"Another good story. Once the casino was up and running, and it was printing money from day one, the county realized it would not be getting much in the way of tax revenue. In America, Indians don't pay taxes on casino profits. The Tappacola didn't want to share. The county felt jilted, especially after going to all the trouble of building a spanking-new four-lane highway that runs for over seven miles. So the county pulled a fast one and convinced the state legislature to allow it to collect tolls on the new road."

Hugo laughed and said, "Right, you gotta stop at a tollbooth about a mile from the casino and pay five bucks to keep going."

"It's actually worked out fine. The Indians are happy now and the county gets a few bucks. So when Dubose and Judge McDover had their little spat, she got a lawyer buddy to ask for an injunction on the grounds that the tollbooths were crowded and unsafe. There might have been a couple of fender benders but nothing serious. It was completely bogus crap, but she immediately issued an injunction closing the toll road. The casino stayed open because a few folks managed to trickle in from the back roads and such, but it was effectively shut down. This went on for six days as Vonn and Claudia waited for the other to blink. Finally, they got on the same page, the bogus injunction was lifted, and everybody was happy. It was a pivotal moment in the history of the casino and the corruption it has created. Judge McDover let everybody know that she's in charge."

Hugo said, "You talk about Dubose as if everyone knows him."

"No one knows him. I thought I made that clear. He runs an organization, a small one in which the big boys are related and everybody is getting plenty of money. He tells a cousin to charter an LLC out of Bermuda and buy some acreage. Another cousin incorporates in Barbados and trades some condos. Dubose is protected by layers of offshore shell companies. He has no profile, leaves no trail."

"Who does his legal work?" Lacy asked.

"A small firm in Biloxi, a couple of tax lawyers who are skilled at dirty work. They've represented the Dubose gang for years."

Lacy said, "It sounds as though Judge McDover is not afraid of Dubose."

"Dubose is too smart to take out a judge, though I'm sure he's thought about it. He needs her. She needs him. Think about it. You're an ambitious and crooked real estate developer in Florida, plus you practically own a casino, which is illegal of course, so you need a lot of protection. What could be more valuable than having a well-respected judge in your back pocket?"

"This has RICO stamped all over it," Hugo said.

"Yes, but we're not going RICO, are we, Mr. Hatch? RICO is federal; federal is FBI. I don't care what happens to Dubose. I want to bust Judge McDover so my client can collect a small fortune for blowing the whistle."

"How small?" Lacy asked.

Myers finished a beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't know. I guess your job is to find out." Carlita stepped up from the cabin and said, "Lunch is ready."

Myers stood and said, "Please join me."

Lacy and Hugo exchanged quick glances. They had been there for two hours, were starving and not sure where they would find lunch, but suddenly uncertain as to whether it was a good idea to eat on the boat. Myers, though, was already stepping below. "Come on, come on," he said, and they followed him down into the cabin. Three places were set at a glass-top table in the cramped galley. An air conditioner somewhere was hard at work and the air was refreshingly cool. The smell of grilled fish hung heavy. Carlita scurried about, obviously delighted to have someone to cook for. She served a platter of fish tacos, poured sparkling water from a bottle, and asked if anyone wanted wine. No one did, and she disappeared deeper into the cabin.

Myers did not touch his food, but instead resumed his narrative. "This complaint is not the one I want to file. In this one I allege corruption only to the extent of the condos owned by Judge McDover in Rabbit Run. The real money in this little conspiracy is her portion of the monthly skim from the casino. That's what I'm really after because it's a gold mine for my client. If I can nail that down, I'll amend the complaint. If not, there are sufficient allegations to get her removed from the bench, and probably indicted."

"Do you mention the name of Vonn Dubose in the complaint?" Lacy asked.

"No. I refer to his corporations as 'criminal entities.'"

"That's original," Lacy said.

"You got a better idea, Ms. Stoltz?" Myers shot back.

"Can we drop the Mister and Missus stuff?" Hugo asked. "She's Lacy. You're Greg. I'm Hugo."

"Fair enough." All three took a bite, and as he chewed rapidly Myers kept talking, with his mouth barely closed. "A question. The statute says you have forty-five days from today to serve a copy of the complaint on Judge McDover. From now until then, you do your investigation, the, uh, what's it called?"

"Assessment."

"Right. Well, that worries me. I'm convinced these people have no idea that anyone is onto their enterprise, their dealings, and when Judge McDover gets a copy of this complaint she'll be shocked. Her first phone call will be to Dubose, and at that point a lot of crazy stuff could start happening. She'll lawyer up immediately, deny everything vehemently, and probably start moving assets around. Dubose will panic, circle the wagons, maybe even start looking for someone to intimidate."

