Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

politicians. While you’re stirring up your media storm, they will be

acting.

To them, this is war. And if they take you out, or Annie or Peggy or Penn, none of us is going to feel comforted by the fact that you splashed Sands’s and Po’s names in the paper. Because that won'’t bring back the dead.”

Dad seems to be weighing all the arguments in his mind. “You saw those two old black men outside?” he says to Caitlin. “The ones watching over us?”

She nods.

“Before they were cops, before there even

were

black cops in Natchez, they were members of something called the Deacons for Defense.”

“What’s that?”

“A group of men who got fed up with their friends and neighbors being terrorized, beaten, and killed. They patrolled their neighborhoods with pistols, lay out all night in ditches with shotguns, all to keep their people safe. They did that because they couldn'’t turn to the police. The law had failed to protect them, so they did it themselves.”

“Has the law failed to protect us?” Caitlin asks, looking around our circle. “We haven'’t even

asked

for help yet.”

“Kate,” my father says gently. “Let me tell you a story a patient of mine once told me. Back in the sixties and seventies, they had gambling and prostitution not far from where we are now. A place called Morville Plantation. Very close to where Penn and Kelly got attacked. Some of the girls who worked at Morville were held there against their will. God only knows where they’d been taken from, or what hell they’d been through. But one day, one girl got away from there. Half naked, she walked all the way to the sheriff’s department. She was crying with relief while she told her story. The sheriff listened, then put her in his car and drove her right back to the whorehouse.”

Caitlin stares at my father in silence.

“Kate, you’re sitting in a parish that didn't have jury trials for almost ten years—from 1956 to 1966.”

“We’re not living in that time anymore,” Caitlin says quietly.

“That'’s true. But how far are we from the story of that poor girl? If we believe Tim Jessup, the same thing is going on today.”

Dad’s mention of Tim seems to move Caitlin to silence.

“This is what I know,” I conclude. “Peter Lutjens warned me to stay away from Sands, said he could give me no information whatever. Peter would only do that if Sands was involved with the government in some way. Sands is either a target, an agent, or an informant. I'm almost afraid to find out which. But the fact is, he’s been committing felonies since he arrived here, up to and including murder. Yet he’s still roaming free.”

“Maybe the government doesn’'t know he’s doing that!” Caitlin argues.

“The same government you want to pillory for its handling of Katrina and Iraq?” I shake my head. “Either we’ve stumbled into something really rotten, or something so serious that we can’t even grasp its significance. Either way, we have to assume that if Tim’s death didn't matter to whoever’s in charge of this mess, none of ours would either.”

Caitlin looks as if she’s winding up again, but before she speaks, Dad says, “I think Penn and I have to make this decision alone. Caitlin, you and Carl will have no part in it.”

“But we

know

about it. We

are

a part of it, whether we want to be or not.”

As passionate as she is about this, some part of me wonders about Caitlin’s true motive.

“If we decide to go ahead,” Dad says, “you do whatever you feel you must.”

The room is so quiet that my cell phone vibrating in my pocket stops the conversation. It’s late enough that I feel I need to check it. The screen shows one new text message. The area code is 202—Washington, D.C.—but I don'’t recognize the number. The message reads: GO OUTSIDE AND TURN ON YOUR SATELLITE PHONE.

“What is it?” Kelly asks, seeing the color drain from my face.

I toss the phone to him. He reads the screen, then jumps to his feet and grabs his gear bag.

“What is it?” Dad asks worriedly. “Is it Annie or Peggy?”

“I don'’t know what it is,” Kelly says, “but it ain’t good.” He looks at me. “Who have you given the sat number to?”

“Nobody.”

“Shit. Either it’s someone from Blackhawk, or they gave the number to somebody in D.C.”

“What do I do?” I ask. “How do they know I'm inside?”

“They tried to call the satphone and you didn't answer. Take it easy. They can’t see us or anything. But you'’ve got to take the call. I'’ll go out with you.”

We brush aside the curtain and go out the patio doors. Caitlin follows. As soon as Kelly sets up the link to the satellite, the phone starts to buzz.

“This is Penn Cage.”

“Hello, Mr. Cage,” says a voice with a vestigial Southern accent. “My name is William Hull. I'm an attorney with the Justice Department.”

“They’re a pretty big employer. Could you be more specific?”

“I'm special counsel to the Department of Homeland Security.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Very boring, I assure you. Being an assistant DA in Houston is twice as exciting.”

“What are you calling about, Mr. Hull? And how did you get this number?”

“We have some mutual friends. They were kind enough to give me your private number. As for the purpose of my call, it’s about Jonathan Sands.”

“What about him?”

“Well, this is a delicate matter. We—”

“Mr. Hull, when you say

delicate,

I hear

dirty.

”

Hull pauses, his rhythm disturbed. “Jonathan Sands has an important relationship to the federal government at this time.”

I look at Kelly and shake my head in disbelief. “You mean he’s an informant.”

“I didn't say that.”

