As they walked out of the terminal she said, “So you’re back in the air.”
“Yeah, those fools at FAA can’t keep a good man on the ground. Got my license back two weeks ago.”
“Cute plane.”
“Borrowed it from a buddy.”
They walked to her car, the compact Ford she was still driving, and he commented on its lack of size.
“It’s just a loaner,” she said. “I haven’t decided on a new one.”
Gunther knew everything about cars and immediately began a dissertation on the various models she should consider. He said, “If we have time, we should go car shopping.”
“That’s an idea,” she replied. His current ride was an expensive Mercedes. Lacy could recall a Maserati, a Hummer, a Porsche, a black Range Rover SUV, and there had once been talk of a Rolls-Royce. Regardless of the bumps in the real estate business, Gunther had always buzzed around Atlanta in style. He was the last person she knew who’d be helpful in selecting a new car on her budget.
They were on the street, in traffic, and her defensive driving was obvious. He asked, “You okay behind the wheel?”
“Not really, but I’m getting there.”
“I’ve never had a bad wreck. Guess it takes time to get back in the saddle.”
“A long time.”
“You look great, Lacy,” he said for the third time. “I like your hair. Have you thought about keeping it short?”
“No, not for a second,” she said with a laugh. A month after leaving the hospital, her scalp was now covered with a thin layer of fine hair that seemed a bit darker than what they’d shaved, but she wasn’t worried. At least it was growing. She had retired the scarves and hats and didn’t care if anyone stared.
He wanted to know the latest developments in her investigation of the crooked judge and the casino, and Lacy filled in some of the backstory. Gunther could keep a secret and obviously had no one to tell back in Atlanta, but Lacy could not completely ignore the rules of confidentiality. She admitted they had hit a wall when the FBI declined to get involved.
This gave Gunther a soapbox, one he didn’t yield until they arrived at her apartment. He railed against the federal government, its bloated size and countless agencies and useless bureaucrats and senseless policies. He mentioned his own run-ins with the EPA, EEOC, IRS, even the Department of Justice, though he didn’t give details of any scrape with the law and Lacy didn’t ask. How could the FBI, with a million agents and a billion dollars, decline to pursue such blatant corruption? A man has been killed, yet the “Fibbies” refused to investigate. He was flabbergasted, even angry.
Inside, he tossed his bag and briefcase in the guest room and Lacy offered tea or water. Gunther asked for a diet soda. He had been in recovery for almost ten years and was well beyond the fragility of early sobriety. His drinking days had been the lore of family legend before turning dark and frightening. At their insistence, he had rehabbed twice and without success. A DUI, a divorce, and a bankruptcy all hit at once, and at the age of thirty-two Gunther gave up booze and drugs and surrendered to a higher power. He had been radically sober for years, to the point of volunteering in a rehab clinic for teenagers. When asked, he spoke freely of his addictions.
Gunther, as she well knew, spoke freely of anything and everything. To keep the conversation away from more sensitive matters, she told the story of her meeting with Wilton Mace at a downtown hotel. This led to a lengthy narrative about the murders of Son Razko and Eileen Mace, and Junior’s trials and so on. That was not her case. Its record was public. Confidentiality was not important.
Gunther, like most white people, thought the idea of an innocent man on death row was absurd. Surely Junior was guilty of something or he wouldn’t be there. This led to a long and often heated and frustrating conversation about the criminal justice system. The law was Lacy’s life and she understood its flaws. Gunther lived and breathed real estate and making money and had little interest in anything else. He admitted he seldom read a newspaper, unless he glanced at the business section. He hadn’t heard a word about two recent, extremely high-profile DNA exonerations in Georgia, one involving a man who’d served twenty-nine years for a rape and murder committed by someone else. In Gunther’s opinion, the prisons were full because of rampant crime.
Speaking of business, he had a few phone calls to make, finally. Lacy was exhausted and needed a break herself. She showed him to a small terrace off the kitchen. A wrought-iron table was the perfect spot for him to set up shop.
—
For dinner, they chose a Thai place near the FSU campus. After they settled into their seats, Gunther suddenly reached for a pocket and whipped out a cell phone. “Gotta do this e-mail, Sis,” he said, already tapping away.
She watched with a frown, and when he finished she said, “Here’s the deal. All phones on the table, on mute, and the first one that vibrates gets the check.”