The Brethren

The memo arrived by fax from the Regional Supervisor, Bureau of Prisons,Washington. It was directed to M. Emmitt Broon, the warden of Trumble. In terse but standard language the supervisor said he'd reviewed the logs from Trumble and was bothered by the number of visits by one Trevor Carson, attorney for three of the inmates. Lawyer Carson had reached the point of logging in almost every day.

While every inmate certainly had a constitutional right to meet with his attorney, the prison likewise had the power to regulate the traffic. Begirming immediately, attorney-client visits would be restricted to Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, between the hours of 3 and 6 p.m. Exceptions would be granted liberally for good cause shown.

The new policy would be utilized for a period of ninety days, after which time it would be reviewed.

Fine with the warden. He too had grown suspicious of Trevor's almost daily appearances. He'd questioned the front desk and the guards in a vain effort to determine what, exactly, was the nature of all this legal work. Link, the guard who usually escorted Trevor to the conference room, and who usually pocketed a couple of twenties on each visit, told the warden that the lawyer and Mr. Spicer talked about cases and appeals and such. "Just a bunch of law crap," Link said.

"And you always search his briefcase?" the warden had asked.

"Always," Link had replied.

Out of courtesy, the warden dialed the number of Mr. Trevor Carson in Neptune Beach. The phone was answered by a woman who said rudely, "Law office."

"Mr. Trevor Carson, please."

"Who's calling?"

"This is Emmitt Broon."

"Well, Mr. Broon, he's taking a nap right now"

"I see. Could you possibly wake him? I'm the warden at the federal prison at Trumble, and I need to speak with him."

"Just a minute."

He waited for a long time, and when she returned she said, "I'm sorry. I couldn't wake him up. Could I have him return your call?"

"No, thank you. I'll just fax him a note."

The idea of a reverse scam was hatched by York, while playing golf on a Sunday, and as his game progressed, occasionally on the fairways but more often in the sand and trees, the scheme grew and grew and became brilliant. He abandoned his pals after fourteen holes and called Teddy.

They would learn the tactics of their adversaries.

And they could divert attention away from Al Konyers. There was nothing to lose.

The letter was created by York, and assigned to one of the top forgers in Documents. The pen pal was christened Brant White, and the first note was handwritten on a plain, white, but expensive correspondence card.

Dear Ricky:

Saw your ad, liked it. I'm fifty-five, in great shape, and looking for more than a pen pal. My

wife and I just bought a home in PalmValley, not far from Neptune Beach. We'll be down in three

weeks, with plans to stay for two months.If interested, send photo. If I like what I see,then I'll give

more details.

Brant

The return address was from Brant, PO. Box 88645, Upper Darby, PA 19082.

To save two or three days, a Philadelphia postmark was applied in Documents, and the letter was flown to Jacksonville where agent Klockner himself delivered it to Aladdin North's little box in the Neptune Beach post office. It was a Monday.

After his nap the following day, Trevor picked up the mail and headed west, out of Jacksonville, along the familiar route to Trumble. He was greeted by the same guards, Mackey and Vince, at the front door, and he signed the same logbook Rufus shoved in fiont of him. He followed Link into the visitors' area and to a corner where Spicer was waiting in one of the small attorney-conference rooms.

"I'm catchin some heat," Link said as they stepped into the room. Spicer did not look up. Trevor handed two twenties to Link, who took them in a flash.

"From who?" Trevor asked, opening his briefcase. Spicer was reading a newspaper.

"The warden."

"Hell, he's cut back on my visits. What else does he want?"

"Don't you understand?" Spicer said, without lowering the newspaper. "Link here is upset because he's not collecting as much. Right, Link?"

"You got that right. I don't know what kinda funny business you boys are runnin here, but if I tightened up on my inspections you'd be in trouble, wouldn't you?"

"You're being paid well," Trevor said.

"That's what you think."

"How much do you want?" Spicer said, staring at him now.

"A thousand a month, cash," he said, looking at Trevor. "I'll pick it up at your office."

"A thousand bucks and the mail doesn't get checked;" Spicer said.

"Yep."

"And not a word to anybody."

"Yep."

"It's a deal. Now get outta here."

Link smiled at both of them and left the room. He positioned himself outside the door, and for the benefit of the closed-circuit cameras looked through the window occasionally.

Inside, the routine varied little. The exchange of mail happened first and took only a second. From a worn manila folder, the same one every tune, Joe Roy Spicer removed the outgoing letters and handed them to Trevor, who took the incoming mail from his briefcase and gave it to his client.

There were six letters to be mailed. Some days there were as many as ten, seldom less than five. Though Trevor didn't keep records, or copies, or documents in a file that would serve as proof that he had anything whatsoever to do with the Brethren's little scam, he knew there had to be twenty or thirty potential victims currently being set up. He recognized some of the names and addresses.

Twenty-one to be exact, according to Spicer's precise records. Twenty-one serious prospects, with another eighteen who were marginal. Almost forty pen pals currently hiding in their various closets, some terrified of their shadows, others getting bolder by the week, still others on the verge of kicking down the door and dashing off to meet Ricky or Percy.

