“Right. So we roughed him up a bit, scared the boy really, and he started singing. I mean, he really sang. Play the music, Hahn.”
Zeke’s frightened face appeared on the laptop. He swore to tell the truth, then did so for fifty-six minutes. Clyde listened intently, as his life slipped away with each minute.
—
By the time Gary Bullington arrived, the FBI had his profile, which was not that impressive. He was forty years old, a basic ham-and-egg street hustler with two billboards to his name and a practice that yearned for lucrative car wrecks but survived on workers’ comp and mid-level drug cases. His billboard image was that of a well-dressed young lawyer with a thin waist and plenty of hair, obviously Photoshopped for advertising and ego purposes. In the flesh, he wore a wrinkled suit that stretched around a belly, and wild hair that was both graying and thinning. After awkward introductions, he took his client into the bedroom, slammed the door, and kept him there for another hour.
Meanwhile, Pacheco ordered a platter of sandwiches from room service and gave a passing thought to charging the food to the hotel’s owner. He did not; nothing to be gained by causing Westbay more embarrassment than what was coming.
When Westbay and Bullington returned to the front room, they looked as though they’d just finished a heated argument. Pacheco offered sandwiches and bananas. Bullington grabbed one of each but his client had no appetite.
Pacheco asked, “May we now proceed?”
Bullington, mouth full, said, “I’ve advised my client to answer no questions.”
“Great. But we’re not here for an interrogation.”
“Then what the hell?”
Rebecca Webb was sitting on a small sofa, scribbling on a legal pad. She said, “We’re prepared to offer a plea agreement. Guilty to one count of first-degree murder. The capital charge will be dropped later, as things progress. First degree carries life, but we’ll recommend a lot less.”
“How much less?” Bullington asked.
“We’ll start at twenty years and see how he does. It will be possible for your client to work off his prison time.”
“What kind of work?”
“Inside work. Informing. We doubt if infiltration will be necessary because your client is already a part of the gang. He’ll have to wear a wire, create a few conversations, that sort of thing.”
Westbay shot her a look of pure terror.
Pacheco said, “The short version, Mr. Bullington, is that we want your client to deliver the Coast Mafia.”
“And what does he get in return?”
Webb said, “Maybe as few as five years. That could be our recommendation, though, as you know, the final decision will be up to the judge.”
Pacheco said, “Five years, then a soft life in witness protection. That, or the next ten years on death row before a date with the executioner.”
“Don’t threaten my client,” Bullington said angrily.
“I’m not threatening. I’m promising. He’s dead guilty right now of capital murder, and the U.S. Attorney will have an easy time proving it. We’re offering a sweetheart deal that includes the possibility of Mr. Westbay walking in five years.”
“All right, all right,” Bullington said, finishing the sandwich in one huge bite. “Let me see these damned videos.”
—
It was almost 4:30 when lawyer and client reemerged from the bedroom after another tense meeting. Two agents were playing gin rummy at the table. Rebecca Webb was on the phone. Hahn was catnapping on the sofa. Pacheco was telling the housekeeper to go away. They had promised Mr. Bullington that the meeting would last all night, if necessary. They had nowhere to go, at the moment, and if no deal could be reached, they would leave with Mr. Westbay in chains and take him to Tallahassee, where he would be tossed into a jail cell, the first of many that would confine him for the rest of his life. If they left with no deal, there would not be another chance.
Bullington’s jacket was hanging on a doorknob. He wore red suspenders that strained to keep his slacks in place. He stood in the center of the room and addressed the government. “I think I’ve convinced my client that the case against him is rather strong and that the likelihood of a not-guilty verdict appears rather small. Not surprisingly, he wishes to avoid as much time in prison as possible, not to mention that business with the needle.”
Westbay was aging by the hour. He was pale, and, not a large man to begin with, he seemed to have shrunk into a near-lifeless state. He avoided eye contact with everyone in the room, his mind clearly elsewhere. The agents were observing him closely, and during the last lawyer-client meeting in the bedroom they agreed that they were worried about him. Wearing a wire into a room with Vonn Dubose would take guts and nerves and require a convincing performance. Westbay, now in his diminished state, was not inspiring confidence. The agents at first had enjoyed his tough-guy routine, which they expected, but were astonished at how quickly it melted.
Oh well, you don’t always get to pick your snitches, and they had coached far shakier.