John Grisham - The Whistler

“A new trial? It’s been, what, fifteen years?”

“Fifteen. Seems like a long shot to me, but these guys know their stuff.”

“But this is not your case, right? You’re not involved with Junior’s habeas appeals. So you went to see him for some other reason.”

“Right. Like I said, he thinks he might know something.”

Allie smiled and let it pass. It was obvious she was not sharing anything else. They finished the oysters and debated the entrées. He decided to settle for another dozen. She ordered a bowl of gumbo.

“Whose turn is it?” he asked.

“Yours, I think.”

“Okay, what other interesting cases are you working on?”

She smiled and sipped more wine. “Well, within the bounds of confidentiality, with no names being mentioned, we’re trying to remove a judge who’s hitting the bottle pretty hard. Two lawyers and two litigants have complained. Poor guy has been fighting alcoholism for a long time and now he’s losing badly. He won’t schedule hearings until after lunch. Sometimes he forgets them altogether. One of his court reporters says he keeps a flask under his robe and pours the stuff in his coffee cup. His docket has a backlog and no one’s happy. Pretty sad, really.”

“Should be easy then.”

“It’s never easy to remove a judge. They like their jobs and usually have no place to land when they hang up their robes. My turn. What are you working on?”

For an hour they traded war stories. Pacheco’s world of tracking sleeper cells and narco-traffickers was far more exciting than hounding derelict judges, but he was not judgmental and seemed fascinated by her work. When the wine was gone, they ordered coffee and kept talking.

At her apartment, he walked her to the steps like a gentleman and stopped at the door. “Can we talk business?” he asked.

“If you mean sex, the answer is no. I’m still too sore to get in the mood.”

“I wasn’t thinking about sex.”

“Is that your first lie of the night?”

“Maybe the second.” He faced her and stepped closer. “Luna is close, Lacy. The disappearance of Myers has our attention. I spent most of the day trying to convince him that this case is potentially much bigger than we can imagine. We need something else, another smoking gun, and Luna might be ready.”

“What about your big boss in Jacksonville?”

“He’s tough, but he’s also ambitious. If he sees the potential the way we do, he’ll reconsider. Just give us something else.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know you are. And I’m waiting by the phone.”

“Enjoyed the evening.”

“And so did I.” He pecked her on the cheek and said good night.

Wilton Mace said he was calling from a pay phone, and he did indeed sound nervous, even jumpy, as if looking over his shoulder. Tomorrow, Lyman Gritt was taking his wife to see a doctor in Panama City, a specialist of some variety. He wanted to meet Lacy at the doctor’s office, a place no one would suspect. Wilton gave her the details and asked if she could identify Gritt. She said no, she had never met him, but her boss could. And her boss would insist on being with her. Wilton wasn’t sure how this would sit with Gritt, but they could figure things out at the doctor’s office. Don’t be surprised, though, if Gritt didn’t like it.

Lacy and Michael arrived an hour early. While he stayed in the car, she entered the building, part of a busy medical arts complex with doctors and dentists on four levels. She loitered around the ground floor, read the directory, stopped by a café, then took the elevator to the third floor. The office belonged to a group of gynecologists, and its large, modern waiting room was filled with women, only two accompanied by men. Lacy returned to the car and waited while Michael went inside and covered the same territory. When he returned, they agreed the place was harmless. A perfect spot for a clandestine meeting. Dozens of patients were entering and leaving the building. At 1:45, Michael nodded to a couple leaving their car and said, “That’s Gritt.” About six feet tall, thin but with a potbelly. His wife had long dark hair that was braided, and she was much shorter and stockier.

“Got ’em?” Michael asked.

“Yep.” When they entered the building, Lacy eased out of the car and followed. Michael would sit and wait and hope there was no frantic call. He watched the foot traffic carefully, hoping to see nothing suspicious. Inside, Lacy read the directory again, killed a few minutes, and took the elevator to the third floor. She entered the waiting room and saw Gritt and his wife sitting against a far wall, looking as uncomfortable as everybody else. She picked up a magazine and found a chair on the other side of the room. Amy Gritt stared at the floor as if she might be expecting some awful news. Lyman casually flipped through a People magazine. Lacy had no idea if Wilton had described her looks to Gritt, but he seemed to have no interest in her. The receptionist was too busy to notice the young lady who had not bothered to check in. A name was called. The patient slowly walked to the desk, was greeted by a harried nurse, and disappeared around a corner. The languid pace continued for half an hour as more women arrived to replace those who were leaving. Lacy peered over her magazine and watched Gritt. After an hour, he glanced at his watch as if growing frustrated. Finally, the name of Amy Gritt was called, and she walked to the desk. As soon as she was out of sight, Lacy stood and stared at Lyman. When he made eye contact, she nodded slightly and left the waiting room. She walked to the end of the hallway and waited only a few seconds before Gritt closed the door behind him and walked to her.

She offered a hand and quietly said, “I’m Lacy Stoltz.”

He shook it gently, smiled, and instinctively glanced over his shoulder. “I’m Lyman Gritt, and you look much better than the last time I saw you.”

“I’m doing fine. Thanks for that night.”

“It’s my job. It was a bad scene. Sorry about your friend.”

“Thank you.”

He walked to a window and leaned against it, facing the hallway and the foot traffic. Patients were coming and going to several offices, but no one noticed them.

“We don’t have much time,” he said. “I’m not involved in any of the shenanigans on our land. I’m a cop, an honest one, and I have a family to protect. My name can never be used in any investigation. I will not testify in any court. I will not point the fingers at any of my people or the crooks they’re involved with. Understood?”

“Understood, but you know that I can’t control everything that might happen. You have my word and that’s all I can control.”

He reached into a front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a flash drive. “There are two videos here. The first is the property of the police in Foley, Alabama. They got lucky when someone, and I don’t know who, caught the theft of the truck on video. The second video was taken about fifteen minutes after the crash, at a country store just north of the town of Sterling. I think it clearly shows the guy who was driving the truck when it crashed into your car. I’ve included a memo with all the details I’m aware of.”

Lacy took the flash drive.

Gritt reached into another pocket and removed a plastic bag. “This is what I believe to be a small piece of a paper towel covered with blood. I found this about a quarter of a mile from the scene two days after the accident. My theory is that the blood belongs to the passenger in the second video. If I were you I’d get DNA testing immediately, and pray for a hit. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a name, one you can then match to the guy in the video.”