Wood's Wall Read online

  They were both dripping sweat as they moved the gear, uncovering the cooler. Pete opened the lid and took out a brick.

  "Here you go. Had fifty, but my worthless buddies took one each. There's forty-seven now. One was different. I took it out. Don't know what it is — wrapped the same, but in some kind of metal box."

  "If it was part of the bundle, I need that one too."

  “All right - I’ll be right back. Pete thought about hopping in his car and going home. Trufante knew where the drugs were, he could extricate himself from the whole deal right now. Dan and Jeff would land on their feet - they always did. But he was still cocky from the fish and Joanie. He returned a few minutes later and handed the brick to Trufante.

  Trufante examined it carefully. "Don't know what this is, but if it's part of the bundle he's going to want it back.”

  "I don't mind handing over drugs, but there’s something not right about this. I have a bad feeling about what this could be.”

  "I'm a little curious myself. Here, crack ‘er open, let's have a look.” He handed the box back to Pete.

  Pete removed the wrapper, exposing the dull sheen of lead. It had curved corners and a solder joint where the top attached. He ran his hand around the soldered seal. “Any ideas?”

  Trufante took the box back and turned it in his hands. “Now you’ve got my attention. I got a buddy could probably open it. Maybe know what it is by looking at it."

  "What about the rest of the deal?"

  “Let’s see what this is all about first.” He shook the box causing Pete to jump. “Maybe raise the stakes some. I’ll call the dude when I get back.”

  They walked from the room and closed the door, both noticing the drop in temperature once in the shade of the carport. Trufante glanced towards the dock. “No reason to tell your buddies about this.”

  ***

  Al Green swooned Mac and Mel into a slow dance as they cooked dinner. Fresh snapper, barbecued with olive oil and oregano, with a side of jasmine Thai rice and some steamed veggies. They liked to keep it simple. A half-full bottle of white wine sat on the counter with a shared glass. The music and chemistry was moving them toward the bedroom when Mac’s phone rang.

  He glanced at the display and grabbed the phone. “It’s Tru. You mind? I want to see if he wants to fish with me tomorrow.” He pressed the accept button. “Hey.”

  “Got something you ought to see.”

  “Bring it by in the morning and I’ll have a look, then we can head out. I heard the stream’s running close and there are some big fish out there. Come by at six.”

  “Rather do it now.”

  “No way,” he glanced at Mel’s backside as she went towards the bedroom. “Be here at six.”

  “You got the coffee, I’ll be there.”

  The mood was only broken for a moment, and then the bedroom door closed behind them.

  8

  Trufante stepped off the motorcycle. The palm fronds barely rustled. The light breeze would make for smooth seas, but would also make it hotter than ten hells. Daylight barely illuminated the path to the house as Trufante navigated it and let himself in. Mac’s house was the last building on a street of mostly manufactured homes. Each house had a postage-stamp lot covered in gravel, outlined by low cinder block walls, the decade of construction evident by the design of the wall and siding on the house. In most communities it would be just another trailer park in the middle of a city, but here each lot had a section of seawall, the boats docked there worth more than the houses.

  Mac’s house was a two-story structure which towered over the adjacent manufactured homes. The exterior was clad in metal. The corrugated siding and roof showed a little rust, but was mostly indestructible, even in this climate. Inside the downstairs was set aside as a workshop and storage area, the upstairs the living quarters. An atrium added on later gave the house a unique look, separating it from the standard Keys stilt houses. The addition, built out toward the street, enclosed the old exterior staircase and upstairs balcony.

  Mac and Mel were in the kitchen sharing coffee, both dressed for work. Mel had on an Armani business suit and heels. Mac was wearing shorts and a t-shirt.

  “Damn girl, looking good,” Trufante said as he went for the coffee.

  “Got a court hearing in Key West this morning.” She got up and hugged Mac, ending the embrace with a kiss. Trufante got a smack on the shoulder as she grabbed her briefcase and Mac’s keys. “Sure you don’t need this?”

