The Boys from Biloxi: A Legal Thriller (35 page)

Throughout the Point, Back Bay, and the rest of Biloxi, the Catholic churches were busier than usual on the somber Sunday morning. St. John’s, Nativity, Our Mother of Sorrows, as well as St. Michael’s, welcomed large crowds of mourners, all firmly believing they had some connection to Jesse Rudy.

Early Monday morning, a nurse juiced Henry’s IV again and knocked him out. He was rolled into surgery where his doctors spent an hour resetting his tibia and wrapping his lower leg with a smaller plaster cast. According to those up the hospital’s chain of command, it was rather urgent that the patient be patched up as well as possible so he could be on his way. There was no mention of the police or FBI. Indeed, little mention of anything; just the clear message that Henry Taylor needed to be released.

While he was unconscious, two vans owned by a Union City, Tennessee, plumbing company arrived in his driveway. The plumbers walked around his house a couple of times, as if looking for leaking sewage or something, but they were really checking out the neighborhood. He lived on a two-acre lot near the edge of town. The nearest neighbor’s home could barely be seen. When they were satisfied no one was watching, they quickly entered the house and began searching drawers, closets, desks, anywhere Henry might keep records. Two agents wiretapped his phone and hid a transmitter in the attic. Another agent copied bank records with a mini camera. Another agent found a key ring and began trying locks.

A large shed in the backyard held carpet-cleaning supplies and lawn care equipment. A partially hidden door with a thick padlock concealed a ten-by-ten room where, evidently, the mad bomber did his mischief. Since none of the agents handled explosives, they were afraid to touch anything. They photographed as much as possible and left the room, leaving it for another day and another search warrant.

Back in Biloxi, Taylor’s Dodge pickup was also receiving attention. Careful not to rack up too many miles on the odometer, Jackson Lewis took it to a service garage on the Point and paid the owner a hefty fee to look the other way. Technicians installed a waterproof magnetic tracker between the radiator and front grille and wired it to the battery, none of which could be seen without a thorough search. The antenna was replaced by an identical one that not only received radio signals, so Henry could continue to enjoy his tunes, but also transmitted signals within a ten-mile radius.

If all went as planned, the tracking system would be periodically checked or even replaced in a month or so, one night when Henry was sound asleep.

He slept well after his surgery and finally awoke early on Monday afternoon. He accused the nurse of using too many sedatives and she threatened to juice him again. He was pleased to see a much smaller cast and claimed his leg felt great.

Tuesday morning his doctor made the early rounds and said he could be released. The paperwork was already prepared, and when everything was in place an orderly helped him into a wheelchair for the ride to the front door. There, the same two Biloxi policemen were waiting with a pair of crutches. They helped him walk a short distance to his beloved pickup, got him situated in the driver’s seat, commented on his wisdom in buying an automatic and not a clutch, and proudly said that they had filled the tank.

His leg was already killing him, but he smiled gamely as he drove away.

What a couple of dopes!

Other dopes followed the blue Dodge to the Beach Bay Motel where they observed the subject use his new crutches with great difficulty as he managed to waddle, limp, and lurch to the door of Number 19.

Inside, Henry seethed in pain as he pulled up the mattress and retrieved his wallet, cash, keys, pocketknife, and pistols. He had dreamed of them and couldn’t believe they had not been found
by the housekeepers. He threw them in his duffel, along with his clothes, and was about to start wiping down the room when someone knocked. It was the manager looking for an extra sixty-two dollars for the past four nights. Henry hobbled to the credenza, got the cash, and paid him.

When he was gone, Henry locked the door, wet a towel, and began wiping every surface he might possibly have touched in the past week. Television controls, shades, doorknobs, faucets, commode, and shower handles, light switches, door facings, and toilet paper rack.

He was a bit late. The FBI team had lifted prints from the same surfaces, along with prints from his truck and his hospital room. Few suspects in recent history had provided such an incredible portfolio of fingerprints.

But he blissfully wiped away, smug in his cleverness and secure with the knowledge that he was outsmarting the bumpkins. When he was certain Room 19 was print-free, he threw the key on the bed, hobbled out to his truck, tossed his bag in the rear, wrestled himself into position behind the wheel, and drove away.

They followed him out of town, along Highway 90, then north on Highway 49. Another tail picked him up in Hattiesburg, another in Jackson. Six hours later, Henry was followed as he skirted downtown Memphis on the bypass and picked up Highway 51 north. In the town of Millington, he stopped to fill up his tank and buy a soft drink from the convenience store, hobbling painfully and trying to keep any weight off his bum leg. Two hours later, he was trailed at the edge of Union City and followed until he finally made it home.

Inside, he went straight to the kitchen for a glass of water. He took a handful of pain pills, gulped them down, and wiped his mouth with a forearm. He made it to the sofa where he collapsed. His leg felt like red-hot spears were jabbing into his flesh and muscles.

After a few moments, the pain began to subside and he could breathe normally for the first time in hours. He had replayed his
mistakes a thousand times in the hospital and didn’t want to go there again. He considered himself extremely lucky to have escaped with so many cops around.

What a bunch of morons down there.

