The Partner (Page 61)

For thirty minutes he tapped and fidgeted. She was finally brought from around the corner, dressed in a yellow one-piece jumpsuit with faded lettering stamped in black across the chest. The guard removed the handcuffs and she rubbed her wrists.

When they were alone, she sat in her chair and looked at him. He slid a business card through a tiny slot. She took it and examined every letter.

"Patrick sent me," he said, and she closed her eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She leaned forward on her elbows and spoke through the screened opening. "I’m fine. Thanks for coming. When do I get out?"

"Not for a few days. The feds can do one of two things. First, and the most serious, they can indict you for traveling under a false passport. This is a longshot because you’re a foreigner and you have no criminal record. Second, and most likely, they’ll simply deport you with your promise never to return. Either way, it’ll take them a few days to decide. In the meantime, you’re stuck here because we can’t get bail right now."

"I understand."

"Patrick is very concerned about you."

"I know. Tell him I’m fine. And I’m very concerned about him."

Birck adjusted his legal pad and said, "Now, Patrick wants a detailed account of exactly how you were caught."

She smiled and seemed to relax. Of course Patrick would want the details. She started with the man with the green eyes, and’slowly told the story.

BENNY HAD ALWAYS laughed at the Biloxi beach. Just a narrow strip of sand bordered on one side by a highway too dangerous to cross on foot, and on the other by dull brown water too brackish to swim in. During the summer it attracted low-budget vacationers, and on weekends students threw Frisbees and rented jet-skis. The casino boom brought more tourists to the beach, but they seldom lingered long before returning to their gambling.

He parked at the Biloxi pier, lit a long cigar, removed his shoes, and walked the beach anyway. It was much cleaner now, another benefit from the casinos.

It was also deserted. A few fishing boats drifted out to sea.

Stephano’s call an hour earlier had ruined his morning, and, for the most part, altered the remainder of his life. With the girl locked away, he had no chance of finding the money. She couldn’t lead him to it now, nor could she be used as leverage with Lanigan.

The feds had an indictment hanging over Patrick’s head. Patrick, in turn, had the money and the evidence. One would be swapped for the other, and Aricia would get caught in the crossfire. When the pressure was applied to his co-conspirators, Bogan and the rest of those pansy-ass lawyers, they would sing in an instant. Benny was the odd man out, and he knew this perfectly well. Had known it, in fact, for a long time. His dream had been to somehow find the money, then disappear with it, just like Patrick.

But his dream was over now. He had a million bucks left. He had friends in other countries, and contacts around the world. It was time to split, just like Patrick.

SANDY KEPT a scheduled 10 A.M. meeting with T.L. Parrish, in the D.A.’s office, though he’d been tempted to postpone it and spend the morning working on the documents. When he left his office at 8:30, his entire staff and both of his partners were making copies and enlarging crucial pages.

Parrish had requested the meeting. Sandy was certain he knew why. The state’s case had major holes in it, and now that the thrill of the indictment had passed, it was time to talk business. Prosecutors tend to try the airtight cases, and there is never a shortage of them. But a high-profile case with gaping holes is serious trouble.

Parrish wanted to fish, but first he puffed and postured and talked about venue. A jury anywhere would not be sympathetic to a lawyer who murdered for money. Sandy just listened, at first. Parrish recited his favorite statistics about his conviction rate and the fact that he’d never lost a capital murder trial. Got eight of ’em on death row, he said, not bragging.

Sandy really had better things to do. He needed to have a serious conversation with Parrish, but not today. He asked how he would prove the murder occurred in Harrison County. And he followed it by the cause of death-how could that be proven? Patrick certainly wouldn’t testify and help them out. And the big one, who was the victim? According to Sandy’s research, there was not a single reported murder conviction in the state with an unidentified victim.

Parrish anticipated these troublesome inquiries, and did an adequate job of evading concrete answers. "Has your client considered a plea bargain?" he finally asked, as if in deep pain.

"No."

"Would he?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You ran to the grand jury, got your capital murder indictment, waved it in front of the press, now you have to prove it. You didn’t bother to wait and assess your evidence. Forget it."

"I can get a conviction for manslaughter," Parrish said angrily. "That carries twenty years."

"Maybe," Sandy said nonchalantly. "But my client has not been charged with manslaughter."

"I can do that tomorrow."

"Fine. Go do it. Dismiss the capital murder charges, refile for manslaughter, then we’ll talk."

Chapter 32

IT WAS LABELED the Camille Suite, and it occupied one third of the top floor of the Biloxi Nugget, the newest, gaudiest, largest, and most successful of all the Vegas-style casinos popping up along the Coast. The boys from Vegas thought it clever to name the Nugget’s suites and banquet rooms after the worst hurricanes to hit the Coast. For an average Joe who came in from the street and simply wanted spacious quarters, it rented for $750 a day. That’s what Sandy agreed to pay. For a high-roller flown in from afar, the suite would be complimentary. But gambling was the last thing on Sandy’s mind. His client, less than two miles away, had approved the expense. The Camille had two bedrooms, a kitchen, den, and two parlors- plenty of places to meet with separate groups. It also had four incoming phone lines, a fax, and a VCR. Sandy’s paralegal brought the PC and the technical machinery from New Orleans, along with the first batch of Aricia documents.

The first visitor to Mr. McDermott’s temporary law offices was J. Murray Riddleton, Trudy’s thoroughly defeated divorce lawyer. He sheepishly handed over a proposed settlement of property rights and child visitation. They discussed it over lunch. The terms of surrender were dictated by Patrick. And since he was now calling the shots, Sandy found numerous details to nitpick through. "This is a good first draft," he said repeatedly as he continued to mark it up with red ink. Riddleton took the thrashing like a pro. He argued every point, bitched about the amendments, but both lawyers knew the settlement would be changed to suit Patrick’s whim. The DNA test and nude photos ruled supreme.

The second visitor was Talbot Minis, Biloxi counsel for Northern Case Mutual, a hyper and jovial man who traveled in a very comfortable van, complete with a fast driver, leather seats and interior, a small workta-ble, two phones, a fax, beeper, television and VCR so Minis could study video depositions, a laptop and a PC, and a sofa for quick naps, though he succumbed only after the most arduous days in court. His entourage included a secretary and a paralegal, both of whom kept cell phones in their pockets, and an obligatory associate hauled along for extra billing purposes.

The four hurriedly presented themselves at the Ca-mille Suite, where Sandy met them in jeans and offered soft drinks from the mini-bar. All declined. The secretary and the paralegal immediately found matters to discuss on their cell phones. Sandy led Mims and the unnamed associate to a parlor, where they sat before a huge window with a splendid view of the Nugget’s parking garage, and beyond that the first steel pillars of yet another garish casino.