“Hey, I’ve been there, you know? But meth trafficking carries mandatory minimum sentences. That’s the legal equivalent of a baseball bat. Why the hell would you pursue any other angle? You told me this morning that you’re operating under the Patriot Act. So bust every perp you know about in the Knoxes’ meth organization and start offering plea bargains. Sooner or later, somebody will cough up a link to Forrest.”
Kaiser actually smiles at this suggestion. “You really must be in shock. You worked enough federal task forces to know how cases like this have to be handled. It’s like fighting the Mafia. You don’t start squeezing peons and hope to work your way up to the top. You’ve got to find a star witness—a key man with access to the center of operations. Then you build your case, piece by piece. And once all your ducks are in a row, you roll up everyone at once, from the bottom to the top. If I went after Forrest your way, he’d either kill my low-level witnesses or skip the country.”
Kaiser is right; but that doesn’t mean his is the only way. “You’re talking about months of work, John. You’ve got probable cause to start busting Double Eagles tomorrow, and that would instantly put Forrest on the defensive. You might get lucky and flip someone who could help you nail him on RICO charges. Why won’t you try that, when hours might mean life or death for my father?”
Kaiser looks back at me for a few seconds, then walks down to the L in the corridor, so that he can see the main entrance. Satisfied, he walks back to me and speaks with quiet conviction.
“I guess the plain truth is, I don’t want Knox and his relatives going down on a drug charge. I believe the Bureau has a moral duty to the people of this parish—the black people, mainly—to close the cases we failed to solve back in the 1960s. We failed those victims and their families, and we failed the agents who worked those cases as best they could. To get any kind of closure, or redemption, or healing, the Double Eagles will have to be tried and convicted for the race murders they committed—not for peddling crystal meth.”
My face feels cold from the blood draining out of my cheeks, and my palms have gone clammy. “Are you serious?”
“Never more so. The same holds true for Forrest. That bastard’s not going to Angola for skimming profits off meth sales. He’s going down for murder. He will be tried and convicted for disgracing the badge and uniform he wore during Hurricane Katrina. He betrayed every cop who stood by his or her post and acted honorably while others deserted.”
Kaiser clearly means every word. But I can’t let his argument go unanswered. “John . . . would you really let my father die for your sense of moral proportion?”
He takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. “Your father put himself where he is now. Dr. Cage has always had the option of turning himself in.”
“Bullshit. Knox’s troopers would shoot him down before he could even raise a white flag, and you know it.”
Kaiser neither answers nor looks away.
It takes several seconds to get my temper under control. “The Treasury Department didn’t show these scruples when they went after Al Capone. Income-tax evasion was good enough.”
“This is different. When you combine the unsolved civil rights murders with Forrest’s modern-day crimes, and then tie that in to the Kennedy and King assassinations through Brody Royal and Carlos Marcello, you’re talking about one of the most important conspiracy cases in American history. And if anyone but your father were involved, you’d be making my argument for me.”
The realization that Kaiser truly means to move at a snail’s pace while the men he claims to be hunting close in on my father engenders a kind of crazed panic in me. Compared to Walker Dennis and me, Kaiser has unlimited power at his control. He can tap the NSA, the DEA, and any number of other resources for support. One of the few things he cannot do is control my actions—
“I don’t like what I see in your eyes, Penn. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I hold up both hands and back away from him. “Hey . . . you hold all the cards. I’m just the mayor of Nowhere, USA, and I want to go home.”
His eyes remain on me, but the suspicion in them slowly wanes. “Are your mother and daughter okay? I assume you’re hiding them somewhere?”
You’re damned straight, I reply silently.
“So long as they’re not with your father.”
“Fuck you, John.” I glance anxiously at my watch. “Walker’s got to be nearly done with Caitlin. She’s been in there longer than I was.”
“Maybe she’s more talkative than you. Is Dennis videotaping the questioning?”
“Why? You want a copy?”
As if on cue, we hear the sound of sliding chairs from the interrogation room. Kaiser takes out his cell phone and sends a quick text message.
“Jordan’s sitting up front,” he informs me. “She thought she should come along, in case Caitlin was upset. Do you think it would help Caitlin to see her?”
Jordan Glass is Kaiser’s wife. A famous conflict photographer from my generation, she was one of Caitlin’s idols as a young woman. Now fate or chance have thrown them together in the midst of the kind of story they both live to cover. It was Jordan who earlier tonight convinced Caitlin to turn over a copy of Henry Sexton’s backup files to the FBI instead of fighting a federal subpoena—or so Caitlin claimed, anyway.
“It probably would,” I say, my mind back on tomorrow’s drug raid.
The door of the interrogation room opens abruptly, and Caitlin walks out, her face still smeared with ash. Behind her I see Walker Dennis shutting off the video camcorder he used to record our scripted charades in that little room.
“My God,” say Jordan Glass, rounding the corner of the hall and catching sight of Caitlin. “I think we need a trip to the bathroom.”
“I’m fine,” Caitlin says, giving me a worried look. “What I really need is to get to the newspaper. Like an hour ago.”
“I’ll drive you over,” Jordan offers.
“Hold on,” says Kaiser, stepping up to Caitlin. “I wouldn’t advise you to cross the river into Mississippi just yet.”