Secret Justice Page 9

  On other pieces, Otter was alleged to have inflated the weight and value of the stones, charging his customers several times the market price for such jewelry.

  A particularly unbelievable allegation concerned a 40-karat cubic zirconium that cost less than two hundred dollars. The stone was given a celebrity name and sold by Otter for over a million dollars.

  As authentic looking as these manufactured stones have become, it was still hard to believe someone would part with a million dollars without a valid appraisal. Human folly among the wealthy was more rampant than I’d realized.

  In all, the indictment claimed that Otter had fleeced customers for a total of more than $170 million. Punitive damages and recoverable attorney fees would also have been available in civil actions based on each individual fraud.

  If convicted in the criminal case, Otter faced up to 165 years in prison, in addition to a potential order to make restitution.

  No doubt about it, if Otter was convicted, his pampered lifestyle would be over. Prison would not be kind to anyone used to the finer things, to put it mildly.

  If Otter could make restitution, the criminal case might be pled down to lesser charges or dismissed altogether. The complainants might be persuaded to go away quietly if they got their money back.

  The negative and outraged responses I’d gotten from Otter’s insurance adjuster to my suggestion that the insurance company pay to settle the Fitzgerald House case, suggested that Otter would not have any better luck getting money for the claims in the criminal case.

  Where would the money come from?

  So Otter must be desperate to find enough money to settle these claims. Where would he get $170 million? Tampa isn’t Palm Beach. That kind of money would be hard to come by here.

  The assistant U.S. attorney assigned to the U.S. v. Otter criminal case was someone I’d known for years, and had always considered an astute lawyer. Briefly, I considered picking up the phone and dialing his office, but decided against it.

  Judges are not supposed to seek or obtain information about cases on our dockets except through the litigation process. Because this was a criminal case and would be tried to a jury, I would have a little more leeway than if I was to sit in the trial as the finder of fact.

  I considered how to discover what the federal “fraud squad” had learned about Armstrong Otter. The only way I would feel comfortable investigating now was if I transferred the case to another judge, or if both of the parties consented. That was about as likely as rain in the desert.

  I could think of no appropriate way to learn more about Otter and I was out of time to think about it further. The U.S. v. Otter case was up for a pre-trial conference in two weeks and I’d learn more about it then.

  But now, both my law clerks stood in my doorway with lists of questions, the computer flashed to tell me I had mail, all four buttons of my telephone were lit up with phone calls holding for my attention, and Margaret reminded me of my afternoon calendar. My “To do today, first thing” list was buried under a mountain of paper.

  I didn’t give Ron Wheaton’s computer check another thought.

  The rest of the week passed swiftly and uneventfully. Fitzgerald House requested a short adjournment of the trial, which I granted, giving them time to resolve the case. I’d been required to make some pretrial rulings that would give certain advantages to Fitzgerald House. Perhaps Otter and his insurance company would agree to settle the case.

  I called Ben Hathaway several times, but he wasn’t available to speak to me. Apparently, the Tampa police chief had a few things on his “To do” list, too. I hoped no news meant he didn’t have the results of Ron Wheaton’s autopsy. I allowed myself to be lulled into complacency on the investigation, thinking there was nothing to investigate.

  I tried to talk to Margaret several times, but she remained uninterested in my help. She seemed to be dealing with Ron’s death just fine, and I even heard her singing in the office several times.

  Margaret looked better, younger and happier than I’d seen her in months. I knew she was a bereaved widow, but someone who didn’t know her history would never have guessed that she’d just lost her husband.

  She hadn’t planned a memorial service. Margaret said she was the only family Ron had, and she didn’t need a memorial to remember him. I feel the same way about funerals. The point of them is to provide closure for the living, I’m told. They do nothing for me but make me sad. I didn’t find Margaret’s decision bizarre.

  Citing the need to resolve some problems with Ron’s finances and life insurance, Margaret took a couple of days off at the end of the week. I didn’t wholly believe her, but I felt she was giving me a clear message to stay out of her life, so I allowed myself to be deterred and occupied by a couple of applications for emergency temporary restraining orders and my other cases.