Late Tuesday afternoon, Keith and Tim drove to the firm’s office downtown. They admired the incredible collection of flower arrangements that completely covered the porch and most of the small front lawn. They walked a few blocks to the barricades and checked on the courthouse. Keith spoke to a Biloxi policeman he knew and thanked him for his condolences. Back at the firm, they entered Jesse’s office, and for a long moment stood in the center of it, taking in their father’s life. On the Ego Wall were diplomas, awards, photos, and newspaper clippings from the Camille days. On his credenza were a dozen photos of Agnes and the children at various ages. The desk, seldom used for the past five years, was in perfect order, with gifts the children had given: a silver letter opener, fancy quill pens he never used, a bronze clock, a magnifying glass he didn’t need, and a baseball signed by Jackie Robinson. Jesse had seen him play in an exhibition game in 1942.

Their sense of loss was unfathomable. The emotional devastation was overwhelming; the physical pain, after five days, was numbing. A man they had worshipped because of his unabashed love for his family, his integrity, courage, grit, intelligence, and affability, was gone, taken from them in his prime. They and their sisters had never for once given thought to losing their father. He was an enormous presence in their lives, and he would always be there for them. He couldn’t be dead at the age of fifty-two.

Tim, the most emotional of the four, stretched out on the sofa and covered his eyes. Keith, the most stoic, sat at his father’s desk for a long time with his eyes closed and tried to hear Jesse’s voice.

Instead, he heard a faint tapping at the front door. He glanced
at his watch and jumped to his feet. He had forgotten the five o’clock appointment.

He greeted Judge Oliphant warmly and led him to the conference room on the first floor. He was in his late seventies and had always been sharp and spry, but at that moment he looked as though he had aged. He moved with a slight limp, and said no to coffee. His close friendship with Jesse Rudy had begun during the Camille litigation and only grown deeper when the new DA assumed an office just down the hall. They were so close that the judge fretted over the issue of impartiality. Jesse often grumbled that Oliphant was so concerned about being fair that he went out of his way to make it hard for the State. They yielded no ground to each other in open court, then laughed about their theatrics over drinks and cigars.

The judge was devastated by Jesse’s death and was obviously grieving. They commiserated for a while, but Keith soon grew weary of it. To keep traffic away from the house and Agnes, he was meeting friends at the office. Each visit began with the usual round of tears and condolences, and they were taking a toll.

“Not only was it a cold-blooded murder,” Oliphant was saying, “but it was an attack on our judicial system. They bombed the courthouse, Keith, the very place where justice is pursued. I suppose they could’ve killed Jesse in any number of places, they seem adept at these matters, but they chose the courthouse.”

“And who are ‘they’?”

“The same people Jesse went after. The same people he indicted, dragged into court, my courtroom, and frightened them so much they pled guilty.”

“Malco?”

“Of course it’s Malco, Keith. Jesse’s put away more than his share of criminals in five years, same as any other DA, I guess. That’s what the job entails. But Lance Malco was the big fish, and he left behind a criminal syndicate that is still operating and capable of getting revenge.”

Keith said, “The moment I heard that a bomb had gone off in
the courthouse, I said the word ‘Malco.’ It’s so obvious that you have to wonder if they’re really that brazen, or stupid.”

“They’ve flaunted the law for so long they believe they’re above it. This shocks me, shocks all of us, but it should not be surprising.”

Neither spoke for a long time as they weighed the implications of what they had already decided. Finally, Keith asked, “You think Lance ordered the hit from prison?”

“I’m going back and forth. It would be easy for him to do and he has nothing to lose. But, he’s too smart for that. Lance avoided attention, went out of his way to operate in the shadows, didn’t like to be seen or read about himself. Right now everybody on the Coast, especially law enforcement, is thinking the same thing: Malco.”

Keith was nodding and said, “I agree. Lance is too smart, but Hugh is an idiot. Now he’s got the power and wants to prove he’s a real crime boss. By murdering the DA he becomes a legend, if he gets away with it.”

“It will be difficult to prove, Keith. Contract killings are virtually impossible because the guilty party touches nothing.”

“But the cash.”

“But the cash, and it’s untraceable.”

Another pause as they listened to voices outside. More flowers were being delivered.

The judge said, “You know, Keith, Governor Finch will appoint an interim DA to fill the vacancy. I know Cliff. We were in the state legislature together. He also served as DA for eight years. I want you to consider asking him for the job. I’m sure you’ve thought about it.”

“I have, but only in passing. I have not mentioned it to Ainsley or my mother. I doubt either will be too excited.”

“So you’ll consider it?”

“I’ve talked to Egan and she has no interest. She plans to take some time off. I can’t think of anybody else who’ll want the job, especially now. Good way to get hurt.”

Oliphant smiled and said, “You’ll be a natural, Keith, and you can pick up where Jesse left off.”

“And I’ll be in the middle of the investigation. Governor Waller called last night with his condolences. As you know, he and Dad had become friends. He promised to talk to Governor Finch and push him to give it priority. The state police and FBI seem to be working together for a change. I want to be there, Judge, in the middle of it.”

“I’ll talk to Governor Finch.”

“And I’ll talk to my mother, but not now. Let’s wait until after the funeral.”

With Father Norris in control and guiding the family, the proceedings went strictly by the Catholic book. On Friday night, a huge crowd gathered at St. Michael’s for the prayer vigil. Father Norris led the prayers and asked several friends to read Holy Scripture. Since there would be no eulogies the following day at the Requiem Mass, they were delivered during the vigil. A childhood friend from the Point went first and broke the ice with a funny story from way back then. Judge Oliphant spoke eloquently of Jesse’s humble beginnings, his determination to become a lawyer by taking night classes at Loyola in New Orleans, his drive and ambition. But above all, his courage.