Hugo, unsmiling, nodded yes. He folded his hands on the table and waited. Lacy put down her pen.
Mix swallowed a mouthful of beer and began: “I practiced law for thirty years in Pensacola. Small firm—we usually had five or six lawyers. Back in the day we did well and life was good. One of my early clients was a developer, a real high roller who built condos, subdivisions, hotels, strip malls, the typical Florida stuff that goes up overnight. I never trusted the guy but he was making so much money I finally took the bait. He got me in some deals, small slices here and there, and for a while it all worked. I started dreaming of getting rich, which, in Florida anyway, can lead to serious trouble. My friend was cooking the books and taking on way too much debt, stuff I didn’t know about. Turns out there were some bogus loans, bogus everything, really, and the FBI came in with one of its patented RICO cluster bombs and indicted half of Pensacola, me included. A lot of folks got burned—developers, bankers, realtors, lawyers, and other shysters. You probably didn’t hear about it because you investigate judges, not lawyers. Anyway, I flipped, sang like a choirboy, got a deal, pled to one count of mail fraud, and spent sixteen months in a federal camp. Lost my license and made a lot of enemies. Now I lie low. I applied for reinstatement and got my license back. I have one client these days, and he’s the guy we’ll talk about from now on. Questions?” From the empty chair, he retrieved an unmarked file and handed it to Lacy. “Here’s the scoop on me. Newspaper articles, my plea agreement, all the stuff you might need. I’m legit, or as legit an any ex-con can be, and every word I’m saying is true.”
“What’s your address now?” Hugo asked.
“I have a brother up in Myrtle Beach and I use his address for legal purposes. Carlita has a place in Tampa and I get some mail there. Basically, though, I live on this boat. I have phones, fax, Wi-Fi, a small shower, cold beer, and a nice lady. I’m a happy guy. We bounce around Florida, the Keys, the Bahamas. Not a bad retirement, thanks to Uncle Sam.”
“Why do you have a client?” Lacy asked, ignoring the file.
“He’s the friend of an old friend who knows my shady past and figures I’ll roll the dice for a fat fee. He’s right. My friend looked me up, then convinced me to take his case. Don’t ask for the client’s name, because I don’t have it. My friend is the intermediary.”
“You don’t know the name of your client?” Lacy asked.
“No, nor do I want to.”
“Are we supposed to ask why or just accept this?” Hugo asked.
“Gap number one, Mr. Mix,” Lacy said. “And we don’t do gaps. You tell us everything or we’ll leave and take nothing with us.”
“Just relax, okay?” Mix said as he chugged some beer. “This is a long story that will take some time to unfold. It involves a ton of money, corruption that is astonishing, and some really nasty guys who wouldn’t think twice about putting a bullet or two between my eyes, yours, my client’s, anyone who asks too many questions.”
There was a long pause as Lacy and Hugo allowed this to sink in. Finally, she asked, “Then why are you in the game?”
“Money. My client wants to pursue a claim under the Florida Whistleblower Statute. He dreams of collecting millions. Me, I’ll take a nice cut, and if all goes well, I’ll never need clients.”
“Then he must be a state employee,” Lacy said.
“I know the law, Ms. Stoltz. You have a demanding job, I don’t. I have plenty of time to pore over the code sections and case law. Yes, my client is employed by the State of Florida. No, his identity cannot be revealed; not now, anyway. Perhaps, way down the road, if money is on the table, then maybe we can convince a judge to maintain a closed file. But, to kick things off, my client is far too frightened to sign a formal complaint with Judicial Conduct.”
“We cannot proceed without a signed, formal complaint,” Lacy said. “The statute, as you know, is very clear.”
“Indeed I do. I’ll sign the complaint.”
“Under oath?” Hugo asked.
“Yes, as required. I believe my client is telling the truth and I’m willing to sign my name.”
“And you’re not afraid?”
“I’ve lived with fear for a long time. I guess I’m accustomed to it, though things could get worse.” Mix reached for another file and withdrew some papers, which he placed on the table. He continued, “Six months ago, I went to court up in Myrtle Beach and changed my name. I’m now Greg Myers, the name I’ll use on the complaint.”
Lacy read the court order from South Carolina and, for the first time, doubted the wisdom of traveling to St. Augustine to meet this guy. A state employee too frightened to come forward. A reformed lawyer so spooked that he went to court in another state and changed his name. An ex-con with no real address.