  Dad’s investigation was moving relentlessly forward. He’d left a note on the refrigerator door before I got up Wednesday morning saying he’d found a paper trail taking him to Miami to investigate the bank and would be out of town. Thankfully, he’d taken Suzanne with him.

  He was due back Saturday and I looked forward to hearing about his progress. It gave us something to talk about besides the baby, Suzanne and my hurt feelings.

  Dad and Suzanne offered to get a hotel room at the Marriott Waterside when they returned on Friday. Both George and I prevailed to keep them at Minaret, if for no other reason than to avoid the awkward explanations the move would require.

  After being around her for several days, Suzanne continued to make me uncomfortable. Every time I saw her, Suzanne and Dad’s adoration affected me like fingernails on a chalk board. It was going to take me a while to get used to the idea of Dad having a wife and a baby. It would have been a little easier to deal with if Suzanne wasn’t so good-natured, obviously in love with Dad, kind to everyone, and just generally so damn likeable.

  My soul mother, Kate Austin, had gone on an extended vacation to Italy before Gasparilla started. She was the only person who could give me some objectivity on this thing with Dad since she had been there since he and Mom married. Without Kate to discuss everything with, I was adrift in emotions that likely had no basis in reality. Dad had known

  Kate would be in Italy this month, which made me wonder whether he’d chosen to bring Suzanne to Tampa now so that he wouldn’t have to deal with Kate and me at the same time.

  I couldn’t imagine that Kate, who had been my mother’s best friend, would approve of Dad’s marriage any more than I did. I tried to call Kate in Italy a couple of times, but she was always out of her room. I’d left messages, but she hadn’t called back.

  George was certainly no help. He kept telling me that Suzanne was Dad’s choice and I would do well to accept her, unless I wanted to alienate Dad further.

  Men can be so obtuse sometimes. Of course, I knew that.

  But knowing and doing are two different things. I would come to terms with Suzanne in my own way, but the marriage was still too new, too much of a shock, to resolve itself so neatly in a few days after almost twenty-five years of the status quo.

  George removed the restaurant’s money from Gil Kelley’s bank and re-deposited it elsewhere after hearing Marilee’s story about Gil’s youthful and distasteful indiscretions.

  Sandra Kelley’s allegations about Senior, which George had heard from a couple of other sources, caused further disquiet. George didn’t believe Senior had embezzled from the bank, but he felt it was better to be safe than sorry. Besides that, if Marilee’s stories were true, which George didn’t wholly believe because they came from Marilee, he didn’t want to be associated with Gil Kelley anyway.

  Between my personal life and my work, I had little time for Margaret. And that was before the Friday, when, for the first time in my life, I got served with a subpoena.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tampa, Florida

  Friday 3:00 p.m.

  February 16, 2001

  THE SUBPOENA COMM
ANDED ME to testify before a panel appointed by the Judicial Counsel, who seemed to investigate judges at the drop of a gavel in Tampa these days.

  We’d had several of our state court judges resign under pressure from The Florida Bar’s Judicial Qualifications Commission. We all knew the JQC was investigating alleged improprieties by other judges. Ranging from allegations of gambling using county computers, to sexual misconduct with subordinates and case fixing, the investigations were alarming.

  But the state JQC investigations hadn’t reached the federal judiciary. Until now.

  The process server came into my chambers respectfully enough. He asked me my name and handed me the folded subpoena in an envelope. As he left, I removed the subpoena and began to read it.

  I was being called to testify in the matter of a confidential investigation into allegations of misconduct by one of our federal judges. The judge remained unidentified, since the investigation was confidential until charges, if any, were filed.

  But whoever had put the subpoena in the envelope had enclosed a copy of an article from the Tribune reporting the story of sexual harassment allegations by two female magistrate judges against “an unnamed federal judge.”

  Someone had penciled the letters “CJ” in the margin.

