Injustice (11 page)

Now, months later, I sit in my cabin up north, writing this sorry record of events. With the omniscience of hindsight, I'm amazed at how resistant I was to the idea of Henry's guilt. But back then, as revelations accumulated, I was the legendary frog in a pot. The fire had been lit, and the water would boil, but it would happen slowly enough that I wouldn't think to jump.

“Henry guilty?” I said to Tina. “Of course not. Henry is just Henry.”

Morning. At work, I jogged up a flight of stairs to Pleasant Holly's office. Pleasant had been appointed U.S. attorney about three years previously, after Harold Schnair, my friend and mentor, retired. Pleasant's background is in civil law, which makes me especially valuable to her, advising her along her journey through the criminal system. We were meeting to talk about Henry's situation—his entanglement with Pursley. I doubted Pleasant even knew about the mystery cell phone and the “enraged lover” theory, so I knew I could talk her back from doing anything impetuous, like placing Henry on administrative leave. I would remind her that we have a right of free association in this country. Presumed innocence. Henry was doing fine at his job, I'd tell her. We could stick with the status quo while quietly collecting facts.

“Nick, c'mon in,” Pleasant said. She motioned me to sit, but before my ass even found the seat cushion, she said, “I'm putting Henry Tatlock on administrative leave.”

As a trial lawyer, I should have immediately voiced my objection and launched into argument. But I was too surprised. I gaped.

“Have to,” she said. “We must avoid not only impropriety but the appearance of impropriety.”

I blurted a quick version of my prepared spiel: presumption of innocence, benefit of the doubt, loyalty to colleagues. It came out garbled, and I could see she wasn't listening. “It's done, Nick,” she said. “Let it go.”

“Easy for you to say,” I said. I glared at her. She was surprised by the hostility in my voice. I was surprised by it, too. I'm usually tactful; I usually conceal annoyance behind excess cordiality. But this was too much. Poor Henry, who just lost his fiancée, who had no family of his own, whose effort to keep coming in to the office and producing work during these traumatic months was both inspirational and pathetic. It was pathetic because I knew he had no place else to be and nothing else to do. It infuriated me that Pleasant would so callously send him packing.

Harold Schnair had let me run the criminal division as I saw fit. But Pleasant liked to stick her nose in everyplace, despite knowing a fraction of what Harold did about prosecuting.

I had liked Pleasant a lot when we were equals. But after she ascended to the role of
the
U.S. attorney, I became less of a fan. Harold Schnair had ruled the office by gut and creativity; Pleasant ruled by the book. No creativity.

I should have had her job. Everybody assumed I'd be Harold Schnair's successor, but Harold retired while my ill-fated nomination to the U.S. Circuit Court was pending, so Pleasant Holly, who had been head of civil division for only a few months, got tapped for U.S. Attorney. Now, despite my twenty-plus years as head of the criminal division, I'm her subordinate, and there's not a thing I can do about it.

From Pleasant's office, I went down to the small conference room. Chip and Upton were already there. Calvin Dunbar arrived with his attorney.

Calvin's lawyer and Upton went over the particulars of our agreement with him: Calvin was pleading guilty to three federal counts of bribery and would accept a suspended sentence of four years' prison time and restitution of fifteen thousand dollars. In exchange, he would cooperate fully with our investigation and would be immunized for any crimes incidental to the ones he was confessing to. If he perjured himself during the investigation, though, all deals were off.

The tale he told went something like this: The state legislature was reworking the tax structure for natural gas extraction. The industry argued that any additional taxes would smother production. Every fraction of a percentage point in the tax rate was worth tens of millions in tax revenue. And for every year the legislature failed to enact the legislation, the industry saved hundreds of millions. Everyone knew some bill would pass eventually—the only questions were when and at what rate.

As he described the industry and the politics of the issue, Calvin Dunbar was animated, even enthused. I could see how he'd been a good politician. He was knowledgeable and had a knack for making the complex understandable. The guy was likable. He had a boyish look; he was eager to please. There seemed always to be a smile waiting just behind whatever expression he wore. He had blond hair that was mussy, and he had shown up that day in jeans. I knew his remorse was sincere, and I admired him for coming forward. I always gave the perp's remorse and sincerity a lot of weight whenever I argued sentencing in court.

Calvin noticed me watching him. He looked down, embarrassed. He assumed I was repulsed by him. I wished he'd look up again so I could give an encouraging smile.

“Okay, we've got it,” Upton said when Calvin finished with the background info. “Let's talk about your involvement.”

Calvin Dunbar told us how he didn't have direct involvement in these matters. As chair of the appropriations committee, he hadn't ever seen the final bill until it hit the floor of the full house.

“Appropriations,” Chip said, “which one is that?”

