Above the Law (43 page)

He read the page carefully. Looked up at me, his face registering sheer bewilderment. “Yes, they’re mine. But I don’t have a bank account in Miami,” he protested. “I don’t have a bank account anywhere in Florida.”

“This document says you do.”

“It’s wrong. I don’t.” He was in panic mode now, worse than when I’d hit him with his sister’s relationship with Juarez.

“This document says you opened this account by wire five days after Reynaldo Juarez was murdered.” I ran my finger down the pertinent lines. “Take a look for yourself. Five hundred thousand dollars was wired into this account upon opening. Look at it, man! Tell me if that isn’t what’s on the page!”

He looked at it, his hands shaking as he held it.

“I don’t have a clue as to what any of this is,” he said, his voice shaking uncontrollably. “But I swear to you, this is not my bank account. I don’t have anything like five hundred thousand dollars.”

I turned my back on him. It had come down to this. If he had admitted to the bank account and had a plausible reason for the money, I would still have asked for an indictment; I think. But he hadn’t. He was flat-out lying.

I had no choice.

“Okay,” I told him, my voice flat, as drained of emotion as he was emotional. “I’m done with you—for now. You’re excused.”

He got up to leave. His legs were shaking, he had a difficult time with the mere act of standing.

“Make sure my office knows where you are,” I instructed him sternly. “At all times.” He nodded. He was numb. He walked out.

At the end of the day we celebrated, the team and I. Champagne all around. Okay, so it was domestic California sparkling, but who’s reading the label?

When I awoke the following morning, I had come back down to earth. We had our man. The grand jury had indicted Jerome on a count of murder in the first degree. So we’d done our job, the first part.

The unfortunate thing was, he had killed a man far worse than he. But my business is about the rule of law, which has to stand equally for everyone, tarnished white knights and scumbags alike. I believed that last year, last month, last week, last night. I believe it now. That doesn’t make applying it sweet or easy, in every circumstance.

W
E TOOK A FAMILY
vacation to Hawaii, Kauai, up near Hanalei Bay, a condo above the beach. It was Buck’s first time in warm ocean water—he took to it like a dolphin. We swam, made sand castles, flew kites. When he napped, Riva and I hired one of the local kids to watch him while we took walks along the beach, grateful and happy to have some intimate time together. It was a peaceful, restful week, a good bonding for us as a family and a time of reenergizing for me, after the tensions and pressures of the investigation.

Unfortunately, it had to end and I had to go back to work, preparing for the trial. Jerome’s arrest and indictment had been a front-page story on every newspaper, magazine, and television show across the country. I was duly lionized: the hero of the desert, the fearless prosecutor representing the tiny county that took on big government and brought it to its knees—all that bullshit. I hated it, both the public ass-kissing and the invasion of my privacy. I had done my job. I had no vendetta against anyone, including the DEA. They hadn’t handled their investigation satisfactorily, but they hadn’t been trying to overtly cover up, they simply couldn’t force themselves to look hard enough into that abyss. It’s tough judging your own, men you work with, live and die with.

Winston Kim and I had lunch in L.A. shortly after the indictment was handed down. He wasn’t apologetic, but he did offer congratulations. The agency was having a hard time over this. Their procedures had been attacked in newspaper editorials, the television talking heads had castigated them, and some congressional committees launched punitive, publicity-seeking inquiries.

None of that lasted very long; after the shouting and posturing died down, it became clear that Jerome was an aberration, a man so hellbent on personal revenge that he had crossed the line. The
man
was at fault, not the organization. Now that I wasn’t locking horns with them, I, too, felt that was as it should be.

Things were dormant while I prepared my case. Jerome’s lawyer, John Q. Jones, one of the best defense lawyers in the country, an old warhorse from time immemorial, had tried unsuccessfully for a change of venue from Muir County, since its jury pool was small, and everyone knew about the case. As I expected, Judge McBee dismissed the motion—Jerome was going to stand trial where the crime had been committed. He also denied Jerome bail. This was a capital offense, and there was concern that Jerome would try to leave the country. He was held in the Muir County jail under tight security, overseen by Sheriff Miller and his staff.

