Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

“What are we looking for here?” Kelly asks.

“How about this?” asks Caitlin, pulling up an image of a group of men gathered around two bloody dogs savaging each other in a pit.

She clicks through this sequence, which depicts what appears to be three or four different dogfights. The dogs and the people change in the pictures, but here too I recognize quite a few locals. When one image pops up, I seize Caitlin’s shoulder. It’s the photo I saw on Shad Johnson’s wall yesterday: Shad and Darius Jones standing beside a dead boar hog hanging from a hoist.

“I see him,” Caitlin says. “Son of a bitch.”

“Keep going,” I tell her, my hand flexing with hopeful tension.

Three more shots of Shad and the wide receiver follow. Two show the hog, while in the third the two men stand arm in arm with drunk grins on their faces. But Caitlin gasps when the next photo fills the screen. In it, a blood-soaked pit bull hangs from its neck from a tree branch while three men look on. The dog’s spine is bowed from

the animal jerking its hindquarters away from something in one of the men’s hands. A cattle prod. The man holding it is Darius Jones. But to Jones’s right, staring with what appears to be primal fascination, is District Attorney Shadrach Johnson.

“Holy God,” Caitlin breathes.

I squeeze her shoulder again. “That'’s it.

That'’s

what we needed.”

“Do you know what that is?” she says in a stunned voice.

“What?” asks Kelly.

“That'’s two black men at a lynching. Only they'’re not the ones being lynched.”

I'm shaking my head in disbelief, but after so many days of feeling helpless, a bracing surge of power is rising in me.

“You

own

Shad Johnson,” Caitlin says. “The question is…what are you going to buy with that picture?”

“Anybody want to guess?”

“Thumb drive,” says Kelly.

I smile and nod with satisfaction. “For a start.”

CHAPTER

65

I'm staring at Shad Johnson across the compulsively neat surface of his antique desk. The district attorney looks as though he hasn’'t slept since our meeting yesterday, and having seen the contents of Ben Li’s secret files, I'm not surprised.

“You look a little green around the gills, Shad.”

“Skip the bullshit, okay?”

I glance to my right, to his Wall of Respect. The picture of Shad and Darius Jones with the dead hog is conspicuously absent. In its place hangs a framed photo of Shad sitting beside a state senator at a political banquet.

“Looks like you’re missing a photograph.”

“I said cut the bullshit,” snaps Johnson. “Why are you here?”

I give him my most cordial smile. “You know what they say about a career in Mississippi politics, don'’t you?”

“What’s that?”

“The same thing they say about Louisiana politics. The only way to truly end your career is to get caught with a dead woman or a live boy.”

Shad licks his lips as his gaze flicks to the window. His political instincts are well-honed; he knows something’s coming, only he doesn’'t know what. Taking a manila envelope from inside my wind

breaker, I remove an eight-by-ten printout of the dog-lynching photo and slide it faceup across his desk.

“I think that picture is the exception to the rule.”

Shad hesitates before looking down, knowing that after he does, his life will never be the same. At last his chair creaks and he leans forward, lowering his eyes to the image on the paper. Shad is a light-skinned black man, but he perceptibly lightens another shade.

“Looks a little bit like you and Darius with the hog, doesn’'t it? Only it’s a little different. Especially when considered from a legal perspective.”

Shad seems to have lost his voice altogether.

“You’re a smart man, Shad. So I know there’s no misunderstanding about where we stand now.”

“What do you want?” he asks hoarsely.

“You already know. The USB drive. I know you'’ve got it, and I know how you got it. But if you hand it over now and come up with a plausible story, I'm willing to run with that. You’re not who I'm after.”

The district attorney clears his throat, then speaks in his professional voice. “I was about to call you about that drive, Mr. Mayor. As a matter of fact, someone slid a sealed envelope underneath my door last night.”

“Is that so?” I smile to let him see that I'm willing to play along.

“Sure did. Even in this day and age, you’ll find a Good Samaritan doing whatever he can to help the cause of law and order.”

“I’d like to see that envelope.”

Shad reaches into his pocket, takes out a key, then unlocks his bottom desk drawer. He looks down into it for a long time, and for a couple of seconds I have a crazy feeling that he’s about to pull a pistol. I'm sure he’d like nothing better, if he could get away with it, but when he straightens up, he’s holding a sealed, bone-white envelope. He tosses it across the desk.

Ripping the envelope open, I tilt the torn side to my palm. A small, gray Sony thumb drive falls into it, no heavier than a child’s LEGO block.

“Do you know what’s on it?” I ask.

“How could I? I never even opened the envelope.”

I give him a hard look. “What’s on it, Shad?”

He shrugs, then sighs. “No idea. It’s encrypted. I couldn'’t get into it.”

I slip the thumb drive into my pants pocket and stand.

“What are you going to do with that?” Shad asks.

“I'm going to run those Irish bastards out of town. Do you know why you’re still sitting here, and not in a jail cell?”

He swallows audibly. “Why?”

“Because you could have turned that drive over to them, and you didn't. I know you didn't do that from a noble motive—probably just self-preservation. But whatever the reason, you didn't do the worst thing you could have done.”

“So, what now? Is this the end of it?”

“Oh, no. Today’s a big day, my friend. A red-letter day. I'’ll be in touch about what I need from you.”

Shad rises behind his desk as I move toward the door.

“Whatever you want, Penn. You can count on me one hundred percent.”

“Oh, I know that.”

He clears his throat. “What about the original of that photo? The negative, or the disc or whatever?”

“Let’s see how things go. I'’ll make my decision later.”

I turn and walk through the doorway, then stop and poke my head back through it. Shad is studying the photograph like a man being forced to peer into the darkest corner of his soul.

“One more thing,” I say quietly.

“What?” he says without looking up.

“Soren Jensen. You just pled him down to probation and a drug treatment program. He doesn’'t spend one more day in jail.”

“He’s out on bail now.”

“Say it,” I tell him.

“Done. Probation.”

“Stay by your phone. I'’ll be in touch.”

CHAPTER

66

Caitlin is sitting at the kitchen table, poring over the Po file like a novel she can’t put down. One hour ago, Kelly sent a copy of the data on the USB thumb drive to his Signal Corps friend, who warned us that it could take longer to crack than the SD cards. In the meantime, Kelly and I have been discussing how best to use the results, should they prove to be as incriminating as we believe they will be.

“Let’s just assume,” Caitlin says, abruptly dropping the file and joining our conversation, “that the thumb drive is what you think it is. Conclusive proof of systematic money laundering by Golden Parachute Gaming Corporation, and that it incriminates both Sands and Po.”

“Okay.”

She smiles like a woman with a secret. “Proof is no longer our problem. Chief Logan could arrest Sands at that moment for money laundering. He could arrest him right now for dogfighting based on Ben Li’s pictures, and the district attorney to boot.”