The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(48)

“I don’t want a trial, Buford. I’ve made myself clear. I’m sure you would like a big production, with plenty of bad guys sitting at the defense table, the jury in your pocket as always. Another big verdict.”

Furr laughed. “That’s what I live for, Lacy. Can you imagine hauling those crooks back from prison to sit through a trial? It’s a lawyer’s dream.”

“Well, it’s not mine. I can handle a deposition but not a trial. I really want to settle, Buford.”

“We will, I promise. But right now we have to play the discovery game.”

“I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

“You want to dismiss our case?”

“No. I want it to go away after we settle. I still have nightmares and the lawsuit doesn’t help.”

“I understand, Lacy. Just trust me, okay? I’ve been down this road many times. You deserve a generous settlement and I promise I’ll get one.”

She nodded her gratitude.





21


Sergeant Faldo was re-indexing rape kits when the phone in his pocket rattled. It was his boss, the boss, the chief of all Pensacola police, and he was as blunt as usual. He said that Judge Ross Bannick needed to check an old file that afternoon. He would be in court until at least four but would meet with Faldo at precisely four thirty. Faldo was ordered to do whatever His Honor wanted. “Just kiss his ass, okay?”

“Yes sir,” Faldo shot back. He did not need to be told how to handle his job.

He vaguely recalled that Bannick had been there before, years earlier. It was unusual for a circuit court judge, or any other judge for that matter, to stop by the evidence warehouse. Faldo’s visitors were almost exclusively cops working on cases, bringing in evidence to be stored until trial, or digging through old files. But then Faldo had learned decades earlier that the treasure trove of old clues he guarded might attract just about anyone. He had logged in private investigators, reporters, novelists, desperate families looking for shreds of evidence, even a medium and at least one witch.

At four thirty, Judge Bannick appeared with a pleasant smile and said hello. He seemed genuinely pleased to meet the sergeant and asked about his distinguished career on the force. Always the politician, he thanked Faldo for his service and asked him to call if he ever needed anything.

At issue was an old file from way back, the year was 2001. A case in city court, a dismissal, a trivial matter that was of no consequence to anyone but a retired friend down in Tampa who needed a favor. And so the fiction went.

As they withdrew into the bowels of the warehouse, chatting about football, Faldo seemed to remember something about the file. He found April, May, then June, and pulled out an entire drawer. “Defendant’s name is Verno,” Bannick said as he watched Faldo thumb through the row of files.

“Here it is,” Faldo said proudly as he removed it and handed it over.

Bannick adjusted his reading glasses and asked, “Anybody looked at this lately?”

Now he remembered. “Yes, sir. Guy came in a few weeks back, oddly enough. I copied his driver’s license. Should be right there.”

Bannick pulled out a sheet of paper and looked at the face of one Jeff Dunlap of Conyers, Georgia. “What did he want?”

“Don’t know, other than the file. I copied it for him, a dollar a pop. Four bucks as I recall.” And he further recalled that Dunlap dropped a $5 bill on the counter because Faldo used only credit cards, but decided not to mention this. It was a small theft, just a bit of graft by a veteran police officer who had always been grossly underpaid.

Bannick studied the pages, his reading glasses balanced intelligently at the very tip of his nose. “Who redacted the name of the complaining party?” he asked, not really expecting Faldo to have an answer.

Well, it was probably you, sir. According to my logbook up front, only two people have had any interest in that file in the past thirteen years. You, twenty-three months ago, and now this Dunlap fellow. But Faldo read the situation correctly and wanted no trouble. “I have no idea, sir.”

“Okay. Can you run me a copy of this guy’s driver’s license?”

“Yes, sir.”



* * *



—

Judge Bannick drove away in his Ford SUV, nothing flashy, nothing to attract attention. Never.

A private detective from Georgia traveled to Pensacola to dig through a useless old police file, some thirteen years after the case was closed. In doing so he found the scant records of the arrest and trial of Lanny Verno, may he rest in peace. Odd and hard to explain, other than the obvious explanation that someone was digging through his past.

Bannick’s mind had been spinning for twenty-four hours, and he was eating ibuprofen to fight the headaches. It was crucial to think clearly, smartly, slowly, and to see around corners, but many images were blurred. He drove to the north side of Pensacola and stopped at a shopping center, one of two he owned. There was a Kroger on one end and a cinema fourplex at the other, and in between there were eight smaller businesses, all current with their rents. He parked near a popular gym, one that he used almost every day, and walked along a covered sidewalk like any other shopper. Between the gym and a yoga studio he turned in to a wide covered alley and stopped at an unmarked door where he scanned a key card and stared into the facial scanner. The door clicked and he quickly went inside. He turned off the alarms as the door closed behind him.