“Well, what did you say? Is Sands employed by the federal government?”

“Of course not.”

“Is he a close personal friend of someone in the administration?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then he’s an informant.”

Hull sighs like a man unaccustomed to frustration. “Mr. Cage, there’s an investigation pending—a very large and complex investigation—that began almost three years ago. It involves both the Department of Homeland Security and the Justice Department, through the Special Task Force on Money Laundering. The target is a Chinese national named Edward Po.”

“I know who Po is.”

“Do you? In any case, Mr. Sands is important to the aforementioned investigation. That'’s all I am authorized to tell you, and given my position, it should be enough.”

“Well, it’s not. I’'ve played this game before, Mr. Hull. I’'ve dealt with some pretty unsavory characters in order to nail worse ones, so I know the rules. But I also know that at some point you have to draw a line. Being a confidential informant isn’t a free pass to commit murder.”

Hull takes his time with this. At length he says, “You were an assistant district attorney in Houston, Texas. You were dealing with state crimes. I'm talking about the national security of the United States.”

“That rubric has been stretched to cover a lot of sins lately. The last time I checked, Mississippi was part of the United States. And her citizens count just as much as those in Georgetown or Chevy Chase. What happens to Sands after your investigation of Po is concluded? Does he walk?”

There’s another hitch in Hull’s rhythm. “That hasn’'t been determined yet.”

“Then tell me this: What chance do you really have of nailing a Chinese billionaire in U.S. federal court?”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“You’re telling me somebody up in the Justice Department has finally grown some balls?”

“It happens. Mr. Cage, I need your personal assurance that you won'’t interfere any further, as of this moment.”

“You’re not going to get that. Not tonight, anyway.”

“I'm sure I don'’t need to remind you that you have no law enforcement authority. You’re no longer a prosecutor.”

“The local DA reminds me of that all the time. I am, however, an American citizen.”

“Meaning?”

“Hull, if you'’ve forgotten what that means, we might as well hang up now.”

“I sense a certain naďveté in your attitude, Mr. Cage. Maybe you'’ve been out of the city too long.”

At last my outrage boils over. “Do you have any idea what kind of criminal acts Jonathan Sands is committing down here?”

“Knowing the man’s résumé, I can guess.”

“My sister was nearly killed in England two hours ago by a hit-and-run driver.”

“You can prove that was linked to Jonathan Sands?”

“It wasn'’t coincidence. But even that pales next to kidnapping and murder.”

“Are you referring to the death of Timothy Jessup?”

“And possibly others.”

“Mr. Cage, try to set aside your personal concerns and listen to me for one minute. A little over a month ago, more than two thousand people drowned in New Orleans. If the numbers I'm seeing are any indicator, we’re likely to find another thousand corpses or so, and many will remain unaccounted for. So, as for a few dogs being fought in some backwater Louisiana parish, we don'’t have time for it. As for prostitution and gambling, the authorities in Babylon had the same problem. It’s not going away.”

“I'm not talking about dogfighting and prostitution.”

“I heard you. Murder is serious business—if murder is in fact what you have down there. But Edward Po is smuggling illegal aliens into this country by the hundred, some of whom will work in industrial jobs, others as prostitutes or drug couriers. More importantly, through massive and complex money-laundering schemes, Po is meddling with the currency of the United States. The number of people who’ve been injured because of his criminal enterprises probably can’t be overestimated. So while I'm sure Mr. Jessup was a close friend of yours, you need to take a step back and get some perspective. The target here is Po, not some Irish punk who likes to fight dogs and run whores in his spare time. I talked to your old boss Joe Cantor. He told me that you generally have a good sense of priorities, but that you’re an idealist. In these times, idealism is a luxury we can’t afford. Am I getting through to you?”

“You’ve made your position clear.”

“That'’s not what I'm asking.”

“That'’s the only answer you’re going to get. I'’ll consider what you'’ve said, but you should be aware of this. My family has been threatened by your informant. I’'ve had to send my mother and daughter into hiding. Because of that, I’'ve taken certain steps. If I or my father die or disappear for any length of time, every detail of these matters will be made public in the most sensational way I could contrive.”

This silences Hull for some seconds. “Mr. Cage, there’s no need for threats. We’re on the same side.”

“That'’s the one thing I'm not clear on after this conversation, Mr. Hull. Good night.”

“Wait! Please don'’t do anything rash. For your own sake. You have my phone number now, on your satellite phone.”

“I don'’t need your number. You can tell your masters this. Besides being a citizen, I'm also a lawyer. And I don'’t cringe when I say that. I'm not a backroom, Washington Beltway, cuff-links-and-suspenders kind of lawyer—and by that I mean

your

kind of lawyer. I'm a trial lawyer. A former state prosecutor. And when somebody starts treating the laws of my state like their own personal toilet paper, I know how to tear them a new asshole. Am I getting through to you, sir?”

“In graphic detail. Mr. Cage, you remind me of what I loved and hated about the South.”