The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(85)
Meanwhile, Pacheco ordered a platter of sandwiches from room service and gave a passing thought to charging the food to the hotel’s owner. He did not; nothing to be gained by causing Westbay more embarrassment than what was coming.
When Westbay and Bullington returned to the front room, they looked as though they’d just finished a heated argument. Pacheco offered sandwiches and bananas. Bullington grabbed one of each but his client had no appetite.
Pacheco asked, “May we now proceed?”
Bullington, mouth full, said, “I’ve advised my client to answer no questions.”
“Great. But we’re not here for an interrogation.”
“Then what the hell?”
Rebecca Webb was sitting on a small sofa, scribbling on a legal pad. She said, “We’re prepared to offer a plea agreement. Guilty to one count of first-degree murder. The capital charge will be dropped later, as things progress. First degree carries life, but we’ll recommend a lot less.”
“How much less?” Bullington asked.
“We’ll start at twenty years and see how he does. It will be possible for your client to work off his prison time.”
“What kind of work?”
“Inside work. Informing. We doubt if infiltration will be necessary because your client is already a part of the gang. He’ll have to wear a wire, create a few conversations, that sort of thing.”
Westbay shot her a look of pure terror.
Pacheco said, “The short version, Mr. Bullington, is that we want your client to deliver the Coast Mafia.”
“And what does he get in return?”
Webb said, “Maybe as few as five years. That could be our recommendation, though, as you know, the final decision will be up to the judge.”
Pacheco said, “Five years, then a soft life in witness protection. That, or the next ten years on death row before a date with the executioner.”
“Don’t threaten my client,” Bullington said angrily.
“I’m not threatening. I’m promising. He’s dead guilty right now of capital murder, and the U.S. Attorney will have an easy time proving it. We’re offering a sweetheart deal that includes the possibility of Mr. Westbay walking in five years.”
“All right, all right,” Bullington said, finishing the sandwich in one huge bite. “Let me see these damned videos.”
—
It was almost 4:30 when lawyer and client reemerged from the bedroom after another tense meeting. Two agents were playing gin rummy at the table. Rebecca Webb was on the phone. Hahn was catnapping on the sofa. Pacheco was telling the housekeeper to go away. They had promised Mr. Bullington that the meeting would last all night, if necessary. They had nowhere to go, at the moment, and if no deal could be reached, they would leave with Mr. Westbay in chains and take him to Tallahassee, where he would be tossed into a jail cell, the first of many that would confine him for the rest of his life. If they left with no deal, there would not be another chance.
Bullington’s jacket was hanging on a doorknob. He wore red suspenders that strained to keep his slacks in place. He stood in the center of the room and addressed the government. “I think I’ve convinced my client that the case against him is rather strong and that the likelihood of a not-guilty verdict appears rather small. Not surprisingly, he wishes to avoid as much time in prison as possible, not to mention that business with the needle.”
Westbay was aging by the hour. He was pale, and, not a large man to begin with, he seemed to have shrunk into a near-lifeless state. He avoided eye contact with everyone in the room, his mind clearly elsewhere. The agents were observing him closely, and during the last lawyer-client meeting in the bedroom they agreed that they were worried about him. Wearing a wire into a room with Vonn Dubose would take guts and nerves and require a convincing performance. Westbay, now in his diminished state, was not inspiring confidence. The agents at first had enjoyed his tough-guy routine, which they expected, but were astonished at how quickly it melted.
Oh well, you don’t always get to pick your snitches, and they had coached far shakier.
Bullington said, “So what’s the drill?”
Ms. Webb replied, “He’ll be indicted for capital murder along with the rest of the gang. That indictment will be set aside while we see how hard he’s willing to work. If he delivers, he’ll eventually plead to first degree and we’ll lobby hard for a light sentence. If he does something stupid like run away or blow his cover, we lower the boom and he goes away for life.”
“That’s what I thought. Mr. Westbay?”
Clyde gently threw up his hands in defeat and offered a goofy laugh. “Do I really have a choice?”
34
It had never been clear, at least not to Clyde, whether Vonn Dubose was a real name or an alias. Clyde was not one of the five “Cousins,” the nickname of the gang’s ruling membership. None of the other four used the surname Dubose. Vonn’s younger brother had been shot and killed in a bad drug deal in Coral Gables in 1990, and his name was Nash Kinney. According to the FBI’s research, Nash Kinney had been born in Louisiana in 1951 and had no brothers.
Clyde admitted that most of what he had learned about the gang’s history had come along in snippets and was unreliable. The boys didn’t sit around the poker table and talk about the glory days. He’d actually spent very little time with the Cousins. He wasn’t even sure they were related by blood. Clyde had been on the payroll for two years before he met all five.