McBee set a trial date—five months. This wasn’t going to drag out with delays and appeals if he could help it. Justice delayed would be justice denied in this case. He wanted us to move ahead as quickly as possible.

John Q. objected to the trial date, as I’d known he would, claiming he wouldn’t have enough time to mount a proper defense. Judge McBee denied that motion as he’d done the others. The trial was going to happen—the sooner the better.

As I had expected, Jerome was forceful and aggressive about maintaining his innocence, insisting he’d been set up, a victim of a conspiracy—by whom, he didn’t say. Several tabloid television shows,
Geraldo, Larry King,
etc., interviewed him from his cell. Finally, Judge McBee got annoyed with all the publicity and the aggravation and put a halt to it.

That Jerome had hired John Q. Jones as his attorney was a powerful indication of the seriousness of this trial, and that it was going to be fought to the bitter end. (It was unstated but understood, certainly by me at least, that friends of Jerome’s inside the DEA were paying the legal bills, which would be high, well into six figures.) John Quincy Jones (John Q., as everyone in the legal world addresses him) is an old man now, over seventy, but still formidable as hell. The grand old man is semi-retired now, but he’ll let himself get pulled into a case if the merits stir his blood. Defending a man like Jerome is classic John Q.: he’s as polar opposite from supporting government agencies such as the DEA as any man in the country. But he’s a staunch believer that every man, no matter how vile, must have the best defense he can. I knew John Q. would give me everything I could handle.

My preparation was done at my office in Santa Barbara. There was no reason for me to physically be in Muir County; I could work more comfortably and efficiently in my own space. My investigators drifted in and out as I needed them. On the few occasions I had to be in Blue River, I flew in, took care of business, and flew out. I only spent a few nights, none in Nora’s company. I was cordial with her, but distant—I had no further need for her, it was up to me now.

I had a strong case to prosecute. True, everything was circumstantial; we didn’t have an eyewitness to the killing, nor did we have a ballistics match to the bullet that had killed Juarez. But the evidence was overwhelming, nonetheless. In my days as Santa Barbara D.A. I had prosecuted many cases that didn’t have nearly as much evidence, and I’d gotten easy convictions in almost all of them. This one was a winner—my instincts told me so, and my instincts are rarely wrong.

A month before the trial was to start we moved back to Blue River. Riva and Buck were coming, which was great. I needed the ballast she provides, and her being there would keep Nora off my back. I estimated that the trial would take no more than two or three weeks, after which I could return to my everyday practice and my normal, easy life. My fervent wish was that this would be my last brush with celebrity. I’d had enough of the limelight.

Louisa Bearpaw E-mailed Sylvan Furness and told him they’d be down in the morning with the deposit money. He hadn’t expected that; for all her confident talk, he had thought the tribe’s crazy scheme—which was how he saw it—would fall flat. Where was the poor tribe going to come up with that kind of money? But there was the message, on his computer screen: They would be in his office tomorrow morning, ten o’clock sharp. Check in hand. Have the papers ready for signing.

Louisa breezed in, her entourage in tow, including the tribe’s lawyer-accountant, a middle-aged Chinese-American man from a prominent San Francisco firm. She was wearing a sharp-looking dress in a silklike fabric that accentuated her good features. Her thick hair flowed down her back in a long braid, her dark eyes were bright, fiery. A warrior princess, ready to count coup. Metaphorically, that is.

“You got the paperwork ready?” she asked peremptorily, skipping the amenities. The tribe had been waiting months for this day.

“Nice to see you, too, Louisa,” Furness said. He was nervous; his palms were sweaty. He wasn’t used to dealing with this tribe in this fashion, equal to equal.

“Sylvan.” Louisa leaned forward on his desk, bracing her weight on her hands, which were splayed out on the surface. “We can chitchat later. Okay?”

“Sure, Louisa.” She was in his office ten seconds and he was on the defensive already; she was a manipulator, a good one.

“So, Sylvan. The documents. May we?” Her hand was outstretched, practically in his face.

He handed her the thick, ten-by-fourteen-inch manila envelope. She passed it behind her to the accountant without cracking the clasp. They had already seen the preliminary draft; this shouldn’t have any surprises. Still, she asked, “Do we have to read this telephone book?”

“You know you can trust me,” Furness assured her with a friendly smile.

