was hardly breathing as he watched the judge remove a law book from a shelf, flip the hidden switch, and pull the trapdoor open. He punched in the code on the keypad and opened the safe. It was filled with cigar boxes. He backed away and removed another cigar box from the briefcase. He paused for a second, lifted the lid, and took out a beautiful little gold ingot. He admired it, caressed it, then returned it to the box, which he then placed carefully in the safe. Another cigar box followed, then he quickly closed the safe, programmed the code, and closed the trapdoor.
Nattie’s heart was pounding so violently he worried about shaking the entire closet, but he urged himself to stay calm. As he was leaving, the judge noticed the crack in the closet door and shoved it tight.
Around 7:00 p.m., he lit another cigar, poured a glass of white wine, and sat in a rocker on the porch to watch the sun fade over the mountains. After dark, he turned on the generator and puttered around the cabin until ten, when he turned it off and went to bed. As the cabin became still and quiet, Gene appeared from the woods and banged on the door. Who is it? Ray demanded angrily from inside. Gene said he was looking for his dog. Ray opened the door and they spoke through the screen. Gene explained he had a cabin about a mile away, on the other side of the lake, and his beloved dog, Yank, had disappeared. Ray was not the least bit friendly and said he had seen no dogs in the vicinity. Gene thanked him and left. When Nattie heard the banging and the conversation upstairs, he quietly sneaked out of the closet and left through a basement door. He was unable to relock the dead bolt, and the boys figured the judge would scratch his head and remain confused as to why the door wasn’t properly locked. By then, they would be lost in the woods. The judge would search and search but would find no signs of entry, nothing missing, and would eventually forget about it.
Naturally, the brothers were stunned at what they had learned, and they began making plans to rob the safe. It would require an altercation with the judge, and probably violence, but they were determined to follow through. Two weekends passed and the judge stayed in Roanoke. Then three.
While watching the cabin, and the judge, Gene and Nattie had returned to their meth business because they were broke. Before they could get the gold, they were busted by DEA agents. Gene was killed, and Nattie went away to prison.
He waited five years before he strong-armed Judge Fawcett, tortured Naomi Clary, robbed the safe, and executed both of them.
“And who, exactly, is Nattie?” Westlake asks. All six of the men are staring at me.
“His name is Nathan Edward Cooley, and you’ll find him in the city jail in Montego Bay, Jamaica. Take your time, he’s not going anywhere.”
“Might he also be known as Nathaniel Coley, your friend with the fake passport?”
“That’s him. He’s looking at twenty years in a Jamaican prison, so he might make this easy for you. My hunch is that Nattie will happily plead guilty to a life sentence in a U.S. prison, no parole of course, anything to get out of Jamaica. Offer him a deal, and you won’t have to bother with a trial.”
There is a long pause as they catch their collective breath. Finally, Vic asks, “Is there anything you have not thought of?”
“Sure. But I’d rather not share it with you.”
CHAPTER 43
My storytelling talents hold them spellbound, and for an hour they pepper me with questions. I slog through the answers, and when I start to repeat myself, I get irritated. Give a bunch of lawyers the rich details of a mystery they’ve lost sleep over, and they can’t help but ask the same question five different ways. My low opinion of Victor Westlake is raised somewhat when he says, “That’s it. Meeting’s over. I’m going to the bar.”
I suggest the two of us have drinks alone, and we return to the same table by a pool. We order beers and gulp them when they arrive. “Something else?” he asks.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is something else. Something almost as big as the murder of a federal judge.”
“Haven’t you had enough for one day?”
“Oh yes, but I have one parting shot.”
“I’m listening.”
I take another swig and savor the taste. “If my time line is correct, Judge Fawcett was accepting and hiding pure gold in the middle of the uranium trial. The plaintiff was Armanna Mines, a consortium of companies with interests around the world. However, the majority partner is a Canadian company based in Calgary, and this company owns two of the five largest gold mines in North America. The uranium deposits in Virginia alone are worth an estimated $20 billion, but no one really knows for sure. If a corrupt federal judge wants a few gold bars in return for a payoff of $20 billion, why not do it? The company gave Fawcett his jackpot; he gave them everything they wanted.”
“How much gold?” Westlake asks softly, as though he doesn’t want his own hidden mike to hear.
“We’ll never know, but I suspect Fawcett received around $10 million in pure gold. He cashed in here and there. You have the informant in New York, but we’ll never know if it went elsewhere and traded on the black market. Nor will we ever know how much cash was in the safe when Nathan finally got to it.”
“Nathan might tell us.”
“Indeed, but don’t count on it. Anyway, the grand total is beside the point. It’s a lot of money, or gold, and for it to travel from Armanna Mines into the somber chambers of the Honorable Raymond Fawcett, someone had to be the bagman. Someone arranged the deal and made the deliveries.”
“One of the lawyers?”
“Probably. I’m sure Armanna had a dozen.”
“Any clue?”
“None whatsoever. But I’m convinced a massive crime has occurred, with serious implications. The U.S. Supreme Court will hear the case this October, and given the pro-business leanings of the majority, it’s likely Fawcett’s gift to the uranium miners will stand. That would be a shame, wouldn’t it, Vic? A corrupt opinion becomes a law. A huge mining company bribes its way past the statutory ban and is given carte blanche to wreck the environment of southern Virginia.”
“Why do you care? You’re not going back there, or so you say.”
“My feelings are not important, but the FBI should care. If you launch an investigation, the case could be seriously derailed.”
“So now you’re telling the FBI how to run its business.”
“Not at all. But don’t expect me to remain quiet. Have you heard of an investigative reporter named Carson Bell?”
His shoulders sag as he looks away. “No.”
“
“Don’t do that, Max.”
“You can’t stop me. If you don’t investigate, I’m sure Mr. Bell would love to. Front page and all that. FBI cover-up.”
“Don’t do it. Please. Give us some time.”
“You have thirty days. If I hear nothing of an investigation, then I’ll invite Mr. Bell down for a week on my little island.” I drain my beer, smack the table with my glass, and get to my feet. “Thanks for the drink.”
“You’re just getting revenge, aren’t you, Max? One last shot at the government.”
“Who says it’s my last?” I say over my shoulder.
I leave the hotel and hoof it down the long drive. At the end, Vanessa appears in the Beetle and we race away. Ten minutes later we park outside the private terminal, grab our light bags, and meet the Maritime Aviation crew in the lobby. Our passports are checked, and we hustle toward the same Learjet 35 that brought me to Antigua a week earlier. “Let’s get out of here,” I say to the captain as we climb on board.
