THE FLIGHT TO NEW ORLEANS WAS UNEVENTFUL, the best you can wish for any flight these days. I was able to explain to Clovis what he needed to do when he returned to DC. He still wanted to argue with me about my strategy, but I was deaf to his reasoning. My night’s sleep had been constantly interrupted by my own second guesses and reservations, but I’d met the morning with no better options.
“Listen, Clovis. My plan could get squashed if Thibodeaux doesn’t agree. We’d be back to square one. The odds are better than fifty-fifty that he’ll fire me on the spot. Your job is to get me safely out of town if he does.”
Clovis grew silent at that prospect and remained so as we drove to a midtown restaurant where Tom and Royce were waiting. I wasn’t at all sure we were at the right place. The building looked like any other house in a small neighborhood. I couldn’t see any signs or advertising of any kind, and the only parking was on the street. Our cabbie demanded his fare, swearing this was the place. We walked up the old sidewalk, entered through a front door in need of a new coat of paint, and found ourselves facing an older woman sitting at a small desk. She was tiny, well-dressed, and greeted us with a smile.
“Do you have a reservation?” Her voice was low and sweet.
“We’re here to meet Mr. Thibodeaux,” I answered.
“You must be Mr. Patterson. George will show you to his table. He’s running a few minutes late. George!” She shrieked in a voice that made me jump.
We were led to a table in the back of a small room. The entire room held only about ten tables, and I wondered how they could make a profit on such a small space. But all the tables were occupied except Tom’s. The clientele was older than one might expect, and the room was neither crowded nor loud. George failed to give us a menu, but quickly returned with a glass of wine for me and a beer for Clovis. He placed a bottle of Mountain Valley Water and two small, clean glasses in the center of the table, then disappeared.
I decided not to ask for a menu, but did try, with little success, to see what other guests were eating, but the tables were too far apart, and Tom’s was tucked in the back of the room. Clovis sipped on his beer, remaining unusually quiet. My wine was an Italian Red that I didn’t recognize but enjoyed.
It wasn’t long before I noticed Tom and Royce at the front door. Tom didn’t need George to bring him to the table, and he took his time stopping to speak to people he knew. He worked the room like a politician, and I noticed that every table looked genuinely pleased that Thibodeaux had acknowledged them.
After they arrived, we made the usual greetings. George immediately brought a glass of wine to Tom and straight bourbon on the rocks to Royce. Two more glasses were added to the center of the table in case anyone wanted water.
Tom said, “Let’s wait to talk until we’ve eaten. Their gumbo is the best in the city, and the shrimp po-boy isn’t far behind. But they’ll make you about anything you want, within reason of course.”
I joined Tom in ordering a cup of gumbo and the po-boy. Clovis asked George what he would recommend and took his suggestion—blackened red fish. Royce ordered turtle soup and a dozen grilled oysters. He was indeed a strange guy. We never saw a menu.
Tom was right about the gumbo, and the po-boy smothered in brown gravy rivaled any I’d ever eaten. Royce ordered yet another dozen oysters. It helped the mood of the lunch that George kept our glasses full, except for Clovis who had switched to water. Thibodeaux kept the conversation light, quizzing me about the Lobos and touting the Saints chances next season.
After the table had been cleared and dessert declined, George filled our glasses one last time, and Tom spoke, “Before we begin, I want you to know you can speak openly in Royce’s presence. Whatever concerns I may have had about his loyalty have been resolved. You may speak freely—nothing you say will leave this table.”
Royce turned beet red, and Tom quickly continued. “You asked for this meeting, and I suspect you don’t bring good news. Please don’t pull any punches. Good news can always wait, bad news is best served fresh. So go ahead.”
I answered, “I fully intend to shoot you straight about David’s case. With David’s permission, I’ve come to ask for your help. But first, let me bring you and Royce up to date.”
I told them everything that had happened since I’d returned to DC, including my meeting with Gloria and breakfast with Duke. When it came to my conversation with Hans, Royce began to fidget. He clearly wanted to jump in but managed to hold his tongue. Tom must have told him he should remain quiet. Tom asked a few insightful questions, but for the most part listened attentively.
When I had finished, I took a sip of wine and waited for Thibodeaux’s response.