  “No, we’ll be on the water all day. Good luck. Text me later. We’ll be out of range most of the day.”

  “Text me later,” she mimicked him. She turned towards Trufante. “Six months ago he didn’t know what a text message was, now look at him.”

  Mac ignored the jibe and they both watched her go. He turned toward Tru. “What do you want me to look at?”

  He watched as Trufante reached into his pack and pulled out a paper bag from which he extracted the box. Mac reached for it.

  “Let’s take this down and have a look. Lead cased - how’d you come across this anyway?” He was reluctant to even ask the question, but he had to know. Trufante had a habit for stepping in trouble every time he walked out the door. A lead box was not a good sign. Once downstairs they moved over to a large wooden workbench. Gear and tools were spread across it. Mac cleared a space near a large vise clamped to the counter. He moved a magnified light over and looked at it. “The lids soldered on too. How ‘bout that story?”

  “Just met some dude come across it. Told him I knew someone that might know what it is.”

  Mac knew him better than to accept this as the truth. “Come on - where the hell did it come from?”

  As Mac listened to the story he set the box down and placed a rag around it. Once wrapped he set it in the jaws of the vise and tightened it carefully. The rag prevented the vise from leaving any marks on the box. He wasn’t sure he wanted anyone to know it had been examined.

  Trufante finished the story. “I don’t mind brokering the return of the drugs, but this? Looks like someones trying to hide something with this setup.” He pointed to the box.

  “Let’s have a look.” Mac moved the magnifying light over the vise. He took a drill with a 1/16-inch bit and bored a tiny hole into the solder line. This would allow him a chance to cover his tracks by soldering the hole and then polishing it to match the existing solder. He reversed the drill and extracted the bit. Carefully, he removed the box from the vise and tapped it, drilled corner down on the workbench. A thin pile of material started to accumulate. He turned the box over and set it aside.

  “Powder, pretty fine and yellow.” He set the box on the table and pulled a ladder over to some shelves. The shelves were packed with boxes, many housing tools from his days as a commercial diver. He searched for several minutes, muttering under his breath about what a mess this place was. Finally, buried behind several boxes he found what he was looking for and set the metal case on the bench. The geiger counter was an older model, but still functional.

  “What the hell are you doing with one of those?”

  “There’s quite a bit of radioactive stuff in compaction testing equipment. We used to use a lot of it back in the day. It was all in small quantities, but you still want to make sure that you’re not exposed when you’re working on something.”

  He took the wand from the counter and held it over the pile. The meter jumped into the red zone, indicating radioactivity. “There’s your answer. I hoped I never saw another grain of this after we dumped those bombs.”

  “You know how potent it is?”

  “I can run some tests, but my guess, the way the meter went right to red with this tiny sample, is it’s plutonium 239.”

  “That’s not good is it?”

  “Nope. Means this has pretty much got to be terrorists. Crap.” Mac took the drill bit and rinsed it thoroughly in the sink. He let the water run for several minutes, then bagged the drill bit, wrapped it in a baggie, and tossed it in the tras
h. “Get the boat going. I’ll solder this hole. We can figure out what to do with this while we’re out there. How hot is this anyway?” He asked, hoping Trufante hadn’t done anything to implicate him in his latest mess.

  “Haven’t gone to anyone yet. Just the dudes that found it and you.” He walked out towards the boat.

  Mac soldered the hole and took the brick to his office — a small space off the workshop. He placed it on his desk, then removed the foul weather gear that hid the safe. He keyed in the combination, opened the safe, and placed the box on a shelf next to his revolver. He needed to think about what to do here. He could go to the authorities, but how would he explain how he got it without implicating himself and Trufante. No harm in a couple of hours out on the water, got some bills to pay anyway, he thought. He closed the safe and headed to the boat.

