Justice Lost (Darren Street #3)(36)

“Give some thought to what we ought to do about this Street,” Tree said.

Roby shook his head. “I think it’d be better to do something about Morris. I wouldn’t mind being rid of him once and for all.”

“You can’t kill a district attorney, Roby,” Tree said.

“Didn’t you tell me he said if he lost he might go to the feds and tell them what we’ve been into for all these years?”

The sheriff had let it slip and had regretted saying it the moment the words passed his lips. “He did say something like that, but I don’t think he was serious.”

“Well, from my way of thinking, better to deal with him before he goes to the feds than after.”

“I don’t think the feds really give a damn about us, Roby.”

“Maybe they don’t, but you know how much I hate them. I hate them, I hate the TBI, I hate the police, the tax man. Anything to do with the government, I hate. Hell, I’d hate you if you weren’t my nephew, and sometimes I hate you, anyway. If the feds came nosing around, the bodies would start piling up pretty damned fast.”

“They’d just kill you,” Tree said. “You can’t fight them. Remember Ruby Ridge? Waco? And the boys out west at that Malheur wildlife refuge last year didn’t fare too well. One of them is dead, and a bunch of them are in jail.”

“I ain’t Randy Weaver or David Koresh or any of them others,” Roby said. “Feds, state troopers, TBI, I don’t give a damn. They come messin’ around here, they’re gonna die.”





CHAPTER 19

I looked around at the trees full of bright-green leaves, the calm water, and the sky dotted with high cumulus clouds as the pontoon boat made its way slowly eastward on the Tennessee River. We’d already passed Thompson-Boling Arena and the cavernous Neyland Stadium and were headed for the fork where the Tennessee River split into the French Broad and Holston Rivers. I was at the wheel of a pontoon boat that had been rented by Claire Tate. Also on board were Claire and a reporter from the only daily newspaper left in the city, the Knoxville News Sentinel. The conversation had been sparse and felt forced.

The reporter’s name was Janie Schofield. I’d been reading her stories for years since she covered the criminal courts. She was around fifty, a quiet brunette who wore glasses and stayed in the background most of the time. She didn’t sensationalize and seemed serious about her work. I’d talked to her a few times over the years, but I couldn’t say I knew her well.

Janie was wearing a yellow sundress. She had a nice tan, and the color went well with her brown skin. Claire was covered in sunscreen. She was wearing a two-piece purple swimsuit with a pink wraparound cover-up and a pink broad-brimmed hat. Both of them were wearing sunglasses. I was wearing blue swim trunks and a white tank top. We looked like a few friends out for an early-afternoon cruise. All three of us had a can of beer in our hands, but nobody was drinking quickly. I stopped the boat about fifty yards off the shore of Island Home Park and dropped the anchor.

“I suppose you’re wondering what we’re doing out here on this lovely day,” Claire said to Janie.

“I think I might have a couple of educated guesses, but you certainly have my curiosity piqued,” Janie said.

“Darren is going to run against Stephen Morris for district attorney general. I’m his campaign manager. My grandfather is supporting him openly. He’ll be coming to Knoxville in late October to appear with Darren at a rally.”

Janie looked at Claire, then at me, then back at Claire again.

“I’d heard a rumor that Mr. Street was planning a huge lawsuit against the doctor that was involved in the death of his little girl and that he had asked your grandfather to intervene with the Tennessee Medical Licensing Board,” she said. “My source was obviously mistaken.”

“Obviously,” Claire said. “We’re giving you an exclusive, a scoop in the old journalistic parlance, I believe.”

“Yes, you are,” Janie said. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch, but I do have some other information I’d like you to check into through your own sources. If it turns out to be true, you may have a prizewinner of a story on your hands.”

“Is that right?” Janie said. She looked skeptical, which, I was sure, came with the territory in journalism, just like in law. “What kind of information might that be?”

“What do you know about Jim Harrison?” Claire said.

“Jim Harrison? The Jim Harrison who works for Morris?”

“Right. He supposedly handles special investigations for the district attorney, but he never brings any cases. Have you ever seen him in a courtroom trying a case or conducting a hearing?”

“Come to think of it, no, I haven’t.”

“That’s because his real job is, for lack of a better term, bagman for the district attorney.”

“Bagman?”

“You’re familiar with the term, correct?”

“Of course I’m familiar with the term. A bagman is a collection boy, a courier. He picks up money from one place and delivers it to another.”

“Dirty money,” Claire said.

“And he picks this money up from whom and takes it to whom?”

“He picks it up from the Knox County sheriff and gives it to Stephen Morris. I’m sure he keeps a small piece for himself.”