“We have to read it,” the lawyer-accountant said firmly.

Furness flushed. He was offended; not that the accountant should want to read it, of course he should—it was his tone of voice, simultaneously accusatory and condescending.

“Do you have the money?” Furness asked curtly, fighting for equilibrium.

She opened her purse and withdrew a legal-sized envelope. White, with a window in it for the recipient’s name and address:
U.S. Department of the Interior.
He could read the words through the cellophane. She handed it to him across the desk.

“You don’t have to read it,” she said, grinning mischievously.

He couldn’t help himself—he opened it.

The check was made out on the tribe’s account. One hundred fifty thousand dollars.

“It’s good,” she said dryly. She was smiling, feeling her oats.

Furness wasn’t. “I’m sure it is,” he responded stiffly.

The lawyer was perusing the document, flipping the pages rapidly.

“How does it look, Julian?” she asked. “Can we trust the white man this time?”

“You never can trust the white man,” the lawyer replied humorlessly, not lifting his eyes from the pages. “That’s why you hired me.”

Furness wanted to say something about her trusting him, but decided it would sound wimpish.

They all waited in silence while the lawyer took his time. He turned over the last page and looked up. “It’s okay,” he pronounced.

Furness, who had been standing rigidly without realizing it, sat down behind his desk, using it as a psychological barricade.

“Let’s go over the basics, so we’re clear with each other,” he said. She wanted business? Fine, he’d give her business. Official, formal business.

“Let’s,” Louisa came back at him, still smiling, as if to say,
We’re friends, Sylvan.
It was another way of trumping him, he thought, looking at her seated across the desk, one leg insouciantly crossed over the other.

“This is a six-month option to buy the property,” he said, referring to his own copy of the document. “That’s clearly understood?”

“Yes.” She nodded.

“If the transaction goes through, we’ll transfer title to your tribe, and you’ll annex it. Washington’s okay with that, since the land’s contiguous. The full purchase price is one million, three hundred thousand dollars. All cash, no bank contingencies, no second trust deeds, no notes of any kind. Cash on the barrelhead.”

“Correct,” she said firmly. She didn’t look back at her lawyer—she was in charge.

“If you don’t pay the remainder within the prescribed time, you lose ten percent of your down payment, fifteen thousand dollars. No extensions. Agreed?”

“It’s your property, you hold the cards. As usual,” she added caustically.

“As you’ll notice,” he continued, ignoring her sarcasm, “it’s been signed by the secretary of the interior. You’ll sign as representative of the White Horse Nation. You’re authorized to do this?”

This time, she glanced behind her, at the others in her party. They nodded their approval.

“Yes, I have authorization.” She reached into her purse and took out an old-fashioned fountain pen. Her lawyer handed her the papers, placing his finger on the proper line for her to sign.

“Remember, Louisa,” Furness said in a last cautionary note, “if you don’t make the rest of the payment, you lose this opportunity. There won’t be any extensions. The property will go on the auction block. We’re giving you a first look here, so that’s how it has to be.”

“I understand all that,” she said impatiently. “Can we sign now, please?” She was holding her pen, her hand poised above the document.

“Yes,” he said, feeling a sadness he didn’t fully understand. He wasn’t going to see her much anymore, he knew.

She inscribed her signature in the appropriate places, both on the tribe’s copy and the Interior Department’s. Furness placed his in the top desk drawer; it would be pouched to Washington in the morning. The tribe’s copy went back into the manila folder, the lawyer tucking it protectively under his arm.

“You have one hundred eighty days to raise over a million dollars, Louisa,” Furness lectured her, unable not to be a bureaucrat. He gave her and the others what he hoped was a stern look. “If you don’t, you lose your chance. And your money.”

He was dubious about their ability to raise the remainder of the funds in so short a time; as the BIA representative, he knew how much was in their kitty for speculative ventures—not much, nothing near the million-plus dollars this agreement required. It wasn’t coming from other tribes, the department had checked that out. Nor was it Nevada gambling money—the casinos were fiercely opposed to Indian-reservation gaming, it took money out of their pockets. They’d spent millions fighting various state ballot initiatives permitting expanded reservation gambling—they weren’t going to subsidize their competition.