John Grisham - The Brethren

Finn Yarber watched and listened and felt immense pity for the young man. Everybody at Trumble had a sad story, and after a month or so of hearing them he'd learned to believe almost nothing. But Buster was believable. For the next forty-eight years he would wither and decline, all at taxpayer expense. Three meals a day. A warm. bed at night-$3 1,000 a year was the latest guess of what a federal inmate cost the government. Such a waste. Half the inmates at Trumble had no business being there. They were nonviolent men who should've been punished with stiff fines and community service.

Joe Roy Spicer listened to Buster's compelling story, and he sized the boy up for future use. There were two possibilities. First, in Spicer's opinion, the telephones were not being properly utilized in the Angola scam. The Brethren were old men writing letters as if they were young. It would be too risky to call Quince Garbe in Iowa, for example, and pretend to be Ricky, a robust twenty-eight-year-old. But with a kid like Buster working for them, they could convince any potential victim. There were plenty of young guys at Trumble, and Spicer had considered several of them. But they were criminals, and he didn't trust them. Buster was fresh off the streets, seemingly innocent, and he was coming to them for help.The bay could be manipulated.

The second possibility was an offshoot of the first. If Buster joined their conspiracy, he would be in place when Joe Roy was released. The scam was proving too profitable to simply walk away from. Beech andYarber were splendid at writing the letters, but they had no business sense. Perhaps Spicer could train young Buster here to fill his shoes, and to divert his share to the outside.

Just a thought.

"Do you have any money?" Spicer asked.

"No sir. We lost everything."

"No family, no uncles, aunts, cousins, friends who could help you with your legal fees?"

"No sir. What kinds legal fees?"

"We usually charge for reviewing cases and helping with the appeals."

"I'm dead broke, sir."

"I think we can help," Beech said. Spicer didn't work on the appeals anyway. The man never finished high school.

"Sort of a pro bono case, wouldn't you say?" Yarber said to Beech.

"A pro what?" Spicer asked.

"Pro bono,"

"What's that?"

"Free legal work," Beech said.

"Free legal work. Done by whom?"

"By lawyers," Yarber explained. "Every lawyer is expected to donate a few hours of his time to help people who can't afford to hire him."

"It's part of the Old English common law," Beech added, further clouding the issue.

"It never caught on over here, did it?" Spicer said.

"We'll review your case," Yarber said to Buster. "But please do not be optimistic."

"Thank you."

They left the cafeteria in a group, three ex judges in green choir robes followed by a scared young inmate.

Frightened, but also quite curious.

BRANTS REPLY from Upper Darby, Pa., had an urgent tone to it:

Dear Ricky,

Wow! What a photo! I'm coming down even sooner. I'll be there on April 20. Are you available? If so, we'll have the house to ourselves because my wife will stay here for another two weeks. Poor woman. We've been married for twenty-two years and she doesn't have a clue.

Here's a picture of me. That's my Learjet in the background, one of my favorite toys. We'll buzz around in it if you want.

Write me immediately, please.

Sincerely,

Brant

There was still no last name, not that that was a problem. They would dig for it soon enough. Spicer inspected the postmark, and for a passing moment thought about how quickly the mail was running between Jacksonville and Philadelphia. But the photo kept his attention. It was a four-by-six candid shot, very similar to an ad for a get-rich-quick scheme where the huckster is pictured with a proud smile, flanked by his jet, his Rolls, and possibly his latest wife. Brunt was standing beside a plane, smiling, dressed neatly in tennis shorts and a sweater, with no Rolls in sight but with an attractive middle-aged woman next to him.

It was the first photo, in their growing collection, in which one of their pen pals had included his wife. Odd, thought Spicer, but then Brunt had mentioned her in both letters. Nothing surprised him anymore. The scam would work forever because there was an endless supply of potential victims willing to ignore the risks.

Brunt himself was fit and tanned, short dark hair with shades of gray, and a mustache. He was not particularly handsome, but what did Spicer care?

Why would a man with so much be so careless? Because he'd always taken chances and never been caught. Because it was a way of life. And after they squeezed him and took his money, Brunt would slow down for a while. He'd avoid the personal ads, and the anonymous lovers. But an aggressive type like Brunt would soon return to his old ways.

Spicer figured the thrill of finding random partners overshadowed the risks. He was still bothered by the fact that he, of all people, spent time each day trying to think like a homosexual.

Beech and Yarber read the letter and studied the photo. The small cramped room was completely silent. Could this be the big one?

"Reckon how much that jet cost." Spicer said, and all three laughed. It was nervous laughter, as if they weren't sure they could believe it.

"A couple of million," Beech said. Since he was from Texas, and had been married to a rich woman, the other two assumed he knew more about jets than they. "It's a small Lear."

Spicer would settle for a small Cessna, anything that would lift him off the ground and take him away. Yarber didn't want a plane. He wanted tickets, in first class where they brought you champagne and two menus and you had your choice of movies. First class over the ocean, far away from this country.

"Let's bust him." Yarber said.

"How much?" asked Beech, still staring at the photo.

"At least a half a million," Spicer said. "And if we get that, we'll go back for more."

They sat in silence, each playing with his portion of half a million dollars. Trevor's third was suddenly getting in the way. He'd take $167,000 off the top, leaving each of them $111,000. Not bad for prisoners, but it should be a helluva lot more. Why was the lawyer making so much?

"We're going to cut Trevor's fee." Spicer announced. "I've been thinking about this for some time. Beginning now, the money will be split four ways. He takes an equal share."

"He won't do it." Yarber said.

"He has no choice."

"It's only fair," Beech said. "We're doing the work, and he's getting more than each of us. I say we cut it."

"I'll do it Thursday"

Two days later, Trevor arrived at Trumble just after four with a particularly bad hangover, one deadened by neither the two-hour lunch nor the one-hour nap.

Joe Roy seemed particularly edgy. He passed across the outgoing mail, but held a large, red, oversized envelope. "We're getting ready to bust this guy," he said, tapping it on the table.

"Who is he?"

"Brant somebody, near Philadelphia. He's hiding behind the post office, so you need to flush him out."

"How much?"

"A half a million bucks."

Trevor's red eyes narrowed and his dry lips fell open. He did the math $167,000 in his pocket. His sailing career was suddenly drawing closer. Perhaps he didn't need a full million bucks before he slammed his office door and left for the Caribbean. Maybe half that would do it. And he was getting so close.

"You're kidding," he said, knowing that Spicer was not. Spicer had no sense of humor, and he certainly took his money seriously.

"No. And we're changing your percentage."

"I'll be damned if we are. A deal's a deal."

"Deals can always be changed. From now on you get the same piece we do. One fourth."