And the Brethren had all day, hours upon hours to sit with their thoughts and their schemes. It was not an equal match.
Chapter Twenty-Six
There were two types of phones at Trumble; secured and unsecured. In theory, all calls made on unsecured lines were taped and subject to review by little elves in a booth somewhere who did nothing but listen to a million hours of useless chatter. In reality, about half the calls were actually taped, at random, and only about 5 percent were ever heard by anybody working for the prison. Not even the federal government could hire enough elves to handle all the listening.
Drug dealers had been known to direct their gangs from unsecured lines. Mafia bosses had been known to order hits on their rivals. The odds were very high against getting caught.
The secured lines were fewer in number, and by law could not be wired for surveillance. The secured calls went only to lawyers, and always with a guard posted nearby.
When Spicer's turn finally came to make a secured call, the guard had drifted away.
"Law office," came the rude hello from the free world.
"Yes, this is Joe Roy Spicer, calling from the Trumble prison, and I need to speak with Trevor."
"He's asleep:"
It was 1:30 p.m. "Then wake the sonofabitch up,"
Spicer growled.
"Hang on."
"Would you please hurry? I'm on a prison phone."
Joe Roy glanced around and wondered, not for the first time, what kind of lawyer they'd crawled in bed with.
"Why are you calling?" were Trevor's first words.
"Never mind. Wake your ass up and get to work. We need something done quickly"
By now, the rental across from Trevor's office was buzzing. This was the fast call firm Trumble.
"What is it?"
"We need a box checked out. Quickly. And we want you to go supervise it. Don't leave until it's finished."
Why me.
"Just do it, darnmit, okay? This could be the biggest one yet."
"Where is it?"
"Chevy Chase, Maryland. Write this down. Al Konyers, Box 455, Mailbox America, 39380 Western Avenue, Chevy Chase. Be very careful because this guy could have some friends, and there's a good chance someone else is already watching the box. Take some cash and hire a couple of good investigators."
"I'm pretty busy around here."
"Yeah, sorry I woke you up. Do it now, Trevor. Leave today. And don't come back until you know who rented the box."
"All right, all right."
Spicer hung up, and Trevor put his feet back on his desk and appeared to return to his nap. But he was just contemplating matters. A moment later he yelled for Jan to check the flights to Washington.
In fourteen years as a field supervisor, Klockner had never seen so many people watch one person do so little. He made a quick call to Deville at Langley, and the rental sprang into action. It was time for the Wes and Chap show.
Wes walked across the street and entered the creaking and peeling door of Mr. L. Trevor Carson, Attorney and Counselor-at-Law Wes was dressed in khakis and a pullover knit, loafers, no socks, and when Jan offered him her customary sneer she couldn't tell if he was a native or a tourist. "What can I do for you?" she asked.
"I really need to see Mr. Carson;' Wes said with an air of desperation.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked, as if her boss was so busy she couldn't keep track of his meetings.
"Well, no, it's sort of an emergency."
"He's very busy;" she said, and Wes could almost hear the laughter from the rental.
"Please, I've got to talk to him."
She rolled her eyes and didn't budge. "What kind of matter is it?"
"I've just buried my wife;' he said, on the verge of tears, and Jan finally cracked a bit. "I'm very sorry," she said. Poor guy.
"She was killed in a car wreck on I-95, just north of Jacksonville."
Jan was standing now and wishing she'd made fresh coffee. "I'm so sorry;" she said. "When did this happen?"
"Twelve days ago. A friend recommended Mr. Carson."
Not much of a friend, she wanted to say. "Would you like some coffee?" she asked, putting the top on her nail polish. Twelve days ago, she thought. Like all good legal secretaries, she read the newspapers with a keen eye on the accidents. Who knows, one might walk in the door.
Never Trevor's door. Until now.
"No, thanks;" Wes said. "She was hit by a Texaco truck. The driver was drunk."
"Oh my god!" she exclaimed, hand over her mouth. Even Trevor could handle this one.
Serious money, big fees, right here in the reception area, and that fool back there snoring off his lunch.
"He's in a deposition;" she said. "Let me see if I can disturb him. Please have a seat." She wanted to lock the front door so he couldn't escape.
"The name's Yates. Yates Newman," he said, trying to help her.
"Oh yes," she said, racing down the hall. She knocked politely on Trevor's door, then stepped inside. "Wake up, asshole!" she hissed through clenched teeth, loud enough for Wes to hear up front.
"What is it?" Trevor said, standing, ready for a fistfight. He wasn't sleeping after all. He'd been reading an old People.
"Surprise! You have a client."
"Who is it?"
"A man whose wife got run over by a Texaco truck twelve days ago. He wants to see you right now"
"He's here?"
"Yep. Hard to believe, isn't it? Three thousand lawyers in Jacksonville and this poor guy falls through the cracks. Said a friend recommended you."
"What'd you tell him?"
"I told him he needed to find new friends."
"No, really, what did you tell him?"
"That you're in a deposition."
"I haven't had a deposition in eight years. Send him back."
"Be cool. I'll make him some coffee. Act like you're finishing some important stuff back here. Why don't you straighten this place up?"
"You just make sure he can't get out:"
"The Texaco driver was drunk;" she said, opening the door. "Don't screw this up."
Trevor froze, slack jawed, glassy-eyed, his deadened mind suddenly springing to life. One third of $2 million, $4 million, hell, $10 million if he was really drunk and punitive damages kicked in. He wanted to at least straighten his desk, but he couldn't move.
Wes stared out the front window, stared at the rental, where his buddies were staring at him. He kept his back to the ruckus down the hall because he was struggling to keep a straight face. Footsteps, then Jan said, "Mr. Carson will see you in just a moment."
"Thanks;" he said softly, without turning around.
Poor guy's still grieving, she thought, then walked to the dirty kitchen to make coffee.
The deposition was over in a flash, and the other participants miraculously vanished without a trace. Wes followed her down the hall to Mr. Carson's cluttered office. Introductions were made. She brought them flesh coffee, and when she was finally gone, Wes made an unusual request.
"Is there any place to get a strong latte around here?"
"Why, certainly, yes, of course," Trevor said, the words jumping across the desk. "There's a place called Beach Java just a few blocks away"
"Could you send her to get me one?"
Absolutely. Anything!
"Yes, of course. Tall or grande?"
"Tall's fine."
Trevor bounced out of his office, and a few seconds later Jan hit the front door and practically ran down the street. When she was out of sight, Chap left the rental and walked to Trevor's. The front door was locked, so he opened it with a key of his own. Inside, he latched the chain, so poor Jan would be stuck on the porch with a cup of scalding latte.