THE LAST OF THE DINNER GUESTS had left Jason Bell Purdy’s mansion outside of Atlanta. The cook, the two maids, and the housekeeper were cleaning up after the feast, which had been held in the grand dining room that seated forty.
Purdy was pacing in his study, in front of the French doors that led to a large veranda outside, and sucking on a piece of hard candy. He strode over to the Moroccan leather couch, plopped down, and punched the TV remote with his right hand while he flipped open his Palm Pilot with the other and began tapping into his calendar for the rest of the week.
On TV, a congressman was giving a press conference, sharing his comments on the potential airline pilot strike. Both the House and the Senate were closely divided on the question of emergency legislation to deal with the issue. The president had not yet commented on whether he would use executive power to order the pilots back to work if a strike occurred.
Purdy muted the sound on the TV and considered his own position on the issue—or more precisely, his difficulty in forming any position at all.
Ever since the death of Senator Jim Boggs Hartley, the political caucus had been seriously considering Purdy to finish out Hartley’s term. He had money, connections, experience on several prestigious volunteer projects, and that golden commodity of name recognition. He even possessed local-hero status, having been all-state quarterback during his high-school days at the prestigious Exeter Academy. And what he lacked in raw IQ he could make up with cunning, charisma, and charm.
Purdy was quickly realizing that hiring political consultants and a group of PR experts to prepare him to fill Hartley’s Senate seat had not been enough. Calling up his to-do list, he tapped in the message, “Hire political analyst/expert on the issues.”
I’ve got to get me some brain boys to help me on these political issues, Purdy thought to himself. But a tap at the windows interrupted him. He whirled and saw a large figure outside the window. He smiled and gestured for the man to come in.
Howard John Jubb walked into the room. Six-foot-one, a broad-shouldered, beefy man with powerful arms and a thick neck, he sported a curly black beard and a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap. He was called “Howley” by most who knew him.
“Hey,” Purdy called out.
“Hey,” the visitor responded. “Nice dinner party?”
“It was alright,” Purdy replied. “Man—what is it with the way you dress, Howley?”
Howley Jubb looked down at his outfit. He was wearing an expensive silk golf shirt on top and, on the bottom, a pair of camouflage pants with black leather military boots.
“What are you talking about?” Jubb chuckled. “This is the way I always dress.”
“Yeah, that’s just the point. That nameplate on your office says you’re my real estate manager. You’ve got to do something about your image.”
“What difference does it make? You have me slip in and out of your house at night—through the back door. You treat me like one of your housekeepers. Nobody ever sees me anyway.”
“Do I hear resentment? Is there something about the work you do, or the money I pay you, that you don’t like?”
“No, Jason. I’m not complaining. I’m just happy to have a job here on your plantation,” he replied lightly.
Purdy studied Jubb’s face and wondered if, underneath his smile, there was anything to worry about. He decided to laugh it off, and he slapped Jubb on the shoulder and invited him to sit down.
“I’m tired. Let’s cut to the chase. Where are things with the bank examiners?”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. They have no inkling that Pencup was anything more than a bank president. They don’t know about the real-estate partnership. Their theory is that the two million was salted away by Pencup in some offshore account. At least, that’s the idea my contact is trying to sell to them.”
“And you’re telling me that Eden Lake has never come up in anything you’ve heard—right?”
“Jason, I’m telling you,” Jubb assured him, “there is no talk anywhere about Eden Lake. They will not be tying you in with Henry Pencup—period.”
“And what about the collar?” Purdy asked.
“I think we’re alright on that. This guy is old school. Won’t talk because it would violate the sanctity of the relationship. That kind of stuff. I’ve checked him out—very quietly, of course.”
“And what if he talks? I mean, that’s possible. Then what?”
“Well, then I got a backup plan,” Jubb said, “a pretty good one. I’m proud of it.”
“That’s good. Backup plans are good. But not having to use backup plans is better. You follow me on that?”
“Sure,” Jubb said, “but like I said, don’t worry about it. I’ve got it covered. Now, how about a drink for me?”
