federal indictment.”
Mast was convinced but he couldn’t agree. The case was simply too big to hand over to the locals. Cameras were arriving at the moment.
“There are other charges, you know,” he said. “The theft happened offshore, a long way from here.”
“Yeah, but the victim was a resident of this county at the time,” Parrish said.
“It’s not a simple case.”
“What are you proposing?”
“Perhaps we should do it jointly,” Mast said, and the ice melted considerably. The feds could preempt at any time, and the fact that the U.S. Attorney was offering to share was the best Parrish could hope for.
Parchman was the key, and everyone in the room knew it. Lanigan the lawyer had to know what awaited him there, and the prospect of ten years in hell prior to death could loosen his tongue.
A plan was devised to divide the pie, with both men, Parrish and Mast, tacitly agreeing to share the spotlight. The FBI would continue its search for the money. The locals would concentrate on the murder. Parrish would hastily summon his grand jury. A united front would be presented to the public. Such sticky matters as the trial and its subsequent appeals were glossed over with a hasty promise to address them later. It was important now to reach a truce so that one side wouldn’t be worrying about the other.
Because a trial was in progress in the federal building, the press was herded directly across the street into the Biloxi courthouse, where the main courtroom on the second floor was available. There were dozens of reporters. Most were wild-eyed locals, but others were from Jackson, New Orleans, and Mobile. They pressed forward and bunched together like children at a parade.
Mast and Parrish walked grim-faced to a podium laden with microphones and wires. Cutter and the rest of the cops made a wall behind them. Lights came on and cameras flashed.
Mast cleared his throat and said, “We are pleased to announce the capture of Mr. Patrick S. Lanigan, formerly of Biloxi. He is indeed alive and well, and now in our custody.” He paused for dramatic effect, savoring his moment in the sun, listening as a ripple of excitement played through the throng of vultures. He then gave a few details of the capture—Brazil, twodays ago, assumed identity—without giving the slightest hint that neither he nor the FBI had had anything to do with the actual locating of Patrick. Next, some useless details about the arrival of the prisoner, the pending charges, the swift and sure hand of federal justice.
Parrish was not as dramatic. He promised a quick indictment for capital murder, and for any other charge he might think of.
The questions came in torrents. Mast and Parrish declined comment on just about everything, and managed to do so for an hour and a half.
She insisted that Lance be allowed to sit through the appointment with her. She needed him, she said. He was quite cute in his tight denim shorts. His muscular legs were hairy and brown. The lawyer was scornful, but then, he’d seen everything.
Trudy was dressed to the nines—tight short skirt, tasteful red blouse, full complement of makeup and jewelry. She crossed her shapely legs to get the lawyer’s attention. She patted Lance on the arm as he massaged her knee.
The lawyer ignored her legs as he ignored their groping.
She had to file for divorce, she declared, though she had already given the short version on the phone. She was mad and bitter. How could he do this to her? And to Ashley Nicole, their precious daughter? She had loved him dearly. Their lives together had been good. Now this.
“The divorce is no problem,” the lawyer said, morethan once. His name was J. Murray Riddleton, an accomplished divorce practitioner with many clients. “It’s an easy case of abandonment. Under Alabama law, you’ll get the divorce, full custody, all assets, everything.”
“I want to file as fast as possible,” she said, looking at the Ego Wall behind the
Mast was convinced but he couldn’t agree. The case was simply too big to hand over to the locals. Cameras were arriving at the moment.
“There are other charges, you know,” he said. “The theft happened offshore, a long way from here.”
“Yeah, but the victim was a resident of this county at the time,” Parrish said.
“It’s not a simple case.”
“What are you proposing?”
“Perhaps we should do it jointly,” Mast said, and the ice melted considerably. The feds could preempt at any time, and the fact that the U.S. Attorney was offering to share was the best Parrish could hope for.
Parchman was the key, and everyone in the room knew it. Lanigan the lawyer had to know what awaited him there, and the prospect of ten years in hell prior to death could loosen his tongue.
A plan was devised to divide the pie, with both men, Parrish and Mast, tacitly agreeing to share the spotlight. The FBI would continue its search for the money. The locals would concentrate on the murder. Parrish would hastily summon his grand jury. A united front would be presented to the public. Such sticky matters as the trial and its subsequent appeals were glossed over with a hasty promise to address them later. It was important now to reach a truce so that one side wouldn’t be worrying about the other.
Because a trial was in progress in the federal building, the press was herded directly across the street into the Biloxi courthouse, where the main courtroom on the second floor was available. There were dozens of reporters. Most were wild-eyed locals, but others were from Jackson, New Orleans, and Mobile. They pressed forward and bunched together like children at a parade.
Mast and Parrish walked grim-faced to a podium laden with microphones and wires. Cutter and the rest of the cops made a wall behind them. Lights came on and cameras flashed.
Mast cleared his throat and said, “We are pleased to announce the capture of Mr. Patrick S. Lanigan, formerly of Biloxi. He is indeed alive and well, and now in our custody.” He paused for dramatic effect, savoring his moment in the sun, listening as a ripple of excitement played through the throng of vultures. He then gave a few details of the capture—Brazil, twodays ago, assumed identity—without giving the slightest hint that neither he nor the FBI had had anything to do with the actual locating of Patrick. Next, some useless details about the arrival of the prisoner, the pending charges, the swift and sure hand of federal justice.
Parrish was not as dramatic. He promised a quick indictment for capital murder, and for any other charge he might think of.
The questions came in torrents. Mast and Parrish declined comment on just about everything, and managed to do so for an hour and a half.
She insisted that Lance be allowed to sit through the appointment with her. She needed him, she said. He was quite cute in his tight denim shorts. His muscular legs were hairy and brown. The lawyer was scornful, but then, he’d seen everything.
Trudy was dressed to the nines—tight short skirt, tasteful red blouse, full complement of makeup and jewelry. She crossed her shapely legs to get the lawyer’s attention. She patted Lance on the arm as he massaged her knee.
The lawyer ignored her legs as he ignored their groping.
She had to file for divorce, she declared, though she had already given the short version on the phone. She was mad and bitter. How could he do this to her? And to Ashley Nicole, their precious daughter? She had loved him dearly. Their lives together had been good. Now this.
“The divorce is no problem,” the lawyer said, morethan once. His name was J. Murray Riddleton, an accomplished divorce practitioner with many clients. “It’s an easy case of abandonment. Under Alabama law, you’ll get the divorce, full custody, all assets, everything.”
“I want to file as fast as possible,” she said, looking at the Ego Wall behind the
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