The charter company informed the FBI that the client, a regular, wished to make a stop in Panama City to pick up one passenger, the ultimate destination being Barbados. The FBI, in conjunction with the FAA, instructed the charter company to proceed. At 4:50, the Lear 60 took off from Mobile for the twenty-minute flight to Panama City.
Meanwhile, Judge McDover sprinted to her favorite condo in Rabbit Run, picked up a few items, stuffed them in a large handbag, and raced to the airport. She was there at 5:15 when the Lear taxied to a stop, and she hurriedly made her way to it. The captain greeted her, welcomed her aboard, then went inside the terminal for the required paperwork. After fifteen minutes, the co-captain informed Claudia and Phyllis that there was some weather over the Gulf and they would be delayed.
“You can’t just go around it?” Phyllis barked.
“Sorry.”
Two black SUVs appeared from behind the jet and parked in front of its left wing. Claudia saw them first and mumbled, “Oh shit.”
After the ladies were handcuffed and taken away, the agents searched the jet. The women had hardly bothered with clothing; instead, they had grabbed all the goodies they could carry. Diamonds, rubies, rare coins, and stacks of cash. Months later it would be inventoried and appraised at $4.2 million. When asked how they planned to get it by customs in Barbados, they did not reply.
Even more loot was seized in raids at McDover’s Rabbit Run condo. When agents finally found her safe room, they were stunned at the cash, jewelry, art, rare books, rare watches, and antiquities. The raid on her home, on the other hand, yielded little in the way of valuable assets. In her office, the agents confiscated the usual list of computers, phones, and files. Phyllis Turban’s office computers were apparently not used for the dirty work. However, the two laptops in her secret office were filled with records of bank accounts, wire transfers, corporate records, real estate records, and correspondence to lawyers in countries famous for being tax havens.
—
The sweep along the Panhandle was broad and swift. By dusk Sunday, twenty-one men and two women were under arrest and facing a battery of racketeering charges that would only increase in the coming weeks. Included in that number was Delgado, who was pumping serious iron in a gym when two agents spoiled his day. On paper, he worked for a bar owned by a company owned by others, and he was charged with the usual money-laundering crimes. Years would pass before his more serious crimes came to light.
42
Cable news discovered the story around 6:00 Sunday evening and seemed unprepared for it. Since the crimes were unknown, as were the defendants, there was little coverage. That changed dramatically with two events: news of the closing of the casino, and the discovery by some unknown researcher of the term “Coast Mafia.” The latter was simply too sensational to ignore, and there were soon live reports from the locked gates of Treasure Key.
Lacy and JoHelen stared at the television with a fascination that bordered on disbelief. The conspiracy was destroyed. The syndicate was busted. The corruption was exposed. The criminals were in jail. The notion of justice was alive. It was overwhelming to even think that they had unleashed these startling events. So much had been lost along the way that it was difficult to feel a sense of pride, at least at that moment. When a “breaking story” interrupted another report, and the face of Judge Claudia McDover appeared on the screen, JoHelen put her hands over her mouth and started crying. The reporter gushed on about Judge McDover and her lawyer getting arrested on a private jet as they tried to flee the country. About half the details were right, but what the reporter lacked in veracity she made up for with enthusiasm.
“Are those tears of joy?” Lacy asked.
“Maybe. I don’t know right now. I’m certainly not sad. It’s just hard to believe.”
“It really is. A few short months ago I’d never heard of those people and I don’t recall thinking much about the casino.”
“When will it be okay to go home?”
“Not sure. Let’s wait until I talk to the FBI.”
Gunther had taken the Jeep to town in search of red meat and charcoal. He was on the porch now, with rib eyes on the grill and potatoes baking in the embers. He popped in occasionally to catch the latest, but by dark the same stories were being recycled. More than once he said, “Congratulations, girls, you’ve just brought down the most corrupt judge in American history. Cheers!”
But they were in no mood to celebrate. JoHelen was almost certain she would keep her job, though the judge who replaced McDover would be free to hire a new court reporter. If she was thinking about her claim under the whistle-blower statute, she never mentioned it. At that moment, such a plan seemed too complicated and time-consuming; that, plus she’d lost her lawyer, the guy who was supposed to know how to navigate the statute.
Before dinner, Lacy called Geismar and they compared notes. She called Verna and they talked about the arrests of the men charged with killing Hugo. She called Allie Pacheco, but got no answer. They had not spoken the entire day, and that was fine with her. She suspected he might be rather busy.