“We give out money for particular projects,” Calvin said. “It's the opposite side of the coin from Revenue, which is where the gas tax bill was being worked up. So the only impact I had was my vote on the floor.” He cleared his throat. Paused and then cleared it again. His confident manner was faltering. We were getting closer to his actual crimes.

“I was a centrist,” he said. “I hadn't voiced my position on the gas tax. So you see . . .” He choked up for a moment. “You see, my vote was pivotal. They wanted to make sure I was . . .” He stopped. His eyes filled, and he shook his head. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he whispered.

This all made sense. Subsurface was just tossing a few thousand dollars to a few state reps who hadn't declared their position. They were paying for some insurance.

“Who else got payoffs?” Upton asked.

Calvin listed half a dozen other legislators.

“How was it arranged?” Chip said.

“Subtly,” Calvin said. “Maybe an envelope
accidentally
dropped on the floor, wink wink, during a private meeting in the legislator's office. And sometimes not even money. Sometimes they'd send a Subsurface work crew over to build you that new deck on the back of your house, or they'd install that new kitchen, and then they'd kind of forget to bill you.”

“Specifics,” Upton said. “Did Billman himself do any of these payoffs?”

“Sometimes,” Calvin said, “but other guys, too.”

“Names?”

“Jimmy Mailing, for one. He was the main fixer.”

Mailing. Of course. That was the guy who got caught burglarizing the EPA office, trying to get proprietary information on the productivity of various gas wells. I made eye contact with Chip. We could subpoena Mailing, maybe get a second crack at him.

The questioning went on and on. Upton had prepared well. And
just as Calvin Dunbar had promised, he had plenty of names to name and facts to recount.

When we were done for the afternoon and everyone stood to leave, I shook Calvin Dunbar's hand. He seemed surprised and grateful for this.

I
t was late September. Things were settling down. Not that anything had been resolved, but the relentless series of events seemed to have ended. First there had been the murder, then the discovery of Henry's involvement with Pursley, then Lydia's panicky phone message. Then Lydia's affair. It all told a story, but Sabin and Philbin read the story one way, while Tina and I read it another.

Everything was in wait-and-see status. On Saturday morning, Tina and Barn and I went on that field trip Tina had talked about. The guy she wanted to interview lived near the reservoir seventy miles west of the city. We brought ZZ, of course. It was a gorgeous day, with the first bite of fall detectable in the September air. Tina seemed in good spirits, which put me in good spirits. In the car, we sang “Itsy-Bitsy Spider” and “Baby Beluga” and “All the Pretty Horses.” Barnaby kept adding “Happy Birthday” to the mix, so we went with it, even though it wasn't anybody's birthday.

The guy Tina wanted to talk with had found a body eight years earlier—actually, he said his dog had found it—in a shallow grave partially excavated by animals.

I remembered the case. I hadn't been able to finish reading the news reports. It was too close to home: an eight-year-old boy had gone missing from Orchard City, a couple of hundred miles away. For most of a year they never found anything. Then, here at the reservoir, a local guy was out in the woods with his yellow Lab. He reported that the dog had found something of interest, so the man had walked over to see what it was.

Lizzy was ten or eleven years old. My foster son, Kenny, was in his early twenties, and my son, Toby, who had died, was forever just nine months old. I hated reading about crimes against children. I
was okay with the legal and procedural details, but I avoided reading the narratives of what had actually taken place. As for this particular case, I was just here to hang with Tina. I didn't want to be too involved.

Tina wanted to see where the body had been found, and to ask the man if he remembered whether there had been any clothing or other evidence.

“Why don't you petition for production of evidence?” I said. “Why travel all the way out here?”

“Because I'd rather state the facts right in the petition. It's better if I can assert that there
was
testable evidence, and demand that they produce it, rather than asking if such evidence existed.”

“In other words, you don't trust the state?”

“Would you?”

“I'm a prosecutor,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “Too much of one sometimes.”

The Drowntown Café, out near the reservoir, is indistinguishable from thousands of other rural eateries. Eggs, burgers, short stack, long stack. The place is decorated with old photos of the towns that existed in the valley before it was dammed for the reservoir back in the early 1900s.

“Are you Arthur?” Tina said to a man alone in a booth with a cup of coffee in front of him.

He stood, shook Tina's hand, then mine. He seemed shy during introductions, the kind of guy who isn't sure whether he should be meeting your eyes or looking into the air to the side of your face.

“And this is Barnaby,” I said. “Barn, can you shake hands with Mr. Cunningham?”

Barn confidently shook the man's hand, getting a bit goofy about it, shaking too hard. The guy laughed and loosened up a bit.

“So, what's this all about?” Cunningham said. “Are you writing a book or something? It was a long time ago now.”