29

Getting a meeting with Bill Masterson the next day was like trying to schedule an audience with the pope. He had some radio interviews and meetings with campaign advisers in the morning, then was heading south to Macon to speak at a luncheon for a local bar association. That evening he had to be in Savannah for a fund-raiser at the home of a wealthy socialite. “Can’t this be done by phone?” he had asked.

“I really need to talk to you in person,” I replied.

He gave me eighty-three miles—the distance from Atlanta to Macon on I-75. We were riding in the back of his RV, sitting at a small kitchen table, while a young intern from his campaign drove. The kid had country music playing in the cab, and that, along with the drone of the engine, gave me and the boss plenty of privacy.

I had an outline I was following and got about five minutes into it when Masterson’s phone rang. He handled some campaign business and apologized. I picked up where I left off and a few minutes later was interrupted by another call. This time, when he finished, he put his BlackBerry on vibrate and holstered it.

“I’m all yours. But I don’t need to hear about every piece of evidence. Just give me the punch line.”

I launched into a quick summary of my conversation with Rafael Rivera, which finally seemed to grab his attention. When I explained that Rivera claimed he had started providing Tate with oxycodone and codeine just six months ago and also had provided him with morphine once, Masterson really perked up.

After I finished, Masterson chewed on it for a minute, blew his nose, and wolfed down a few fish crackers straight from the cardboard box. “What’s your gut telling you?” he asked.

“That Rivera is the kind of scum who would rat out his own lawyer.”

Masterson nodded. Carrie Underwood was playing in the background. This was not the way I had pictured it in law school. Making strategic decisions about murder cases in the back of an RV heading south for a Macon barbecue.

“You want to cut Rivera a deal?” Masterson asked.

“Not really. I think he’s more dangerous than Tate.”

Masterson grunted. “Maybe. But Rivera will screw up again. If we let him loose tomorrow, we’ll nail him again in six months. Plus, the media is not howling about Rivera.”

I wasn’t so sure the boss was right about nailing Rivera. I thought about the undercover narcotics officer who had risked his life to put this man behind bars. And I also didn’t think the press should be a factor in determining which of these two men—Rivera or Caleb Tate—should go free. In fact, this whole conversation made me uncomfortable.

“I’ve never cut a deal with someone like Rivera, and I’m not sure I could live with myself if I did.”

Masterson lowered his eyebrows. More fish crackers, this time chased by a swig of Red Bull. “And you could live with yourself if you don’t get enough to indict Caleb Tate?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Masterson rubbed his face and scratched the back of his head. He was used to these kinds of decisions, but that didn’t make them any easier.

“Think you could get Rivera to serve two years and still testify?”

“I doubt it. He thinks he’s got us. He’ll want to walk on this one.”

“Sure would be nice to nail Tate, wouldn’t it?”

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

“Want some fish crackers?”

“No thanks. I’m good.”

Masterson stood and stretched, bracing himself as the RV sped down the road. He sat back down. “This is why I get paid the big bucks.”

He took out a Dictaphone and dictated a memo to his executive assistant while I listened. The memo reassigned the Rafael Rivera case from me to him. He copied Regina Granger, who oversaw the allocation of case files. He put down his Dictaphone.

“You’re working too hard anyway. Decided you might have one case too many.”

I wasn’t sure where he was headed, so I didn’t know whether to thank him or protest. But I could tell from the look on his face that he’d made up his mind. I had always admired that about my boss. I would agonize over things, analyzing first one side, then the other. Masterson would hear two or three minutes of explanation, cut to the chase, and make a call.

“Just so you know, I’m gonna deal with Rivera. I need you to get a videotaped statement of his proffered testimony and double-check to make sure there hasn’t been a leak about the morphine. Our next grand jury starts Monday. I’ve got a campaign to run and an office in controlled chaos. Think you could get the grand jury to indict Tate?”

I sat up straighter in my seat. We both knew that you could get a Milton County grand jury to indict Santa Claus for trespassing. Defense attorneys weren’t even allowed in the grand jury room. In fact, we probably could have indicted Tate even without Rivera’s testimony. But you don’t go to the grand jury unless you’re ready to go all the way.

Despite my enthusiasm for indicting Tate, a small voice was telling me to protest. If I put up a big-enough fuss, Masterson would probably rethink dealing with Rivera. What if Rivera killed somebody when he should have been behind bars?

But I kept my mouth shut. I wanted Caleb Tate so bad I could taste it. And I told myself that I wasn’t the one who would be cutting the deal with Rivera. My boss had taken it out of my hands.

“Thought you’d never ask,” I said.

“Good. We’ll hold a press conference once we get the indictment and bench warrant. Get your friend LA to stage a perp walk. Make sure every station in Atlanta covers it.”

I could tell Masterson was having fun. He would make a good attorney general. There was nothing he liked better than a big fight with someone he considered truly evil.

“I wish your dad could have seen this,” he said.

He must have been reading my thoughts. And that’s the other thing I appreciated about Masterson. He came across as big and gruff and uncaring. But comments like that one displayed his true nature. And in that way, he reminded me of my dad.

“Me too,” I said.