  9

  Mel walked into the courtroom with practiced ease. She’d been appearing, often on her own, in federal courts like this for eight years now, and knew exactly what to expect. She would have a team of lawyers and paralegals if this were the actual trial, but she often handled motion hearings alone. Davies and Associates cases tended to be complicated, with many motions clogging the stream of justice. Judges hated these cases, many destined for several appeals, and eventually the Supreme Court. Every move they made, every motion they ruled on, would have another judge or panel of judges looking over their shoulders as the appeals rose through the court system.

  In this case, the ACLU was tied in as well. Liberal and conservative groups had both been sparring with the government over the use of drones on US soil for the past several years. This case might be the one that brought it all to bear. But Mel swore this was the last cause she would fight for the advocacy group. Some of their causes were strict constitutional issues, like drone use, but others had a very political agenda. Cases were often selected for who they represented rather than the constitutional issue. Through law school and the years after she had often doubted the relevance of the Constitution, often claiming that it was outdated and didn’t apply to the real world. Now her views were diverging from that. If she looked in the mirror, she knew she would see some of her dad in her, more strongly represented than she may have liked.

  Davies and Associates vs. The United States Navy was the latest in the cases involving the use of drones. Mel had a direct interest in this case, as both attorney and witness. Now-retired Naval captain, James Gillum, sat at the opposite table, with several uniformed JAG attorneys to represent him. Gillum had been directly involved in the drone surveillance of her father’s private island. Mel had witnessed this firsthand and seen the deception of the Captain.

  This motion, presented by the Navy, was an attempt to deny her the ability to be council and witness on the same case. It was the Navy’s plan to force her hand, hoping her ego would choose attorney over witness, which would then weaken the case. What they failed to realize was her resolve and, although she was not ready to admit it, the desire for revenge. This case had led to her father’s death, and she was ready to lay that squarely at Jim Gillum’s Navy-issue polished shoes.

  She went to the prosecutor’s table and sat down. Patel was already seated, looking smug, sorting through a file, ignoring her as she moved towards him.

  Not wanting a scene she sat intentionally leaving an empty chair between them. “Remember, I am the lead on this?” she whispered through clenched teeth.

  “We’ll see about that,” he responded.

  The hearing was informal — the judge entered without fanfare, no bailiff or robes. He crossed the polished floor and sat at the bench, nodding to the court reporter to begin transcribing the session. He checked his watch, obviously already counting down the minutes until lunch, then looked over to the crowded defense table.

  “You have a motion to dismiss Ms. Woodson as council for this case.”

  “Yes, sir,” the uniformed attorney responded. “We see it as a clear conflict of interests to have Ms. Woodson as council and lead witness. ”

  “What do you base this on?”

  The attorney glanced at his legal pad and read off a precedent. “It’s clear in rule 3.7 of the American Bar Association that a lawyer can’t testify in her own case. There are several exemptions,” he paused for effect, “but none apply to this case.”

  “Ms. Woodson, your response?”

  Mel sat straight in her chair. “Your Honor, I am an eyewitness to this incident. You could say that I am representing myself. There’s nothing wrong with that, to my knowledge.”

  The judge looked toward the defense table, waiting for an answer.

  “Sir, this is not simply a matter of self representation. Ms. Woodson is council for the plaintiff in this case, not for herself. She is therefore representing Davies and Associates, not herself. In addition, as a witness, we intend to call her to testify at trial. Once she takes that roll, she is no longer in a position to protect her client. It is a clear conflict of interests.”

  The argument raged back and forth for several more rounds. Mel knew she was on shaky ground to start, but sometimes you had to role the dice. The truth, if she would admit it to herself, was that she was too emotionally vested in the case to make an impartial decision like this. What was best for the case and what would satisfy her desire for revenge were not the same. She was running out of steam and glanced over at Patel for any input. He was doodling on his pad, not even engaged in the discussion. It would become his case if she were asked to step down. She sensed the judge losing interest. She had her fears confirmed when he ruled.

