“You can’t duck this one,” Myers said. “It’s too big.”
“If it’s so big, why hasn’t it been discovered before now?” Lacy asked.
“Because it’s still unfolding. Because the time hasn’t been right. Because of a lot of reasons, Ms. Stoltz, the most important being the fact that no one with the knowledge has been willing to step forward until now. I’m stepping forward. The question is simply this: Does the Board on Judicial Conduct want to investigate the most corrupt judge in the history of American jurisprudence?”
“One of our very own?” Lacy asked.
“You got it.”
“When do we get his name?” Hugo asked.
“You’re assuming it’s a male.”
“We’re not assuming anything.”
“That’s a good way to start.”
–
The tepid breeze finally gave up, and the oscillating fan rattling above them did little more than shove around the sticky air. Myers seemed to be the last of the three to realize their shirts were sticking to their skin and, as host of the little gathering, finally made a move. “Let’s take a stroll over to the restaurant there and have a drink,” he said. “They have a bar inside with plenty of AC.” He clutched an olive-colored leather courier bag, well used and seemingly attached to his body. Lacy wondered what was inside. A small pistol? Cash, a fake passport? Perhaps another file?
As they walked along the pier, Lacy asked, “Is this one of your hangouts?”
“Why would I answer that?” Myers retorted, and Lacy wished she’d said nothing. She was dealing with an invisible man, one who lived as if his neck was always near the block, and not some casual sailor who bounced from port to port. Hugo shook his head. Lacy kicked herself in the rump.
The restaurant was empty now, and they took a table inside, overlooking the harbor. After roasting in the heat for the past hour, they found the air almost too frigid. Iced tea for the investigators, coffee for Mr. Myers. They were alone; no one could possibly hear them.
“What if we’re not too enthused about this case?” Hugo asked.
“Then I suppose I’ll eventually go to Plan B, but I don’t really want to. Plan B involves the press, a couple of reporters I know, neither of whom is completely reliable. One is in Mobile, the other in Miami. Frankly, I think they’ll spook easily.”
“What makes you so sure we won’t spook easily, Mr. Myers?” Lacy asked. “As we’ve said, we’re not accustomed to dealing with gangsters. We have a full caseload anyway.”
“I’m sure you do. No shortage of bad judges.”
“Actually, there aren’t many. Just a few bad apples, but there are enough disgruntled litigants to keep us busy. Lots of complaints, most of which have little merit.”
“Right.” Myers slowly removed his aviator shades and placed them on the table. His eyes were puffy and red, like a drinker’s, and they were encircled by pale skin, a contrast that gave him the resemblance to an inverted raccoon. It was obvious he rarely took the glasses off. He glanced around once more, as if to make sure those after him were not in the restaurant, and he seemed to relax.
Hugo said, “About this Catfish Mafia.”
Myers grunted with a smile, as if he couldn’t wait to spin a yarn. “You want the story, huh?”
“You brought it up.”
“I did.” The waitress placed their drinks on the table and disappeared. Myers took a sip and began: “It goes back fifty years or so. Kind of a loose gang of bad boys who misbehaved in various parts of Arkansas, Mississippi, and Louisiana, anywhere they could bribe a sheriff. Mainly bootleg booze, prostitution, gambling, sort of the old-fashioned sins, I guess, but with a lot of muscle and no shortage of dead bodies. They would pick a wet county near a Baptist desert, preferably on a state line, and set up their operations. Invariably, the locals would get fed up, elect a new sheriff, and the thugs would leave town. Over time, they settled along the Mississippi coast, around Biloxi and Gulfport. The ones who didn’t get shot were indicted and sent to prison. Almost all of the original gangsters were gone by the early 1980s, but there were a few leftovers from a younger generation. When gambling was legalized in Biloxi, it really knocked a hole in their business. They moved to Florida and discovered the allure of bogus land deals, along with the astonishing margins in cocaine trafficking. They made a lot of money, reorganized, and morphed into an outfit known as the Coast Mafia.”
Hugo was shaking his head. “I grew up in north Florida, went to college here, and law school, lived here my whole life, and for the past ten years I’ve investigated judicial corruption, and I’ve never heard of the Coast Mafia.”
“They don’t advertise, and their names are never in the papers. I doubt if a member has been arrested in the past ten years. It’s a small network, very tight and disciplined. I suspect most members are blood kin. It probably would have been infiltrated, busted, and everyone sent to prison but for the rise of a guy I’ll call Omar for the moment. A bad dude but a very smart man. In the mid-1980s, Omar led the gang to south Florida, which at the time was ground zero for cocaine trafficking. They had a few good years, then things went to hell when they crossed up some Colombians. Omar got shot. His brother got shot too, except he didn’t survive and his body was never found. They fled Miami but not Florida. Omar has a brilliant criminal mind, and about twenty years ago he became infatuated with the idea of casinos on Indian land.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Lacy mumbled.
“You got it. As you probably know, there are now nine Indian casinos in Florida, seven of which are owned by the Seminoles, which is by far the largest tribe, and one of only three recognized by the federal government. As a whole, the Seminole casinos are grossing four billion a year. Omar and his boys found the opportunity irresistible.”
Lacy said, “So, your story involves organized criminals, Indians who own casinos, and a crooked judge, all in bed together?”
“That’s a fair summary.”
“But the FBI has jurisdiction over Indian matters,” Hugo said.
“Yes, and the FBI has never shown much enthusiasm for going after Indians for any type of wrongdoing. Plus, Mr. Hatch, and please listen as I repeat myself, I’m not dealing with the FBI. They don’t have the facts. I do, and I’m talking to you.”
“When do we get the whole story?” Lacy asked.
“As soon as your boss, Mr. Geismar, gives the green light. You talk to him, relay what I’ve said, make sure he understands the dangers involved, and when he tells me, on the phone, that the Board on Judicial Conduct will take my formal complaint seriously and investigate it fully, then I’ll fill in as many blanks as possible.”
Hugo tapped his knuckles on the table and thought about his family. Lacy watched another shrimp boat inch through the harbor and wondered how Geismar would react. Myers watched them and almost felt sorry for them.
3
The Board on Judicial Conduct’s home was one-half of the third floor in a four-story state office building in downtown Tallahassee, two blocks from the Capitol. Every aspect of its “suite”-from the worn, fraying carpet, to the narrow, prisonlike windows that somehow managed to deflect most sunlight, to the paneled ceiling squares still stained by decades of cigarette smoke, to the walls covered by cheap shelving that swayed and bent under the weight of thick briefs and forgotten memorandums-all of it reeked of straining and declining budgets, not to mention the obvious fact that the agency’s work was not exactly a pressing priority with the Governor and the legislature. Each January, Michael Geismar, BJC’s longtime director, was forced to walk over to the Capitol, hat in hand, and watch as the house and senate committees split the revenue pie. Groveling was required. He always asked for a few more bucks, and he always received a few less. Such was the life of the director of an agency that most lawmakers did not even know existed.