The difficult part was being patient. The scam was working, money was changing hands, the temptation was to squeeze them too quickly Beech and Yarber were proving to be workhorses, laboring over their letters for hours at a time while Spicer directed operations. It took discipline to hook a new pen pal, one with money, then ply him with enough pretty words to earn his trust.

"Aren't we due for a bust?"Trevor said.

Spicer was flipping through the new letters. "Don't tell me you're broke;" he said. "You're making more than we are."

"My money's tucked away just like yours. I'd just like to have some more of it. "

"So would I." Spicer looked at the envelope from Brant in Upper Darby, Pa. "Ah, a new one;" he mumbled to himself, then opened it. He read it quickly, and was surprised by its tone. No fear, no wasted words, no peeking around corners. This man was ready for action.

"Where's Palm Valley?" he asked.

"Ten miles south of the beaches. Why?"

"What kinda place is it?"

"It's one of the gated golf communities for rich retirees, almost all from up North."

"How much are the houses?"

"Well, I've never been there, okay. They keep the damned gate locked, guards everywhere like somebody might break in and steal their golf carts, but-"

"How much are the houses?"

"Nothing less than a million. I've seen a couple advertised for three million."

"Wait here," Spicer said, gathering his file and walking to the door.

"Where you going?"Trevor asked.

"To the library. I'll be back in half an hour."

"I got things to do."

"No you don't. Read the newspaper."

Spicer said something to Link, who escorted him through the visitors' area and out of the administration building. He walked quickly along the manicured grounds. The sun was warm, and the gardeners were earning their fifty cents an hour.

So were the keepers of the law library. Beech and Yarber were hiding in their little conference room, taking a break from their writings with a game of chess, when Spicer entered in a rush, with an uncharacteristic smile. "Boys, we've finally hooked the big one," he said, and tossed Brant's letter on the table. Beech read it aloud.

"PalmValley is one of the golf communities for rich folks," Spicer explained proudly. "Houses go for about three million. The boy's got plenty of dough and he ain't much for letters."

"He does seem anxious;'Yarber observed.

"We need to move fast," Spicer said. "He wants to come down in three weeks."

"What's the upside potential?" Beech asked. He loved the jargon of those who invested millions.

"At least a half a million," Spicer said. "Let's do the letter now Trevor is waiting."

Beech opened one of his many files and displayed his wares; sheets of paper in soft pastels. "I think I'll try the peach," he said.

"Oh definitely," Spicer said. "Gotta do peach."

Ricky wrote a scaled-down version of the initial contact letter. Twenty-eight years old, college graduate, locked down in rehab but on the verge of release, probably in ten days, very lonely, looking for a mature man to start a relationship. How convenient that Brant would be living nearby, because Ricky had a sister in Jacksonville and he'd be staying with her. There were no obstacles, no hurdles to cross. He'd be ready for Brant when he came South. But he'd like a photo first. Was Brant really married? Would his wife be living at Palm Valley too? Or would she stay up there in Pennsylvania? Wouldn't it be great if she did?

They enclosed the same color photo they'd used a hundred times. It had proved to be irresistible.

The peach envelope was taken by Spicer back to the attorney-conference room where Trevor was napping. "Mail this immediately," Spicer barked at him.

They spent ten minutes on their basketball bets, then said good-bye without a handshake.

Driving back to Jacksonville, Trevor called his bookie, a new one, a bigger bookie, now that he was a player. The digital line was indeed more secure, but the phone wasn't. Agent Klockner and his band of operatives were listening as usual, and tracking Trevor's bets. He wasn't doing badly, up $4,500 in the past two weeks. By contrast, his law firm had put $800 on the books during the same period.

In addition to the phone, there were four mikes in the Beetle, most of them of little value but operational nonetheless. And under each bumper was a transmitter, both wired to the car's electrical system and checked every other night when Trevor was either drinking or sleeping. A powerful receiver in the rental across the street tracked the Beetle wherever it went. As Trevor puttered down the highway, talking on his phone like a big shot, tossing money around like a Vegas high roller, sipping scalded coffee from a quickstop grocery, he was emitting more signals than most private jets.

March 7. Big Super Tuesday. Aaron Lake bounced triumphantly across the stage in a large banquet room of a Manhattan hotel, while thousands cheered and music roared and balloons fell from above. He'd taken NewYork with 43 percent of the vote. Governor Tarry had a rather weak 29 percent, and the other also-raps got the rest. Lake hugged people he'd never seen before and waved to people he'd never see again, and he delivered without notes a stirring victory speech.

Then he was off, on his way to L.A. for another victory celebration. For four hours, in his new Boeing jet that would hold a hundred and leased for $1 million a month and flew at a speed of five hundred miles per hour, thirty-eight thousand feet above the country, he and his staff monitored the returns from the twelve states participating in big Super Tuesday. Along the East Coast, where the polls had already closed, Lake barely won in Maine and Connecticut, but put up big margins in New York, Massachusetts, Maryland, and Georgia. He lost Rhode Island by eight hundred votes, and won Vermont by a thousand. As he was flying over Missouri, CNN declared him the winner of that state by four percentage points over Governor Tarry. Ohio was just as close.

By the time Lake reached California, the rout was over. Of the 591 delegates at stake, he'd captured 390. He'd also solidified the momentum. And most important, Aaron Lake now had the money. Governor Tarry was falling hard and fast, and all bets were on Lake.