John Grisham - The Whistler

“And the EC?” she asked. Extra condo.

“Of course, Your Honor. Golf course or high-rise?”

“How tall is the high-rise?”

“How tall would you like it?”

“I’d like to see the ocean. Is that possible?”

“No problem. It’s a ten-story building as of now, and from halfway up the Gulf will soon be visible on a clear day.”

“I like that. Ocean view. Not the penthouse but something close.”

The idea of an extra unit had been perfected by a legendary Florida developer nicknamed Condo Conroy. In the rush and fury of throwing up an ocean-side tower, plans were modified on the fly, walls moved here and there, and the result was an extra condo the zoning board knew nothing about. It could be used for a dozen purposes, none of which were exactly legal. Vonn had learned the trick, and his favorite judge had accumulated an impressive portfolio of ECs over the years. Her balance sheet also included slices of legitimate businesses: a shopping mall, a water park, two restaurants, some small hotels, and a lot of raw land just waiting to be bulldozed.

“Another drink?” she asked. “There are two things we need to discuss.”

“I’ll get it.” He stood and walked to the kitchen counter where she kept the hard booze, stuff she never touched. He poured a shot, added two cubes of ice, and returned to his seat. “I’m listening.”

She took a deep breath because this would not be easy. “Wilson Vango.”

“What about him?” Dubose snapped.

“Just listen. He’s served fourteen years and his health is very poor. He has emphysema, hepatitis, and some mental problems. He’s survived a number of beatings and other assaults and there appears to be some brain damage.”

“Good.”

“He’ll be eligible for parole in three years. Now his wife is dying of ovarian cancer, the family is destitute, and so on. A horrible situation. Anyway, someone got to the Governor and he wants to commute the rest of Vango’s sentence, but only if I agree.”

Vonn’s eyes flashed hot and he set his drink down. He pointed an angry finger at her and said, “That sonofabitch stole $40,000 from one of my companies. I want him to die in prison, preferably after another assault. You understand, Claudia?”

“Come on, Vonn. I gave him the max because of you. He’s served long enough. Poor guy is dying, so is his wife. Ease up.”

“Never, Claudia. I never ease up. He’s lucky he got prison and not a hole in the head. Hell no, Claudia, Vango does not get out.”

“Okay, okay. Fix another drink. Settle down. Relax.”

“I’m fine. What else is on your mind?”

She took a sip of tea and let a minute pass. When the air was somewhat lighter, she said, “Look, Vonn, I’m fifty-six years old. I’ve been wearing the robe for seventeen years, and I’m getting tired of the job. This is my third term, and with no opposition next year I’m guaranteed twenty-four years on the bench. That’s enough. Phyllis is planning to retire too, and we want to travel the world. I’m tired of Sterling, Florida, and she’s tired of Mobile. We have no kids to keep us grounded, so why not take off somewhere? Spend some of our Indian money.”

She paused and watched him. “Your reaction?”

“I like things the way they are, obviously. The great thing about you, Claudia, is that you were so easy to corrupt, and, once corrupted, you fell hopelessly in love with the money. Same as me. The difference is that I was born into corruption, it’s in my DNA. I’d rather steal money than earn it. You, on the other hand, were pure, but the ease of your conversion to the dark side was astonishing.”

“I wasn’t pure. I was driven by hatred and a burning desire to humiliate my ex-husband. I wanted revenge and there’s nothing pure about that.”

“My point is that I’m not sure I can find another judge so eager to be purchased.”

“Do you really need one at this point? If I leave, the casino loot is all yours, not a bad little safety net. You own the politicians. You’ve bulldozed half the county and there’s plenty of sprawl in your pipeline. It’s pretty obvious, at least to me, that you’ll do just fine without a judge on the payroll. I’m just tired of work, and, to be honest-which is not the right word to use in a conversation between us-I want to go straight for a while.”

“With money or sex?”

“Money, you ass,” she said with a chuckle.

Vonn smiled and sipped his vodka as the wheels turned. He was quietly thrilled at the idea. One less mouth to feed, and a big one. “We’ll survive,” he said.

“Of course you will. My decision has not been made, but I wanted you to know what I’m thinking. I’m really tired of refereeing divorces and sending kids to prison for life. And I haven’t told anyone but Phyllis.”

“You can trust me with your darkest secrets, Your Honor.”

“Thick as thieves.”

Vonn stood and said, “I need to go. Same time next month?”

“Yes.”

On the way out, he picked up an empty leather satchel, an identical match to the one he’d brought in, though somewhat lighter.

The intermediary’s name was Cooley, a former lawyer himself, though his exit from the profession was far less spectacular than that of his pal Greg Myers. Cooley had managed to avoid headlines by quickly pleading to an indictment in Georgia and surrendering his license. He had no plans to try and get it back.

They met in a quiet courtyard at the Pelican Hotel in South Beach, and over drinks on the small patio looked at the latest paperwork.

The first few sheets summarized Claudia McDover’s travel for the past seven years, complete with dates, destinations, lengths of stay, and so on. The woman liked to travel and did so in style, usually by private jet, though none of the charters were booked in her name. Phyllis Turban, her lawyer, handled the details and generally used one of two flight companies based in Mobile. At least once a month, Claudia drove to Pensacola or Panama City, boarded a small jet, with Phyllis waiting, and took off to either New York or New Orleans for the weekend. There was no evidence of what they did on these trips, but the mole would have some ideas. Every summer Claudia spent two weeks in Singapore and was believed to own a home there. For those longer trips, she traveled on American Airlines and flew first-class. She went to Barbados at least three times a year by private jet. It was not clear whether Phyllis Turban accompanied her on the trips to Singapore and Barbados, but the mole, using prepaid and untraceable cell phones, repeatedly called Turban’s office in Mobile and determined that she was not there when McDover was abroad. And the lawyer always returned to work when the judge did.

In a memo, the mole wrote, “On the first Wednesday of each month, CM leaves the office a bit earlier than usual and drives to a condo in Rabbit Run. For some time it was impossible to determine where she went, but once a GPS tracking device was attached to the inside of her rear bumper, her exact movements became known. The address of the condo is 1614D Fairway Drive. According to the Brunswick County land records, the condo had changed hands twice and was now owned by a company registered in Belize. It is easy to speculate that she drives to the condo, receives a quantity of cash from the casino, then flies off with some or all of the money. Still speculating, the cash can be converted to gold, silver, diamonds, and collectibles. Certain dealers in New York and New Orleans are known to trade for cash, but for a stiff premium. Diamonds and jewelry are especially easy to smuggle out of the country. Cash can also be shipped by regular overnight parcel delivery to anywhere in the world, especially the Caribbean.”