  According to the newspaper account, the “unnamed judge” had made “unwanted passes” at the magistrate judges, left suggestive messages on their answering machines and asked them out on dates. In writing, yet.

  All the women judges were being subpoenaed to testify. If more instances of harassment were found, the investigation would be spread to other women in the courthouse, including law clerks and support staff.

  The old geezer! Who’d have thought he had it in him?

  Truly, I didn’t.

  I wasn’t fond of the CJ, and I was surely annoyed at his refusal to move me to the new courthouse, but I knew his wife. I didn’t think he’d dare look for a date at work or anywhere else.

  Men are often falsely accused of sexual harassment and it’s a hard claim to defend. The CJ struck me as dumb enough to leave messages to women that could be traced, but smarter than to try to date women he worked with.

  Besides, I knew both of these magistrate judges. While they were somewhat strident and opinionated, I didn’t believe they would falsely accuse the CJ. Among other things, they did not have the luxury I had of a lifetime appointment. They liked their jobs. If, as the paper said, they were complaining, it was because they had something to complain about.

  What was it with men and sex, anyway? Did the recent impeachment of a United States president teach them nothing?

  I was figuratively shaking my head over this development while remaining sure that there was more to this story than met the eye. The CJ had a number of detractors and he was unpopular with the junior jurists. I figured there was a hidden motive in this story that I’d have to wait to learn.

  Part of me just rebelled against everything. I felt both exhaustion and an overwhelming need for solitude. I was tired of the “George Knows Best” show, Dad’s mid-life crisis, Suzanne’s sweet disposition, constant smile, extended fashion show and incessant twittering, and, most of all, tired of worrying more about Margaret than she was worrying about herself.

  I was even tired of Kate’s absence. If I wasn’t running ten miles a day, I would probably have strangled someone that week.

  It was a good thing that Margaret didn’t need my help and compassion, I thought on my drive home Friday night along the Bayshore toward Plant Key. Help and compassion were in short supply with me right now and they didn’t seem to be on the immediate horizon, either.

  Such was my mind set as I drove across the Plant Key Bridge in the dark at 6:30 Friday night, with a full briefcase, a head full of troubles, and a heavy spirit in need of care.

  The tranquil vista of Hillsborough Bay was obscured by February’s early nightfall, the avenue of palms was dark as pitch, and Minaret blocked the lighted downtown Tampa skyline from my view.

  Our house, Minaret, is a grand old building. It was built in the 1890s when Tampa’s richest citizen, Henry Plant, wanted a family home. Plant was constructing the Plant Hotel, now the University of Tampa, which he believed would be a Mecca for the rich and famous. When they came to the hotel, he wanted to show off a fabulous home, as well. He wasn’t going to be outdone by his rival, Henry Flagler, who had created such a magnificent hotel in Palm Beach.

  Before he could build his house, Plant had to build Plant Key itself. When the Port of Tampa channels were being dredged to allow passage of freighters, Plant persuaded the Army Corps of Engineers to build up enough land mass for Plant Key at the same time.

  Plant made his island oval-shaped, with the narrow ends facing south toward Bayshore and out into the Gulf. It’s about a mile wide by two miles long. Plant also built Plant Key Bridge, which connected Plant Key to Bayshore Boulevard, just east of Gandy. Marine life ecosystems weren’t a priority then. If you had an island, you had to have a way to get there, didn’t you?

  I pulled under the portico and let the valet park Greta, my Mercedes CLK convertible, and grabbed my briefcase out of the trunk. I prepared to trudge up the front stairs to our flat with all the enthusiasm of Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine.

  So lost was I in my own thoughts that I ran right into the broad back of Chief Ben Hathaway, standing in the doorway, waiting for a larger party in front of him to be seated.

  Ben turned around, saying, “Hold on a minute, there, partner—Oh, Willa, it’s you.”

  “Sorry, Ben. Didn’t see your tail lights.” I flashed him a weak grin. “What seems to be the hold up?”

