. He’s right. My friend looked me up, then convinced me to take his case. Don’t ask for the client’s name, because I don’t have it. My friend is the intermediary.”
“You don’t know the name of your client?” Lacy asked.
“No, nor do I want to.”
“Are we supposed to ask why or just accept this?” Hugo asked.
“Gap number one, Mr. Mix,” Lacy said. “And we don’t do gaps. You tell us everything or we’ll leave and take nothing with us.”
“Just relax, okay?” Mix said as he chugged some beer. “This is a long story that will take some time to unfold. It involves a ton of money, corruption that is astonishing, and some really nasty guys who wouldn’t think twice about putting a bullet or two between my eyes, yours, my client’s, anyone who asks too many questions.”
There was a long pause as Lacy and Hugo allowed this to sink in. Finally, she asked, “Then why are you in the game?”
“Money. My client wants to pursue a claim under the Florida Whistleblower Statute. He dreams of collecting millions. Me, I’ll take a nice cut, and if all goes well, I’ll never need clients.”
“Then he must be a state employee,” Lacy said.
“I know the law, Ms. Stoltz. You have a demanding job, I don’t. I have plenty of time to pore over the code sections and case law. Yes, my client is employed by the State of Florida. No, his identity cannot be revealed; not now, anyway. Perhaps, way down the road, if money is on the table, then maybe we can convince a judge to maintain a closed file. But, to kick things off, my client is far too frightened to sign a formal complaint with Judicial Conduct.”
“We cannot proceed without a signed, formal complaint,” Lacy said. “The statute, as you know, is very clear.”
“Indeed I do. I’ll sign the complaint.”
“Under oath?” Hugo asked.
“Yes, as required. I believe my client is telling the truth and I’m willing to sign my name.”
“And you’re not afraid?”
“I’ve lived with fear for a long time. I guess I’m accustomed to it, though things could get worse.” Mix reached for another file and withdrew some papers, which he placed on the table. He continued, “Six months ago, I went to court up in Myrtle Beach and changed my name. I’m now Greg Myers, the name I’ll use on the complaint.”
Lacy read the court order from South Carolina and, for the first time, doubted the wisdom of traveling to St. Augustine to meet this guy. A state employee too frightened to come forward. A reformed lawyer so spooked that he went to court in another state and changed his name. An ex-con with no real address.
Hugo read the court order and, for the first time in years, wished he could carry a gun. He asked, “Do you consider yourself to be in hiding at this moment?”
“Let’s say I’m just real cautious, Mr. Hatch. I’m an experienced boat captain who knows the water, the seas, the currents and cays and keys and remote beaches and hideaways far better than anyone looking for me, if, in fact, anyone is back there.”
Lacy said, “Well, it certainly sounds like you’re hiding.”
Myers just nodded as though he agreed. All three took a sip. A breeze finally arrived and broke some of the humidity. Lacy flipped through the thin file and said, “A question. Were your legal troubles in any way connected to the judicial misconduct you want to discuss?”
The nodding stopped as he weighed the question. “No.”
Hugo said, “Back to this mysterious client. Do you have any direct contact with him?”
“None whatsoever. He refuses to use e-mail, snail mail, fax, or any type of traceable phone. He talks to the intermediary, the intermediary either visits me face-to-face or calls me on a burner, one of those disposable phones. It’s awkward and time-consuming, but quite safe. No trail, no records, nothing left behind.”
“And if you needed him right now, how would you find him?”
“That’s never happened. I suppose I would call the middleman and wait an hour or so.”
“Where does this client live?”
“I’m not sure. Somewhere along the Florida Panhandle.”
Lacy took a deep breath and exchanged glances with Hugo. She said, “Okay, what’s the story?”
Myers gazed into the distance, across the water, beyond the boats. A drawbridge was opening and he seemed mesmerized by it. Finally, he said, “There are many chapters to the story, some still being written. The purpose of this little meeting is to tell you enough to make you curious, but also to frighten you enough to back off if you want. That’s the real question right now: Do you want to get involved?”
“Is there judicial misconduct?” Lacy asked.
“The word ‘misconduct’ would be a massive understatement. What I know involves corruption at a level never before known in this country. You see, Ms. Stoltz and Mr. Hatch, my sixteen months in prison were not completely wasted. They put me in charge of the law library and I kept my nose in the books. I’ve studied every single case of judicial corruption that’s ever been prosecuted, in all fifty states. I have the research, the files, notes, everything. I’m quite the resource, just in case you ever need a know-it-all. And the story I can tell you involves more dirty cash than all the others combined. It also involves bribery, extortion, intimidation, rigged trials, at least two murders, and one wrongful conviction. There’s a man rotting away on death row an hour from here who was framed. The man responsible for the crime is probably sitting on his boat right now, a boat much nicer than mine.”