"Your question?"

"Okay, how long can you really wait before you lay this on her? How long can you stall? It seems to me it's crucial to do as much investigating as possible before she knows you're doing it."

Lacy and Hugo studied each other. She shrugged and said, "We're bureaucrats so we know how to stall. However, if she attacks the way you predict, her lawyers will nitpick everything. If we don't follow the statute to the letter, they'll push hard to dismiss the complaint."

Hugo added, "Let's play it safe and say we'll have forty-five days to do our assessment."

"That's not enough time," Myers said.

"That's all we have," Lacy said.

"What can you tell us about your mysterious client?" Hugo asked. "How does he know what he knows?"

Myers sipped some water and smiled. "Once again, you assume the person is a 'he.'"

"Okay, what do you want to call him, or her?"

"There are only three links in our little chain. Me, the middleman who referred the client to me, and the client himself or herself. The middleman and I refer to the client as the mole. The mole could be male or female, old or young, black or white or brown, doesn't really matter right now."

Lacy said, "The mole? That's not very original."

"What difference does it make? You got a more descriptive name?"

"I guess it will have to do. How does the mole know so much?"

Myers crammed half a soft taco into his mouth and chewed slowly. The boat rocked in the wake of something larger out there. Finally, he said, "The mole is very close to Judge McDover, and is trusted implicitly by Her Honor. Trusted too much, it appears. That's all I can say right now."

After a gap in the conversation, Lacy said, "I have another question. You said these people, meaning Dubose and his gang, are very smart and use good lawyers. Obviously, McDover also needs a good lawyer to clean her share of the dirty money. Who does she hire?"

"Phyllis Turban, a trust and estate lawyer in Mobile."

"Wow, the girls are getting a black eye in this story," Lacy said.

"She and McDover were in law school together, both divorced with no children, and very close. So close that they might be more than just friends."

They swallowed hard and digested this. Lacy said, "So to summarize the case so far, our target, Judge Claudia McDover, takes bribes from thugs, skims casino cash from the Indians, and somehow launders the money with the help of a very close friend who happens to be an estate lawyer."

Myers smiled and said, "I'd say you're on the right track. I need a beer. Anybody want a beer? Carlita!"

- They left him on the pier, waving good-bye and promising to keep in touch. He had dropped hints about disappearing into even deeper cover, now that the complaint was filed and would soon cause trouble. Lacy and Hugo had detected nothing that would indicate how or why Vonn Dubose and Claudia McDover would suspect Greg Myers, formerly known as Ramsey Mix and a man they had supposedly never met. It was another gap in his story, of which there were far too many.

5.

They spent the next day in the office, brainstorming with Geismar and putting together a plan. With the complaint on file, the clock was ticking. If things stayed on schedule, Lacy and Hugo would soon drive to the small town of Sterling and serve a copy of it upon the Honorable Claudia McDover. By then it would be imperative to know as much as possible.

First, though, they needed to visit death row. Hugo had been there once, on a field trip in law school. Lacy had heard about Starke her entire career, but had never found the excuse to see it. They left early enough to beat the morning rush around Tallahassee, and by the time the traffic thinned on I-10 Hugo was nodding off. The prison was two and a half hours away. Lacy had not been forced to walk the floors with a crying baby all night, but she had not slept much either. She and Hugo, as well as Geismar, felt as though they were probably sticking their noses into a mess that someone else should clean up. If Greg Myers could be believed, serious criminal activity had been rampant in Brunswick County for a long time. Investigators with far more resources and experience should get the nod on this one. They were lawyers, after all, not cops. They didn't want to carry guns. They were trained to go after corrupt judges, not organized crime syndicates.

These thoughts had kept her from sleeping most of the night. When she caught herself yawning, she whipped into a fast-food drive-thru and ordered coffee. "Wake up," she scolded her partner. "We have an hour and a half to go and I can't stay awake either."

"Sorry," Hugo said, rubbing his eyes.

They slugged coffee, and as she drove Hugo summarized one of Sadelle's memos. "According to our colleague, from 2000 through 2009, there were ten lawsuits in Brunswick County involving a company called Nylan Title, a Bahamian outfit whose registered agent is a lawyer over in Biloxi. In each case, the opposing party tried to compel the identities of the real owners of Nylan Title, and each time the judge, our friend Claudia McDover, said no. Off-limits. A company domiciled in the Bahamas is governed by its laws, and they have a way of protecting their companies. It's all a shell game but it's legal. Anyway, Nylan Title must have some great lawyers because it is undefeated, at least in Judge McDover's courtroom. Ten to zero."