“You say you need my help. Royce thinks you’ve decided to withdraw from the case, going back on your offer to help David.” He had lowered his voice. “Is this true?”
“I have no plans to withdraw.”
Tom gave Royce an “I told you so” look and continued, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you did want out. Your representation has placed you, your daughter, and your friends in danger.”
“I won’t withdraw unless David himself asks me to do so. He is the client.”
Royce couldn’t help himself. And I couldn’t help but wonder why.
“Oh, yeah—you’ll go to court, but you’ll blow the case to save your own skin.”
Thibodeaux turned on Royce with a nasty glare, and I replied before he could respond.
“You’re wrong, Royce. I’ll do everything I possibly can to win David’s case, to see him walk out of court a free man. But I admit my method will be unorthodox. People will think I’ve lost my marbles, that I’m intentionally trying to lose the case. I’m not doing this to save my neck, but to save David’s.”
This time Royce looked at Tom for permission to speak, and he nodded.
“How do you plan to carry out this unorthodox plan of yours?”
“Well, a lot depends on today and whether Mr. Thibodeaux is willing to help out.”
“You need more money.” His contempt was obvious, and again I wondered why.
“No, I don’t,” I replied.
“You need someone taken out?”
“No.”
Before Royce could ask another stupid question, Tom interrupted.
“Enough, Jack has put both his life and the lives of those he loves on the line. We owe him the courtesy to listen to him, not to insult him.”
I thought Royce might cry at Tom’s harsh tone and waited until he calmed down.
“My first request is a tough one. Royce has assured me that David is safe in DC’s jail. If David agrees, I think he will be safer there than on the streets. Hans has made it clear that his ‘clients’ don’t want David to ever touch another computer. I wouldn’t put it past him to kill David to make sure he doesn’t. Before I ask David if he’s willing to remain in jail until and during the trial, I need to know—will he be safe?”
Tom asked, “How long are we talking about?”
“If my strategy works, we’ll be in court within a few months. If not, we’ll have to rethink.”
“I assure you that David will be safe; please assure him that I said so. I’m sorry to tell you this, but I am far more comfortable about his safety than I am about yours.” Once again, Royce’s quick smirk was erased by his boss’s glare.
I raised my hand, palm forward. “Wait—please don’t agree to anything until you’ve heard my other requests. I’ve come to understand that your relationship with your daughter is, at the least, estranged. Her lawyer is a snake oil salesman, that’s for sure. Yet I think they can be useful, and I’d like to enlist their assistance.”
“My daughter has been a disappointment, but she is David’s mother. You don’t need my permission to ask for her help.”
“If it becomes necessary, I want to be able to say that you asked her to help. I know it’s a tough ask, and I will only use it if it’s absolutely necessary. But I need your consent in my holster.”
You could tell he was hesitant about using Gloria. When he spoke, he didn’t mince words.
“My daughter cannot be trusted. She chose her no good husband over family and conspired with those who would like to see me step down. We haven’t spoken in more than a year. I need to think about your request. What else do you need from me?”
He was obviously irritated, and I took a minute to consider how to phrase my final request.
“You are a man of your word, and you’ve given me your word that my daughter and her fiancé are safe. But I need your assurance that no harm will come to them. I’ll do my dead level best to help your grandson. I will put my own life on the line, but I can’t do my best unless I know my daughter won’t be harmed, not now, not ever. There you have it.”
I waited while he absorbed the meaning of my request and decided how to respond. I would hear no off-the-cuff promises from this man.
“Well, Jack, it seems we have something in common,” he said with a smile. “Your daughter is your weakness, as my grandson is mine. I assure you that Beth and Jeff are as safe as the President, maybe safer. And she will be as long as I draw breath. As to enlisting my daughter in your efforts on behalf of her son, you have my permission to ask her whatever you like—I won’t deny anything you’ve requested. But be careful. She’s much craftier than one might think. And please tell David that I said to listen to you.”
Royce blurted out, “But…” He was quickly caught short by Tom’s stare and didn’t say another word. I wondered if I would ever know the reason behind his animosity and suspicions.
I had no more requests, so I thanked him for lunch, and we quickly left the restaurant, a somewhat humbled Royce leading the way. I thought the woman eating a bowl of gumbo with short black hair looked familiar. But who could I have recognized in New Orleans? I must have been mistaken.