The Guardians(41)

I grab a credit card, go to Patty’s, pay up, log in as joe.frazier.555 and send my message: Should I bring a gun or a bodyguard?

Ten minutes later, I get: No, I come in peace. The bar is always crowded, plenty of people around.

I reply: Who is supposed to recognize the other person?

It’ll work. Don’t get yourself followed.

See ya.

The debate almost becomes an argument. Mazy is adamant in her belief that I would be foolish to walk into such a meeting with a stranger. Vicki doesn’t like it either. I maintain that it’s a risk we have to take for reasons that are obvious. The person knows a lot about the case and wants to help. He or she is also frightened enough to meet out of the country, which, at least to me, indicates some really rich dirt could be collected.

Outnumbered two to one, I leave anyway and drive to Atlanta. Vicki is masterful at finding the absolute rock-bottom prices for flights, hotels, and rent-a-wrecks, and she books me on a Bahamian turbo-prop that stops twice before I leave America. It has only one flight attendant, who cannot smile and has no interest in getting out of her jump seat.

With no luggage I’m waved through customs and pick a cab from a long line. It’s a vintage 1970s Cadillac with a loud radio blaring Bob Marley for us tourists. The driver smokes a joint to add to the local color. Traffic barely moves so there is little chance of a deadly crash. We stall in an impressive jam and I’ve had enough. I get out, pay him as he points this way and that.

The Salty Pelican is an old bar with sagging rafters and a thatched roof. Large creaky fans drop from the ceiling and offer the slightest of breezes. Genuine Bahamians play a rowdy game of dominoes at a crowded table. They appear to be gambling. Others are tossing darts in a corner. White people outnumber the natives and it’s obviously a popular place for tourists. I get a beer from the bar and sit at a table under an umbrella, ten feet from the water. I’m wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, and I’m trying to casually notice things around me. Over the years I’ve become a pretty good investigator, but I’m still a lousy spy. If someone is following me, I’ll never know.

Noon comes and goes as I gaze at the water.

A voice behind me says, “Hello, Post.” Tyler Townsend eases into the chair beside me. His was the first name on my list of prospects. “Hello,” I say without calling his name, and we shake hands. He sits down with a bottle of beer.

He is also wearing sunglasses and a cap, and he’s dressed like he’s ready for tennis. Tanned and handsome with only a few streaks of gray. We’re about the same age but he looks younger. “Come here often?” I ask.

“Yes, we own two shopping centers in Nassau, so my wife thinks I’m here on business.”

“Why are we really here?”

“Let’s take a walk,” he says, standing. We stroll along the harbor, saying nothing, until we enter a large dock with a hundred boats. He says, “Follow me.” We step down to a lower platform and he points to a beauty. It’s about fifty feet long and designed to venture far into the ocean and catch those sailfish you see stuffed and hanging on walls. He jumps on board and reaches to steady me.

“This is yours?” I ask.

“I own it with my father-in-law. Let’s take it for a spin.” He gets two beers from a cooler, settles into the captain’s chair, and starts the engines. I recline on a padded sofa and breathe in the salty air as we putter through the harbor. Before long a fine mist is spraying my face.

Tyler grew up in Palm Beach, the son of a prominent trial lawyer. He spent eight years at the University of Florida pursuing degrees in political science and law, with plans to go home and join the family firm. His life was derailed when his father was killed by a drunk driver a week before he was scheduled to take the bar exam. Tyler waited a year, managed to pull things together, passed the bar exam, and found a job in Seabrook.

With his future employment always secure, he had not troubled himself with diligent studying. His undergraduate résumé was quite thin. It took him five riotous years to get a bachelor’s degree. He finished in the bottom third of his law class and liked it down there. He had the reputation of a quick-talking party boy, often cocky because his father was such a big shot. Suddenly, forced to look for a job, he found interviews scarce. A real estate firm in Seabrook hired him, but he lasted only eight months.

To survive the overhead, he shared office space with other lawyers. To pay bills, he volunteered for every court-appointed indigent case on the docket. Ruiz County was too small for a public defender, and the indigent cases were parceled out by the judges. His eagerness to be in the courtroom cost him dearly when the Russo murder stunned the town. Every other lawyer either left or hid, and Tyler was appointed to represent Quincy Miller, who was presumed guilty the day of his arrest.

For a twenty-eight-year-old lawyer with limited courtroom experience, his defense was nothing short of masterful. He fought fiercely, contested every piece of evidence, brawled with the State’s witnesses, and believed firmly in his client’s innocence.

The first time I read the trial transcript I was amused by his brashness in the courtroom. By the third reading, though, I realized that his scorched-earth defense probably alienated the jury. Regardless, the kid had enormous potential as a trial lawyer.

Then he quit the law.

We drift along the edge of Paradise Island and dock at a resort. As we walk along the pier toward the hotel, Tyler says, “We’re thinking about buying this place. It’s for sale. I want to branch out and get away from shopping centers. My father-in-law is more conservative.”