Chapter FIFTY-SEVEN
I was up early on Tuesday and ran my four miles on the beach, Jock beside me. We both carried sidearms holstered at our waists beneath our T-shirts. If anybody decided that the beach was a good place to take us out, we were prepared. As it turned out, the run was uneventful except for the chaffing of the holster on my bare skin. A small price to pay for the confidence the gun gave me.
J.D. called at midmorning. “I called Ben Flagler, the lawyer for that idiot who stabbed me. He said he couldn’t talk to me because of the attorney-client privilege. Legal ethics and all. Like that really exists. Do you think you might have better luck? Lawyer-to-lawyer sort of thing?”
“I’ll give it a try. The privilege died with his client. He should know that. Anything new on Picket?”
“Steve promised me something by noon.”
“Good. I think I’ll go see the lawyer this morning.”
“His office address is a residential condo in Sarasota.”
“That’s odd,” I said. “He must not have much of a practice.”
“He’s brand-new. I looked him up on the Florida Bar website. He was just admitted to the bar last week. Graduated in June from the University of North Dakota Law School.”
“He shouldn’t have been representing anybody on a charge as serious as the one on Bagby.”
“That’s what I thought,” said J.D. “I checked the court file, and he was the only one who filed a notice of appearance. Maybe he was appointed.”
“No judge would appoint somebody with no experience to a case like this. Maybe a misdemeanor, but not a major felony. I’ll go see Mr. Flagler.”
• • •
The condo complex where Flagler lived was on Fruitville Road, out near the interstate. It was a sprawling place that had seen better days. Paint was peeling from the sides of many of the buildings, and potholes had long since turned the interior streets into an obstacle course. A large sign near the entrance announced that anyone interested in renting should stop in at the office.
It was one of those complexes that dot the state of Florida, places that had once been homes for empty nesters downsizing now that their children were grown, and second homes for snowbirds seeking the winter sun. When the economy took a tumble, as it always seems to do in cycles that no one can predict or fully understand, the dream faded and a lot of the units never sold. The developer filed for bankruptcy and a company that buys distressed properties and rents them out acquired the complex for a lot less than it was worth. Most of the amenities promised the original buyers, such as exercise rooms, tennis courts, pools, never materialized. The few original buyers stayed on for a while, moved out, and tried to recoup their losses by renting the units or letting them go back to the lender.
It was an old story in the Sunshine State. We tend to draw dreamers, men and women seeking their fortunes, following the stories of those who had come before them and made a lot of money. They don’t understand that for every person who finds the gold, fifty or a hundred find nothing but ruin. They slink back to where they came from, leaving their own broken dreams strewn among those of the people they took advantage of. Those lost dreams manifested themselves in abandoned projects and condo complexes going to the dogs. Such was the home of the young lawyer named Ben Flagler.
The parking lot was mostly empty and the few cars remaining were older and in need of repair, their bodies rusted or crumpled by some long-ago fender bender. An old dog rested under a gumbo-limbo tree that had resisted the onslaught of decay that had turned the complex into a slum festering in the autumn sun.
I parked in front of the ground-floor unit that bore the address of the lawyer I’d come to see. A new Mercedes sedan, as out of place as the town drunk at a Sunday school picnic, sat next to the spot I’d pulled into.
I stepped over a crumbling curb, walked to the door of the unit, and knocked. In a few moments the door swung open. A small man who reminded me of a ferret said, “Yes?”
“Good morning, sir,” I said. “I’m looking for Mr. Flagler, the attorney.”
“I’m Flagler.”
He was older than I’d thought he would be, at least in his late thirties. Maybe he’d gone to law school later in life. A lot of people did that. I stuck out my hand and said, “I’m Matt Royal. I’m a lawyer on Longboat Key.”
He shook my hand, and I saw a flicker of what might have been recognition move across his face, gone in an instant. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’d like to talk to you about your late client, Fred Bagby.”
“What’s your interest in Bagby?”
“May I come in?” I asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m working with the police,” I said. “I’d like you to tell me what you know about why Bagby tried to kill a Longboat Key detective.”
“You know I can’t discuss my client. Attorney-client privilege.”
“That privilege died with your client.”
Flagler looked confused. “I don’t think so.”
“You haven’t been a lawyer very long, Mr. Flagler, so I suppose there are things you don’t know yet. But you can look it up under the ethics code. It’s online. At the Florida Bar website.”
“I don’t need you to teach me ethics,” he said in a voice that was close to a snarl.
There was something off about this guy. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but he was home at eleven thirty on a Tuesday morning, wearing cutoffs, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. He didn’t seem too sure about the ethical ramifications of his situation and he was rude. That pissed me off more than his ignorance. “I’m quite sure you’ve read Chapter forty of Florida Statutes as it relates to the privilege,” I said.
“You can put that in the bank.”
Chapter forty actually dealt with juries and the ethics code was the Florida Bar Rules of Professional Conduct. They were not part of the Florida Statutes. Anybody who had recently passed the bar exam should have known that. I was beginning to suspect that Flagler was a fraud.
“Mr. Flagler,” I said. “I can assure you that you can and will talk about Bagby. He tried to kill a cop, and you’ve got no privilege. I can have the police out here in five minutes and drag your ass downtown. You’ll be fingerprinted, your mug shot taken, and then you’ll answer every question I put to you, or the judge will hold you in criminal contempt and you can sit your ass in jail until you decide to answer my questions.” A lawyer would know I couldn’t do any such thing, but I was pretty sure the man standing in front of me wasn’t a lawyer.
“Come in, Mr. Royal,” he said, and stood back to give me room to enter.
I had a sudden premonition that if I went inside I might never leave. I don’t know if it was some insight or just that I’m basically a chicken. Whatever, the interior of the apartment was not exactly inviting. “No, thank you,” I said. “We can talk here or down at the police station. Your choice.”
He was silent for a moment. “Okay. Let me change clothes, and we’ll go to the police station.” He shut the door, and I heard the dead bolt snap into place.
I had not expected that. I thought the last place he’d want to be was the police station. Maybe he was who he said he was. I was thinking that we’d find out pretty soon when I heard a motorcycle engine roar to life. In a couple of seconds the bike came from behind the apartment, jumped the curb and, dodging potholes, ran toward Fruitville Road. The little man who looked like a ferret was in the saddle. He turned right on Fruitville Road before I could get to my car. He was gone, and I wasn’t going to catch him in my Explorer. Crap. I hadn’t seen that one coming.