“To tell you the truth, Howley, I’m tired—and I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. I’m hitting the sack.”
Jubb stood up and glanced around the room.
“So, you’re livin’ alone nowadays.”
“Yeah,” Purdy remarked getting up. “You might say I’m in between ladies.”
“How about Beth? She’s not hanging around anymore?” Jubb asked.
“Like I said, I’m in between girlfriends right now. You know, busy with this and that. I’ve always got the regulars who call me, but I’m not much interested in them.”
“Must be tough. You’ve got a tough life, Jason.” Jubb snorted and swung around to give Purdy a high-five, then quickly headed for the door. Purdy called out after him.
“Hey, are you using that mo-ron Linus Eggers on this?”
Jubb turned and said, “Sure, I’m using Linus on this. But everything with him is always on a need-to-know basis.”
“Well, I’m going to give you some advice right now—when it comes to Linus, there is no need to know, alright?”
“Sure,” Jubb said, with his hand on the French-door handle. “Look, Jason, he’s my brother-in-law. I picked him because I could trust him.”
“Sure,” Purdy replied.
Jubb closed the door and walked down the lighted Italian-stone path that led to the lower parking area of the mansion. There, he walked over to a black luxury Hummer with a silver skull-and-crossbones bumper sticker. A thin man—almost emaciated—with a prominent Adam’s apple and deep sunken eyes was smoking a cigarette and lounging against the back of the truck.
“How’d it go?” he asked, flicking his cigarette into the air.
“You don’t ask me those kinds of questions, Linus,” Jubb replied. “Jason Bell Purdy is none of your business.”
Jubb got behind the steering wheel and closed the door. As he fired up the engine, Linus quickly scampered to the passenger door and hopped in.
Inside the mansion, Purdy was calling the unlisted number of district attorney Harry Putnam. His wife answered cautiously but agreed to get him on the line.
“Jason, it’s been a while. How are you?” Putnam asked.
“Fine, just fine,” Purdy answered. “Hey, I wanted to personally invite you to the golf tournament that’s coming up in a few weeks. It’s going to be a great time. Some bigwigs, famous folks, well-connected—they’re all going to be there. You are a local VIP there in Delphi. I thought you might enjoy hitting some balls around. It’s over at my little project, the Eden Lake golf course.”
“Jason, you know I don’t golf. I’ve got those knee problems, remember?”
“Well, then ride in a golf cart and fake it. I don’t think you’ll want to miss this one.”
Putnam laughed a little and said that he would think about it.
Then Purdy quickly changed the subject.
“Something else—I know you are prosecuting Mary Sue Fellows. How’s it going?”
“Jason, she’s married. I know you dated her for a while a long time ago, but the woman is married. Besides—I intend to convict her and put her in prison. So I wouldn’t show any sentimental attachment to this lady.”
“No, that’s all over. That was a long time ago. I’m just concerned that the right thing gets done. I want to make sure that you’re considering all of the facts here, Harry. I’d hate to see the wrong thing happen.”
“Well—for what it’s worth—Mary Sue Fellows’ attorney just got stuck in the Juda County jail for refusing to tell the judge where his client was. You can make out of that anything you want.”
“Well Harry, just remember. I think you’ve got a great future. You don’t need to be a district attorney the rest of your life. I talk to people. I’ve always wondered whether you ever thought about being a judge. Just thought I would mention that to you.”
“Well, maybe we could talk about it sometime.” Putnam said goodnight and hung up the phone.
Purdy flipped open his Palm Pilot again and tapped in the words “lawyer/jailer?” After that, he tapped in “background on lawyer—Suzanne?” Closing it, he turned off his television and padded across the plush carpeting in his stocking feet, out of the study and into the sprawling marble foyer, just as the housekeeper and maids were leaving for the night.
Each, in turn, said, “Good night, Mr. Purdy.” Purdy said good night to them with a smile, enjoying the canopy of respect that covered him. He knew he was special—and he knew he had a beautiful future ahead of him. As he walked up the spiral staircase, he also knew that tonight he would have an excellent night’s rest.