  “I don’t know. Looks like round two of the drunken revelers you had here last Saturday to me,” Ben replied.

  I looked through into Aunt Minnie’s tastefully decorated foyer.

  When Aunt Minnie had lived here, the house was a private home and these were her secretaries, breakfronts and sideboards. Even the small butler’s table, between the upholstered camel-back sofas in the center, were Aunt Minnie’s pieces, and they were filled to capacity with small children climbing over the arms and the graceful backs.

  The soft blue fleur de lis wallpaper had been restored to match its former gilded excellence. Even using modern materials, the wallpaper wouldn’t hold up long after we scrubbed off the sticky paw prints prevalent about three feet off the floor.

  Would Aunt Minnie be pleased to have her beautiful things returned to usefulness, or horrified that strangers came into her home for lunch and dinner seven days a week? I felt sure she’d be horrified at the disrespect those unruly, excited children were showing for her furnishings tonight.

  “Good grief!” I said, turning on my heel. I left Hathaway there waiting for a table, retraced my steps back down the stairs and around to the back entrance. I’d forgotten that Minaret Krewe would be here in force for the pre-event party to celebrate tomorrow’s Knights of Sant’ Yago Illuminated Night Parade in Ybor City. The grounds were quickly filling up with cars and guests.

  I put my head down, watched my path, and carefully made my way around the house in the semi-darkness.

  I heard them before I saw their shadows. Two men, close together, were speaking softly. I couldn’t see them clearly. They were too engrossed in their conversation to notice my approach. I recognized the CJ’s voice, raised in stage-whisper anger.

  “Damn you, anyway. Why the hell did you have to come here? And why now? I already told you I don’t have any more money.” CJ shoved the smaller man roughly.

  He whispered something I couldn’t hear before he pushed back.

  Inadvertently eavesdropping, I couldn’t hear the smaller man. Whatever he said angered CJ further, because CJ gave him a push hard enough to challenge his balance.

  “Forget it!” CJ said. “Just forget it! It won’t happen! Go crawl back into the hole you came from and leave me alone!”

  The smaller man righted himself, said something further, walked aro
und out of my sight and behind a parked van. I thought I saw a flash of white hair, but I couldn’t be certain.

  CJ stood there a little longer, raking his hand through his hair and muttering curses loud enough for me to hear. Then he turned and saw me standing, watching.

  Not knowing what to do, I simply continued to walk toward the back of the house. As I passed CJ standing in the shadows, I said, “Good evening. Anything I can help you with?”

  “No, thank you,” he said.

  I’m not sure whether he realized I recognized him or not. I kept my head down. CJ didn’t stop as he walked past me, but he was close. I could feel his heavy breathing and the anger that blew off him like radiating heat from an out-of-control bonfire.

  I let out the breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding, marched directly up the back stairs and into the flat without another word. But I was trembling so hard it took me three tries to unlock the door.

  Inside, our Labradors, Harry and Bess, were laying by the door, waiting for anyone who happened to come in so that they could immediately lick them to death.

  Bess is black and Harry is yellow. Like their namesakes, Harry and Bess Truman, they’re fiercely independent dogs, thoroughly devoted to one another. We got them originally for protection and guard dogs because so many strangers come into what is, after all, our home. Of course, anyone who spends five seconds with Harry and Bess realizes what useless guard dogs they are. They do have big barks and that counts for something, at least to strangers. We still pay the alarm company every month, just in case.

  Both Harry and Bess were wild to get out. I went over and opened the back door. If they found the CJ and scared him off the property, so much the better.

  “What was that all about, I wonder?” I said to no one as I sat heavily onto the couch to gain a little self-control. I’d recognized Armstrong Otter as soon as I’d seen him standing there. It was the second time the CJ’s connection to Otter had been thrown in my path.

  I worried that their connection to each other somehow related to Margaret, and I didn’t know what to do. I would have gone downstairs and found Chief Hathaway, but I didn’t want to give him any more reason to upset Margaret. At least, that’s what I think my motivation was.