"What kinds of cases?" Lacy asked.

"Zoning, breach of contract, diminution of property value, even an aborted class action by a bunch of condo owners claiming defective workmanship. The county sued Nylan in a dispute over property valuations and taxes."

"Who shows up on behalf of Nylan?"

"The same lawyer out of Biloxi. He's the corporate mouthpiece and seems to know what's going on. If Nylan is indeed Vonn Dubose, then he's well hidden, just like Myers says. Layers of lawyers, as he put it. Nice phrase."

"Sounds charming."

Hugo took a sip of coffee and put down the memo. He said, "Look, Lacy, I don't trust Greg Myers."

"He doesn't really inspire trust."

"But you have to admit that, so far, everything he has said has checked out. If he's using us, what's his endgame?"

"I was asking the same question at three thirty this morning. We have to catch Judge McDover with a pile of cash. Period. If it's recovered, the mole gets his or her share as a reward, and Myers takes a cut. If Vonn Dubose and his boys get busted, fine, but how does that help Myers?"

"It doesn't, unless of course McDover goes up in flames with Dubose."

"He is using us, Hugo. He's filed a complaint alleging corrupt judicial practices, or outright thievery. It's our job to investigate. Anyone who files a complaint against a judge is using us to find the truth. That's the nature of our jobs."

"Sure it is, but something is not right with this guy."

"I have the same gut feeling. I like Geismar's strategy. We'll poke around a bit, nibble at the edges, develop some history, try to find out who owns those four condos, do our job but do it cautiously, and if we find real evidence of wrongdoing we'll go to the FBI. Myers can't stop us from doing that."

"Agreed, but he can disappear and never talk to us again. If he has proof of corruption at the casino, we'll never get it if the FBI comes storming in."

"What else did Sadelle pack for our pleasant drive to Starke?"

Hugo picked up another memo. "Just some background on Judge McDover. Her elections, campaigns, opponents, stuff like that. Since elections are nonpartisan, we're not sure about her politics. No record of contributions to other candidates in other races. No previous complaints filed with BJC. No complaints filed with the State Bar. No felonies or misdemeanors. Since 1998, she has received the highest rating by the State Bar Association. She writes a lot and there's a long list of papers she's published in legal magazines and such. She also likes to speak at seminars and law schools. She even taught a course in trial practice at FSU three years ago. Quite the resume, really. More so than our average circuit court judge. Not much in the way of assets. A home in downtown Sterling assessed at $230,000, built seventy years ago, with a mortgage of $110,000. Title issued in her name, McDover, which happens to be her maiden name. She reacquired it right after the divorce and has used it since. Single since 1988, no children, no other marriages. No record of memberships in churches, civic clubs, alumni associations, political parties, nothing. Law school was at Stetson, where she was a top student. Undergraduate degree from North Florida in Jacksonville. Some stuff about her divorce from her doctor husband but not worth the time."

Lacy listened intently and sipped more coffee. "If Myers is correct, she's skimming cash from an Indian casino. That's rather hard to believe, don't you think? I mean, one of our circuit judges elected by the people and so highly regarded."

"It is indeed. We've seen judges do some bizarre things, but nothing as bold as this."

"How do you explain it? What's her motive?"

"You're a single woman with a career. You answer the question."

"I can't. What's the other memo?"

Hugo fished through his briefcase and pulled out some papers.

- As they entered rural Bradford County, they began to see signs indicating there were prisons and correctional facilities just ahead. Near the small town of Starke, population five thousand, they turned and followed signs to the Florida State Prison, home to fifteen hundred inmates, including four hundred condemned men.

Only California had more men on death row than Florida. Texas was a close third, but since it was more focused on keeping its numbers down its population was around 330, give or take. California, with little interest in executing people, had 650. Florida longed to be another Texas, but its appellate courts kept getting in the way. Last year, 2010, only one man was lethally injected at Starke.

They parked in a crowded lot and hiked to an administration building. As lawyers working for the state, their visit had been facilitated. They were cleared through the checkpoints and escorted by a guard with enough clout to get all doors opened quickly. At Q Wing, Florida's notorious death row, they were cleared past another checkpoint and led to a long room. A sign on the door read "Attorney Conferences." The guard opened another door to a small enclosed area with a sheet of Plexiglas dividing it.