  “Ms. Woodson, this is a procedural issue. There is a very strong possibility that this case will be appealed. In fact, I’d call it a certainty. And this issue is going to be brought up at every level. I don’t want to waste the taxpayers’ money and conduct an expensive trial, just to have it deemed a mistrial on appeal. You will have to step down as lead council if you insist on being a material witness. You may assist with the case, but not in your current roll.”

  She fidgeted in her chair. There was never any doubt the judge would do the safe thing and the decision was what she’d expected. If Mac would have agreed to testify, she could have played this differently. Why he refused would be a topic for later. She’d left it alone until now, knowing he had a reason, but now it affected her and her case. She called the Navy’s bluff. She was sure they had counted on her recessing herself as a witness. “I will step down as lead attorney and assist on the case, in order to remain a witness.” She said it grudgingly, not wanting to give up the power, but realized that it was the best she could do. She’d just have to watch Patel’s every move.

  At least she’d still be a witness on the trial. The Navy wasn’t going to keep her from doing that.

  “If that is all then …” The judge looked at each table, waiting for a nod in the affirmative.

  “Actually your Honor, there is a matter I would like to submit to you,” Patel said.

  The Navy council rose. “There is nothing else slated for today.”

  “Sit down, this is an informal hearing.” The judge turned to Patel, “Mr. Patel, I will allow you to present your motion, but cannot guarantee we will hear it.”

  “Thank you. Just a matter of discovery. We would like to have access to the surveillance logs the Navy has on Ms. Woodson and Mac Travis. Phone records, emails, texts.”

  The judge motioned for a response.

  “The Navy does not perform data collection.” The JAG said with no reaction.

  “Oh, so you don’t perform surveillance of Americans on American soil. Really?” Patel checked his notes and continued. “Your computers are tied to the NSA. They have the data, and we want it.”

  The judge pondered the motion, then faced the defense table. “If it’s on your computers and relates to this case, they can have it.” He looked at both tables. “If that is all …”

  ***

  Mel was steaming as she followed a smug Patel out of the courtroom. “What the hell was th
at?”

  “What? I’m lead on this case now. That evidence is important.”

  “This is about drones, not electronic surveillance. You can’t have it all.” She saw his motives. The drones were directly tied to her father’s death. Wood had revealed the truth about a cover up of two nuclear bombs jettisoned during the Cuban Missile Crisis. The vice president and Gillum were directly involved in both the original incident and the coverup. Gillum had then illegally used a Navy drone to spy on her dad’s island. Mac had been there with her and had seen it. Now Patel was trying to use the national attention the case was assured by the vice president’s involvement for his own agenda.

  “Really. We can win on both counts, you know. I don’t give a crap about your dad and the Navy sending a drone to find a bomb that was actually there. Sure is a great story, though, and will attract the media in droves.”

  Mel growled. “So, you’re setting me up. Using my dad’s death as an excuse to get what you want. Using all of this as a way to get the government to admit that they’re tracking us.”

  He shrugged. “You shouldn’t even be associated with this case, except as a witness. I’ll have to talk to Davies about putting a leash on you. Not like you get a say in how I run the case. And I’m not so sure how well your bitch mode is going to look to a jury.”

  “I’ll show you bitch mode. Watch your back. This bitch is after you.”

  He ignored the threat, “I’m on a plane back to DC tonight. Stay out of trouble.” He warned.

  10

  Trufante slipped the knife into the fish, skillfully making a small incision around the area the filet would come from, adjusting the blades course to navigate the knuckles on the spine. The filet came off cleanly, leaving a translucent skeleton remaining. The carcass went into the barrel next to him, to be ground for chum, as he moved onto the next fish.

  The pile was getting smaller as the sun descended, and the mosquitos joined the black flies. Trufante sipped from his beer and picked up the pace. Mac was cleaning the boat while he cleaned the fish. He knew Mac would soon finish and help, cutting his remaining work load in half. Most days he would be more focused on drinking beer than cleaning fish, but not today. He was anxious to get on the phone and make some money, so he swatted flies and kept going. Pete had left him several anxious messages and he smelled a payoff on the horizon.