Rogue Lawyer

I have what I want, so I go quiet. For some reason I say, “Can I have a beer?” For a second he looks irritated, as if he needs all six himself, but then he smiles and hands one over.

16.

A few miles down the road, and after a long, pleasant stretch of silence, Swanger nods and says, “There it is. Dr. Woo and his billboard for vasectomy reversals. Brings back memories, right, Rudd?”

“I spent a long night there, watching them dig. Why’d you do that, Arch?”

“Why do I do anything, Rudd? Why did I grab that girl? And mistreat her? And sell her? She’s not the first, you know?”

“I really don’t care at this point. I just hope she’s the last.”

He shakes his head and says with some sadness, “No way. Pull over here on the shoulder.”

I hit the brakes and the van rolls to a stop under the bright lights from Dr. Woo. Swanger grabs the sackful of money, leaves the beer behind, and yanks the door handle. He says, “Tell those dumb-ass cops they’ll never find me.” He jumps out, slams the door, and bounces down the shoulder into some tall grass, over a fence, and under the billboard. The last image is Swanger ducking low between the thick posts, scrambling fast, and making tracks, then disappearing into the tall corn.

To be safe, I drive half a mile down the interstate, pull off again, and call the cops. They’ve listened to every word spoken in the van for the past hour, so there’s little for me to say. I do stress that it would be a mistake to try and corner Swanger until the raid takes place in Atlanta. They seem to agree. I see no activity in and around the cornfield by the billboard.

As I’m driving back to the City, my cell phone buzzes. Max Mancini. I say, “Good morning.”

“I just spoke with Judge Fabineau. Seems as if she’s been stricken with severe food poisoning. No court today.”

“Gee, that’s awful.”

“I knew you’d be disappointed. Get some sleep and we’ll talk later.”

“Okay. Am I supposed to check in with you?”

“Yes. And, Rudd, nice work.”

“We’ll see.”

I pick up Partner at his apartment and we settle in for a long breakfast at a waffle place. I recount the adventures of the past seven hours, and he, typically, listens without a word. I need to lie down and try to sleep, but I’m too wired. I try to kill time around the courthouse, but I’m so preoccupied with the raid in Atlanta I can think of nothing else.

Normally, I would be frantically preparing for Tadeo’s trial, but now I doubt it will take place. I’ve kept my end of the bargain, and regardless of what happens to Jiliana Kemp, we should have a deal. A nice little plea bargain that will allow my client to fight again, and soon. But I trust no one I’m dealing with at the moment. If the raid produces nothing, it would not be a surprise if the mayor, Max Mancini, Moss Korgan, Go Slow Fabineau, and the police brass all get together in a room and decide, “Screw Rudd and his client! Let’s go to trial.”

17.

By 2:00 p.m. eastern time the parking lot of the West Ivy Shopping Center is crawling with federal agents, all dressed in a wide variety of casual garb and driving nondescript vehicles. Those with more substantial weapons are hiding in unmarked vans.

The unlucky john is a forty-one-year-old car salesman named Ben Brown. Husband, father of four, nice home not far away. After therapy, he leaves Atlas through an unmarked door, makes it to his vehicle, a demo, and is allowed to drive half a mile before being pulled over by a local cop. Ben’s first words are to the effect that he damned well wasn’t speeding, but when a black SUV wheels to a stop in front of him he suspects deeper trouble. He is introduced to two FBI agents and led to the rear seat of their vehicle. He is placed under arrest for soliciting prostitution and told he will probably be indicted for all ma

The agents, however, are willing to deal. If he tells them everything, they will allow him to hop in his car and drive away, a free man. On the one hand, something tells Ben to clam up and demand an attorney. On the other, he wants to trust them and save his skin.

He starts talking. This is his fourth or fifth visit to Atlas. He usually had a different girl; that’s what he likes about the place, the variety. Three hundred bucks a pop. No paperwork, of course not. He was recommended by a friend at the car dealership. Everything is kept very quiet. Yes, he has vouched for two other buddies. Recommendations are required; security seems tight; confidentiality ensured. Inside, there is a small reception area where he always meets the same man, Travis, who wears a white lab coat, tries to look the part. Through a door there are six to eight rooms, all about the same—small bed, small chair, naked girl. Things go quick. It’s sort of like a drive-through sex shop, in and out, unlike one time in Vegas where the girl hung around and they ate chocolates and drank champagne.

No smiles from the FBI. “Any other men there?”

Yes, maybe, seems like there was one other guy one time. Everything’s real clean and efficient, except the walls are pretty thin and it’s not unusual to hear some rather graphic sounds from other therapy sessions. The girls? Well, of course there is a Tiffany and a Brittany and an Amber, but who knows what the real names are.

Ben is told to go and sin no more. He speeds away, eager to run tell his buddies to stay away from Atlas.

The raid happens moments later. With all doors blocked by heavily armed agents, there is no time to even think about resistance or escape. Three men are handcuffed and hauled away. Six girls, including Jiliana Kemp, are rescued and taken into protective custody. Just before 3:00 p.m., she calls her parents, sobbing hysterically. She had been abducted thirteen months earlier. And, she had given birth in captivity. She has no idea what happened to her baby.

Under enormous pressure, one of the three men, an American, takes the bait and starts singing. Names pour forth, then addresses, then everything else he can think of. As the hours pass, the web grows rapidly. FBI offices in a dozen cities put everything else on hold.

One of Mayor Woody’s banker buddies has a corporate jet and the guy is eager to send it. By 7:00 p.m. on a day when she would normally be ending another nightmare at Atlas and preparing for a night of stripping and table dancing, Jiliana Kemp is suddenly flying home. A flight attendant takes care of her and will later say she cried all the way.

18.

Once again, Arch Swanger slips through the net. There is no sign of him after he disappears into the cornfield. The police think they could have caught him then and there, but since they were ordered to wait until after the raid, they somehow lost him. It’s apparent that he has an accomplice. From the point where I picked him up at the stop sign in Jobes, it’s about forty miles to Dr. Woo’s sign beside the interstate. Someone had to be driving a getaway car.