John Grisham - The Whistler

“Well, my hair is growing and that’s all that matters.”

He chuckled at this. He was more animated, more eager to talk. Lacy assumed he was awaiting the arrival of his D.C. lawyers with great anticipation. For the first time in many years, there was hope.

“I’m sorry about your friend Hugo,” he said. “I liked him.”

“Thanks.” She really didn’t want to talk about Hugo, but with plenty of time to kill they could chat about anything. She said his family was coping and trying to get by, but the days were long and difficult. He wanted to know about the accident, how and when it happened and what had been learned since then. He doubted it was really an accident and she assured him it was not. He was curious as to why no one “from the outside” had stepped in to investigate Hugo’s death. Careful with her words, she explained that, hopefully, things were moving in that direction. They talked about Wilton, Todd Short, the D.C. lawyers, and a little of life on death row.

After a long pause, one of many, he said, “I had a visitor yesterday, one that was not at all expected.”

“Who was it?”

“A man named Lyman Gritt. Heard of him?”

“Yes, we’ve actually met, though I don’t remember. I’m told he was with the rescue team that worked the accident and got me to the hospital. I stopped by his office to say hello and thanks, but he seems to have been replaced. The timing looks suspicious.”

Junior smiled and leaned closer. “It’s all suspicious, Lacy. Wheels are turning and you’d best be careful.”

She shrugged. Keep talking.

He said, “Gritt’s a good man. He was in favor of the casino, so we were on opposite sides long ago. But we have a history. My father and his uncle were raised together in a shack just off the reservation. They were like brothers. I can’t say the families are close now, because we fought over the casino. But Gritt has a conscience and he knows about the corruption. He never liked the Chief; now he really despises him and his family. The Chief’s son is now the constable, so any investigation into your accident will go nowhere. It’s all being covered up, as I’m sure you suspect. But Gritt knows the truth, and he thinks he has the evidence to prove it. That’s why he wants to talk to you.”

“To me?”

“That’s right. He thinks he can trust you. He doesn’t trust the local boys in Brunswick County, not that they would get involved. As you’ve probably learned, our tribe is wary of outsiders, especially those with badges. But Gritt has some evidence.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“He didn’t say, or wouldn’t say. These walls have been known to hear too much, so we were cautious. You need to understand, Lacy, that Gritt is being threatened. He has a wife and three kids, and the Chief and his pals can be effectively intimidating. The entire tribe lives under a cloud of fear and people just don’t talk. Plus, with the casino life is better these days, so why rock the boat?”

Lacy had serious doubts about the prison authorities eavesdropping on conversations between attorneys and their death row clients, but then she realized that the meeting with Gritt took place in another part of Q Wing. Gritt was not a lawyer.

“What makes him think he can trust me? We’ve never met.”

“Because you’re not a cop and you’re the first person to set foot on the reservation and ask questions. You and Mr. Hatch.”

“Okay. How am I supposed to meet with Gritt?”

“Wilton will facilitate it.”

“So who makes the next move?”

“Gritt and I agreed that I’ll contact Wilton and he’ll arrange things. That is, if you’re willing to talk to him.”

“Of course I’m willing to talk.”

“Then I’ll get word to Wilton. Needless to say, Lacy, this has to be handled as delicately as possible. Everyone is scared. They’re watching Gritt, and probably Wilton too.”

“Do they, whoever they might be, know that Todd Short is back in town?”

“I don’t think so. My lawyers met with Short this morning, somewhere far away from the reservation. If he follows through with his promise to recant his testimony, it won’t be long before everyone knows it. At that point, he’ll be a marked man.”

“They can’t keep killing people, Junior.”

“They killed your buddy Mr. Hatch. And Son and Eileen. And they probably took care of Digger Robles, the other snitch, may he rest in peace.”

And not to mention Greg Myers.

He continued, “And they’re perfectly willing to let the State of Florida kill me. They’ll stop at nothing, Lacy. Don’t ever forget that.”

“How can I?”

–

Salzman and an associate named Fuller arrived just after 1:00 p.m. They were dressed casually in khakis and loafers, a far cry from the dark, pin-striped world of D.C. law. Their firm had a thousand lawyers on all major continents. Its pro bono efforts on behalf of condemned killers were laudatory, even staggering. Lacy had read about the firm online and was astonished at the manpower it threw into the fight against the death penalty.

Their meeting with Todd Short had gone beautifully. The snitch had given a two-hour video deposition in which he admitted being recruited by the police and prosecutor to exchange bogus testimony for leniency and cash. They had found him to be believable and truly remorseful. Junior would always hate the guy who sent him to death row, but he was nonetheless thrilled at his change of heart.

Salzman explained that they would immediately file a petition for post-conviction relief in state court and seek a stay of execution. Once that was in hand, they would slug it out with the Florida Attorney General’s Office, and go to federal court if necessary. The flurry of potential litigation was bewildering, to Lacy at least, but Salzman had been through it many times. He was a seasoned expert in the world of habeas corpus, and exuded a confidence that was contagious. His goal was a new trial, one to be held far away from the meddlesome self-interest of Claudia McDover.

The burner Lacy kept in her pocket vibrated early Tuesday morning. Cooley was checking in, if only to inform her that he had not heard from Greg Myers. No surprise there. He also said he had mailed her another prepaid phone and it should arrive later in the morning. When she had it, she was to destroy the one she was holding.

For lunch, she met Allie Pacheco at a sandwich shop near the Capitol. Over a bowl of soup, he relayed the information that the police in Key Largo had sequestered the Conspirator and it was now safely under lock and key. He would meet with them in a day or so and hand over the laptop, courier bag, and backpack. It was their investigation, not his, but the FBI was promising full cooperation. The police were interviewing regulars at the marina, but so far had found no one who had seen anything unusual. With no photo and only a general description of the missing person, and not to mention a cold trail to begin with, finding him seemed virtually impossible.

After a few minutes of business, Pacheco said, “This soup is okay, but what about dinner?”

“Where are we professionally?” she asked.

“Oh, I think we’re on solid ground,” he said with a smile. “We’re certainly on the same team. Ethically, I’m not supposed to hit on chicks who work for the bureau, so we’re good to go.”

“Chicks?”

“Just a figure of speech. No harm intended. I’m thirty-four years old. I’m guessing you’re somewhere in that range. We’re both single, and, frankly, it’s refreshing to meet a nice woman in real life and not on some dating site. You do the online stuff ?”

“Twice, both disasters.”

“Oh, I could tell some stories, but I won’t bore you. So how about dinner?”