I stored the PDF in my personal Dropbox folder, which moved a copy of the file to a server farm somewhere in the cloud. Then I used my personal office printer to produce a hard copy, which covered several different matters that would certainly result in scandals, if not legal indictments. Finally, I called in our IT guy—a twenty-four-year-old Texan named David Garcia—and asked him to trace the source of the email that had delivered the PDF.
While Garcia worked at my computer, I sat in the corner and read through the hard copy. The first twenty-six documents detail a scam that exploited advance knowledge of Bienville’s site selection for the new paper mill to defraud more than three dozen homeowners of their property. These citizens of Bienville and Tenisaw County had lived in three areas: on land contiguous to the industrial park, along a secondary road that leads to the industrial park, and along the proposed corridor of Interstate 14. On the day the governor announced that Bienville had won the Azure Dragon mill site competition, all that land tripled in value.
The emails and deeds contained in the PDF establish that real estate developer Beau Holland coordinated the effort to buy those homes and lots for bottom dollar. The last home to sell closed thirty-four days prior to the governor’s public announcement. Some of those houses are only a mile from my own, but at the time of these sales, I—like everyone else—merely assumed that cash-rich investors were taking a gamble that Bienville would get the new interstate. Emails in the PDF file prove that Beau Holland and at least seven other Poker Club members knew four months before the official announcement that Bienville would get both the paper mill and the interstate. The primary investors in Holland’s scheme are Claude Buckman, Tommy Russo, Dr. Warren Lacey, Arthur Pine, and Max Matheson. Astonishingly, their source of information about both site selection and the interstate decision was a “Mr. Chow” from “Mai Loc Incorporated.” That last name hurled me back to Sally Matheson’s sapphire necklace with the “MaiLoc1971” password stuck to its backside.
The second set of documents includes emails between Wyatt Cash, Tommy Russo, and Max Matheson. The exchange discusses problems surrounding the hiring of illegal immigrant workers for specific jobs at the companies belonging to those men. All apparently use illegal workers on a regular basis, and pay them far below minimum wage. A couple of “Mexican troublemakers” are mentioned frequently in the correspondence—labor brokers, apparently—and Wyatt Cash refers to a private detective agency being hired to surveil those men. Tommy Russo makes reference to having “some of my guys straighten those goddamn beaners out.”
But the most explosive set of emails reveals behind-the-scenes machinations that helped get former Tenisaw County circuit judge Avery Sumner appointed to the U.S. Senate seat vacated by the senior senator for Mississippi. The writers of these emails used coded language when describing political moves, but the messages are filled with personal insults about three other candidates favored by the state Republican Party. Most damning, there are multiple references to Avery Sumner being “malleable” and “enthusiastic about pursuing our private agenda.” One sentence in a message from Arthur Pine to “Mr. Chow” sticks with me. It read: Avery fully understands the debt of gratitude owed to your friends, and also the principle of reciprocity. The “Avery” referred to in that email is now a U.S. senator. In the same email was a reference to the Royal Bank of Seychelles.
As I reflected on all this, it struck me that the Azure Dragon paper mill deal has become a scandal of national proportions.
“Marshall?” David Garcia said from behind my desk. “Whoever sent this PDF used the Proton mail program. I don’t have the technology to penetrate to the original source.”
“Does that mean the sender was some kind of hacker?”
Garcia looked up from my computer. “No. You can get hold of that program commercially.”
“Is there anybody who could trace the sender for us?”
He shrugged. “The NSA.”
“Anybody local?”
Garcia laughed. “No way.”
I thanked David and asked him to keep quiet about the PDF and the work he’d just attempted. After he closed my door, I went back to my desk to think long and hard about what I’d read.
Except for the mention of Avery Sumner’s Senate seat, none of the potential crimes described in the PDF involve either Azure Dragon Paper or city, county, or state government officials. It’s as though whoever sent me the file was giving me ammunition to hurt members of the Poker Club while risking as little damage as possible to the paper mill deal itself. The “Mr. Chow” correspondence hints at some sort of tit-for-tat arrangement between Avery Sumner and the “friends” of Mr. Chow, but nothing is spelled out in sufficient detail to prove a crime. I know reporters in Washington who would cream themselves over a lead like that, but right now I’m more interested in the fact that Max Matheson figures in all three sets of documents. Beau Holland does, too, but I can’t imagine anyone related to Holland leaking damaging information about him. Sally Matheson, on the other hand, put together information exactly like this in order to destroy her husband. And it’s Max who holds my future—and possibly my life—in the palm of his hand.
Am I looking at part of her final cache? I wonder.
A quick soft knock sounds at my door. Lucy Hodder, our receptionist, steps in, looking worried.
“You’ve got a visitor,” she says. “And you might not want to see this guy.”
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Holland, the Realtor. And he is not happy. I told him I wasn’t sure you were here. But I didn’t want to send him away unless you told me to.”
I start to beg off, but something stops me. Two nights ago, Beau Holland had to be physically restrained from attacking me. Has he come back to finish his assault? Given what I saw in the PDF file, I can’t say I’d be surprised. But what would be the point?
“Send him in,” I tell Lucy, wondering if Holland could be under enough financial strain to walk in here and shoot me. Surely not—
“I’m already in, you son of a bitch,” growls a prissy male voice.
Beau Holland pushes past Lucy and plants himself before my desk. “And I’m not alone.”
As I slip the hard copy of the PDF file into my top drawer, Tommy Russo steps into my office, wearing his usual tight-fitting suit.
Lucy looks at me with flushed cheeks. “Should I call somebody?”
I’m about to say no when Dave Cowart pushes in behind the other two. The pilled red Izod shirt he’s wearing makes him look like a human fireplug, and the contractor’s sunburned face is only slightly less red than his shirt. Holland glares at him and says, “I told you I’d handle this.”
“I was smoking outside,” Cowart says. “But when I saw Tommy come in, I figured I’d put in my two cents. I’m the one already got fucked by that Matheson cunt.”
I catch Lucy’s eye, but before I can speak, Russo says, “No need to call the police, hon. I’ll keep these gentlemen in line.”
“I’m all right, Lucy,” I tell her, but she exits with a doubtful look.
“How can I help you guys?” I ask, leaning back in my chair and folding my hands across my stomach.
“You could get hit by a truck,” Cowart says. “Man, what’s with you? You print that goddamn photo like you’re bulletproof or something.”
“I’m confused, Dave. Did you not get enough of prison last year?”
He closes his big fists and steps toward me. “Come out from behind that desk and find out.”
“Oh-kay,” Holland says, taking Cowart by the arm and pulling him back two steps. “I think he got your message, Dave.”
Cowart’s eyes show fear as well as anger. “I’m on probation, damn it! This piece of shit’s gonna get me thrown back in the can.”
“That could happen,” I tell him, thinking of Buck’s body being wrestled from the river. “You want to tell me what you were doing out at the mill site with Buck on the night he was killed? On the record?”
“Don’t say a word,” Beau Holland advises. “Anyway, who says that photo you printed was taken at the mill site? Your story didn’t say that.”