The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(33)
Page 2 was an arrest report with a mug shot of Verno at the city jail, and it included his address, phone number, Social Security number, and listed him as self-employed. His criminal record had only one DUI.
Page 3 was a copy of the $500 bond agreement with AAA Bail.
Page 4 was labeled: court abstract. But the entire page was blank.
Tabor spent the next few minutes flipping through other files in the drawer and studying the Court Abstracts. Each was a standard form that, when filled in, gave a concise summary of what happened in court, with the names of the judge, prosecutor, defendant, defense lawyer (if any), complaining party, victim, and witnesses and exhibits. He found a completed Court Abstract for each of the other files. Shoplifting, simple assault, unleashed dogs, public drunkenness, public profanity, public lewdness, harassment, and so on. The drawer was filled with all manner of allegations—none, evidently, that were proven in court.
A sign warned: no unauthorized photos or copies.
He asked himself who, other than himself and his client, could possibly want copies or photos, authorized or not.
He took the file back to the front counter and disturbed Faldo again. “Can I get this file copied? Four pages.”
Faldo almost smiled as he got up and lumbered over. “A dollar apiece,” he said as he took the file. Tabor watched as he methodically unclipped the four sheets, copied them, clipped them back just so, and returned them to the counter. The investigator offered a $5 bill but Faldo would have none of it.
“Only credit cards,” he said.
“I don’t use ’em,” Tabor said. “Gave ’em up in a bankruptcy years ago.”
This really upset Faldo’s world and he frowned as if hit with irritable bowels. “No cash, sorry.” The four copied sheets were lying on the counter, unneeded and unwanted by anyone else in the world.
Tabor dropped the $5 bill, picked up the copies, and asked, “Shall I put the file back?”
“Nope. I got it. That’s my job.”
And what a crucial job it was. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
In his car, Tabor called Jeri but got her voicemail. He went to a coffee shop, and as he killed time he took photos of the four sheets of paper and sent them to her. After his third cup, she finally called. He described what he had found and what the other files looked like. It was obvious that Verno’s had been doctored.
“This officer, N. Ozment, is he still around?” she asked.
“No. I’ve already checked.”
“And no other names in the file? Just Verno and Ozment?”
“That’s all.”
“Well, that makes the next step easier. See if you can find Mr. N. Ozment.”
* * *
—
Jeri was in her office on campus, her door open so any student could pop in for a chat, but she was alone as she crunched on a light salad and sipped a diet soda. Eating was difficult with her stomach flipping the way it always did when someone she was paying $150 an hour was on the job with no idea how long the job might take. There was also the excitement of finding paperwork that had been tampered with. She reminded herself that she did not yet know if the Lanny Verno she was tracking in Pensacola was also the one who had been murdered in Biloxi, and she admitted that the odds were long. There were ninety-eight Lanny Vernos in the country.
However, the facts might be tilting in her favor. As an esteemed member of the judiciary, Judge Bannick would certainly have easy access to old court files and evidence. He would be respected by the police. As an elected official, he would need their support every four years. He would be able to come and go through their many protocols and procedures.
Lanny Verno, a house painter, pulling a gun on Ross Bannick, a hotshot lawyer, thirteen years ago? And winning the case?
As always, she scanned several newspapers as she ate lunch. Same for breakfast and dinner. She found an interesting item in the Tallahassee Democrat. At the bottom of page 6 in the State section there was a recap of government news. The last item was a less than urgent announcement that Lacy Stoltz had been appointed as the interim director of the Board on Judicial Conduct, replacing Charlotte Baskin, who had been nominated by the Governor to run the Gaming Commission.
14
Clawing her way up the ladder, and moving from office to office, Cleo had learned to pack lightly and never fill the drawers or decorate the walls. Without a word to anyone, though the gossip was raging, she packed her things and left the building. The gossip did not follow her but instead turned to Lacy and the welcome rumor that she was taking over.
The following morning, she called everyone together in the workroom adjacent to the director’s rather depressing office and confirmed that she would be the acting, and quite interim, director for the near future. The news thrilled her colleagues and the staff, and there were plenty of smiles for the first time in months. She rattled off a few changes in office rules: (1) work from home as much as you want as long as the work gets done; (2) Friday afternoons off in the summer, as long as someone answered the phone; (3) no staff meetings unless absolutely necessary; (4) a mutual coffee fund to buy better stuff; (5) forget the open-door policy; (6) an extra week of vacation, unofficially. She promised to seek more funding while lowering the stress levels. She would keep her old office because she had never liked the big one and did not want to be associated with it.