"First trip to death row?" the guard asked.

Lacy said, "Yes." Hugo said, "I came here once when I was in law school."

"That's nice. You got the consent form?"

"I do," Hugo replied as he put his briefcase on the table and unzipped it. Junior Mace was represented pro bono by a large Washington firm. Before Lacy and Hugo could talk to him, they had to assure the law firm they would not discuss any of the issues pending in his current habeas corpus filing. Hugo pulled out a sheet of paper and the guard took his time reading it. When it met his approval, he handed it back and said, "Mace is a strange one, I'll tell you that."

Lacy looked away and didn't want to respond. While she wasn't sleeping the night before, worrying about all the crap that was cluttering her brain, she read a few online articles about Florida's death row. Each prisoner was kept in solitary confinement for twenty-three hours a day. The other hour was for "recreation," a chance to walk around a small, grassy area and look at the sun. Each cell was six feet by nine, with a nine-foot ceiling. Each bed was smaller than a twin-size and just inches away from a stainless steel toilet. There was no air-conditioning, no cellmate, almost no human contact except for the usual chatter from the guards at feeding time.

If Junior Mace had not been a "strange one" before arriving fifteen years earlier, he could certainly be excused for being a bit odd now. Total isolation leads to sensory deprivation and all sorts of mental problems. Corrections experts were beginning to realize this, and a movement to reform the practice of solitary confinement was struggling to gain momentum. Said movement had not made it to Florida.

A door on the other side opened and a guard walked through it. He was followed by Junior Mace, handcuffed and wearing the standard blue prison pants and orange T-shirt reserved for death row inmates. Another guard followed him. They removed the handcuffs and left the room.

Junior Mace took two steps and sat down at the table on his side. The Plexiglas separated them. Hugo and Lacy took their seats and for a few seconds things were awkward.

He was fifty-two years old. His hair was long, thick, and gray, swept back into a ponytail. His skin was dark and had not been bleached by the isolation. His eyes were dark too, large and brown and sad. He was tall and lean with well-formed biceps. Probably does a lot of push-ups, Hugo thought. According to the file, his wife, Eileen, was thirty-two when she died. They had three children, all raised by relatives after Junior was arrested and sent away.

Lacy took one of two phones on her side of the partition and said, "Thanks for meeting with us."

He was holding his phone. He shrugged, said nothing.

"I'm not sure you got our letter, but we work for the State Board on Judicial Conduct and we're investigating Judge Claudia McDover."

"I got it," he said. "I'm here. I agreed to the meeting." He spoke slowly, as if every word had to be considered first.

Hugo said, "So, uh, we're not here to talk about your case. We can't help you there, and besides you have some good lawyers in Washington."

"I'm still alive. I guess they're doing their job. What do you want from me?"

Lacy said, "Information. We need the names of people we can talk to. Tappacola, the ones on the good side, your side. That is another world for us, and we can't just show up one day and start asking questions."

His eyes narrowed and his mouth turned down, like an inverted smile. He nodded as he glared at them, and finally said, "Look, my wife and Son Razko were murdered in 1995. I was convicted in 1996 and taken away, shackled in the back of a van. That was before the casino was built, so I'm not sure I can really help you. They had to get me out of the way, me and Son, before they could build it. They murdered Son, along with my wife, and they got me convicted for it."

"Do you know who did it?" Hugo asked.

He actually smiled, though the humor did not make it to his eyes. Slowly, he said, "Mr. Hatch, for sixteen years I have said over and over that I do not know who killed my wife and Son Razko. There were some people in the background, some outsiders who eased their way into the picture. Our Chief at the time was a good man who got corrupted. These outside folks got to him, I'm not sure how but I'm sure it involved money, and he became convinced the casino was the answer. Son and I fought back and we won the first vote in 1993. They thought they were going to win and they were laying the groundwork to make a lot of money with the casino and the land around it. When our people turned it down the first time, these folks decided to get rid of Son. And me too, I guess. They figured out a way to do it. Son's gone. I'm here. The casino has been printing cash for a decade now."

Lacy asked, "Ever heard the name of Vonn Dubose?"

He paused and seemed to flinch slightly. It was obvious his answer would be yes, so when he said no, they both made a note. That would be an interesting conversation on the ride home. "Remember," he said, "I've been gone for a long time. Fifteen years here in solitary eats away at your soul, your spirit, and your brain. I've lost a lot, and I can't always remember what I should."