Joel Goldman - Final judgment

“I’ve got a problem here,” Griswold said when Mason finished laying it out. “You asked Fiori to put the arm on Judge Carter to get Blues released on bail. He says okay. She releases Blues. Looks like she’s got as big a problem as you do. But you keep telling me she didn’t know what was going on. You understand my problem here?”

Mason knew his story would fall apart if the blackmailer went public with the tape of Fiori and Judge Carter. He was counting on the blackmailer staying private once the leverage of the tape was gone. Disclosing it would only increase the risk the blackmailer would be caught, getting him nothing in return.

“Fiori told me he never made the call,” Mason said, improvising a detail he hoped would close the deal, especially since Fiori couldn’t contradict him from the grave. “Judge Carter confirmed that. She said she made her decision to grant bail strictly on the merits. That’s why I couldn’t pressure her to rule in Galaxy’s favor. She told me the blackmailer was my problem, not hers.”

“Rockley could have been part of the blackmail scheme-trying to save his ass and instead got himself killed by whoever was running the show. Who do you like for the blackmail?”

“Al Webb is the only one left,” Mason said. “Rockley and Keegan are dead.”

“Which reminds me,” Griswold said. “I talked to Lila Collins again. She told me the same thing she told you about Keegan. He said he needed the name of a lawyer to give to a friend so she gave him your name. If you’re involved in this blackmail scheme, that could have been enough to get Keegan killed.”

“I’ve thought of that.”

“You should have come to me sooner,” Griswold said. “Now you’re looking at attempted bribery, extortion, corruption of a public official, and obstruction of justice. Not what I’d call a good day, Counselor. What happened, you get a conscience transplant?”

“Something like that,” Mason answered. “What now?”

Griswold let out a sigh. “It’s not every day that a member of the bar walks in here and hands me his nuts. I’ve got to talk to the prosecuting attorney. In the meantime, I’d hire a couple of lawyers. One for you and one for your client.”

The morning cold had stiffened with blunt gusts of wind, each one like a hard right hand. Mason took the blows without feeling them as he walked back to his car. For an instant, he thought he saw Fish waiting for him in the parking lot. He hurried toward him, waving and calling his name, ready to tell him what he’d done until he realized the old man he saw was a bum scouring the asphalt for lucky pennies. Confession was supposed to be good for his soul. He hadn’t known it would also cloud his vision.

Mason tried Lila’s numbers again. When she didn’t answer, he drove to the casino and surveyed the parking lot until he found Lila’s car in the section marked off for employees. He kept going, not stopping until he found a side street just off the casino grounds and out of range of its ubiquitous video cameras. If Lila wouldn’t answer her phone, he’d have to flush her out. He called Galaxy’s main number and asked for Al Webb.

“It’s Lou Mason,” he said.

“What can I do for you that you shouldn’t be talking to my lawyer about instead of me?” Webb asked.

“You’re blackmailing Judge Carter. I don’t think you want me to talk to your lawyer about that.”

Webb laughed. “We’re back to that, are we? Why would I blackmail Judge Carter over a lousy sexual harassment claim? For which the casino has ample insurance coverage, I might add. Sorry, not interested.”

“The last time we talked you were interested enough to ask my price for telling you what I know.”

“You’re confusing two different commodities. I’m not interested in talking to you about whether I’m blackmailing Judge Carter because I’m not blackmailing Judge Carter. If someone else is, or if someone like that two-legged turd Vince Bongiovanni is spreading a rumor that I am blackmailing her, that’s information I would gladly pay for.”

“In that case, I’ve got something you want and I’m ready to do business. When can I meet with you and Lila?”

“Lila? What’s she got to do with this?”

“I’ll tell you when we get together. I can be at your office in ten minutes.”

“Won’t work,” Webb blurted. “Lila’s not here. She called in sick. You and I can make a deal without her.”

“You can, but I can’t. No Lila, no deal. Call me when she’s feeling better,” he said, reciting his cell phone number.

Mason had a good view of the main road leading into the casino parking lot. He was parallel parked in a row of cars similar enough in color and style that his didn’t stand out. He could sit there the rest of the day and wait for Lila or Webb to drive by, except he didn’t have the rest of the day.

Mickey was due to meet Sylvia McBride at the bank branch on Fifty-first Street in an hour. Mason had promised Fish he would wait with him at Fish’s house until Mickey and Sylvia finished their business. He took a long look toward the casino parking lot. It was impossible to choose winners and losers from the handful of people he could see coming and going or tell if Lila was among those leaving. His cell phone rang as he put his car in gear.

“Seven o’clock tonight,” Al Webb said.

“With or without Lila?”

“She’ll be there.”

“Where?”

“Lake Lotawana. Ever been?”

“Nope, but I hear that it’s nice and quiet this time of year.”

“Can’t beat it,” Webb said and gave Mason directions to the house on L Street titled in Ernie Fowler’s name. “You think you can find it?”

Mason listened closely but didn’t hear any sarcasm that meant Webb knew Mason had found the house once before.

“How hard can it be? See you at seven.”

Pete Samuelson was at Fish’s house when Mason arrived, accompanied by the technician who had set up the equipment for Fish’s phone call to Sylvia McBride. Samuelson and the technician were seated at the kitchen table, the technician tapping keys on a laptop computer and adjusting the sound on a pair of speakers. Fish was standing behind Samuelson, looking over his shoulder at the computer screen.

Samuelson looked up as Mason walked in. “You’re just in time,” he said. “We thought Mr. Fish might be able to help us with this. We’re tapped into the bank’s closed-circuit monitors and the transmitter and receiver Mickey is wearing.”

“You don’t call ahead for an appointment with my client anymore? You just show up. You forget that he has a lawyer?”

“We didn’t forget,” Samuelson said. “We don’t have to tell you and we don’t need your permission. It’s all in the deal Mr. Fish signed. He belongs to us. You’re welcome to stay, but don’t interfere.”

“It’s all right,” Fish said. “They haven’t asked me to confess to anything else and I have no secrets left anyway.”

Mason didn’t like it but knew that didn’t matter. It would be a problem for Fish’s next lawyer, something he would have to wait to explain to Fish.

“Who’s covering the bank?” Mason asked.

“Kelly Holt is inside the bank with two other agents. Dennis Brewer is in a van across the street,” Samuelson said. “Plus we’ve got backup in the parking lot. That money isn’t going anywhere except back in the vault.”

“That’s her,” Fish said. “That’s Sylvia.”

A small, slender woman wearing a winter coat and gloves appeared on the screen, the high angle of the camera distorting her image. She was in the lobby of the bank. Mason looked at his watch. It was 2:45 P. M.