“Who’s the guy on your right?”
“White dude named Jimmy Lee Gray. Raped and killed his girlfriend’s three-year-old daughter. Says he killed others. Real prince of a guy.”
“So he admits his crimes. I thought most of the guys here claimed to be innocent.”
“No one’s innocent here, Lance. And these guys love to brag about their murders, at least to each other.”
“And you feel safe?”
“Sure. Death row is the safest place in prison. There’s no contact with other inmates. I get one hour a day in the yard, a little sunshine to work on my tan, but I’m all alone.”
Both lit cigarettes and blew clouds at the ceiling. Lance was filled with pity for his son, a thirty-year-old boy who should be enjoying life on the Coast, chasing the girls he’d always chased, running the clubs that practically ran themselves, counting the days until his father came home and life returned to normal. Instead he was locked in a cubbyhole in a terrible prison and would probably die in a gas chamber just around the corner. Pity, though, was something Lance had learned to put away. They, father and son, had made their choices. They fancied themselves tough gangsters and had flouted the law for decades. They believed the old adage: “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.”
And for Lance Malco, at least, the crime wasn’t finished.
Chapter 52
The elections of 1979 were quieter than usual. Fats Bowman was unable to convince anyone to run against him, so he coasted to another four-year term, his fifth. With gambling and prostitution under control, his “protection” rackets were seriously curtailed and the criminals didn’t need him. The strip clubs and bars were still busy, but with nothing illegal to offer they had little to fear. The pesky state police maintained a presence with undercover agents and informants. The city of Biloxi had a new administration and its chief of police was determined to keep the nightclubs in line. The Malco boys were serving time and their underlings still ran the businesses, but the other crime lords were content to obey the laws. The DA was a hotshot who wasn’t afraid of them.
In need of revenues, Fats envisioned a gold mine working with drug traffickers.
* * *
In April of 1980, the Mississippi Supreme Court unanimously upheld the capital murder conviction of Hugh Malco. His lawyers filed thick briefs and asked the Court to reconsider, another step on a long road. Months would pass before the Court ruled again.
* * *
In June, Keith received a phone call from a stranger who claimed to have a letter smuggled out of Parchman. He drove to a café in Gulfport and met with a man with only one name: Alfonso. His story was that he was a close friend of one Haley Stofer, a drug runner Jesse had sent to Parchman for fifteen years in 1975.
Nothing about Alfonso warranted even the slightest level of trust, but Keith was intrigued. The man explained that he had visited Stofer at Parchman and was asked to deliver a letter to Keith. He handed over a sealed envelope with d.a. keith rudy printed in block letters on the front, then lit a cigarette and watched Keith open it.
Dear Mr. Rudy: Sorry about your father. He sent me away five years ago on a drug smuggling charge, of which I was guilty. So I have no ill will toward him. At the time I was involved with some traffickers out of New Orleans. Through contacts there, I am in possession of highly valuable information regarding the involvement of your sheriff in smuggling operations. The drugs, primarily cocaine, enter the country through New Orleans and are air-dropped to a certain farm in Stone County, property owned by your sheriff. I can provide more information, but in return I want out of prison. I swear I know what I’m talking about. I swear I am legitimate. Thanks for your time, Haley Stofer.
Keith thanked Alfonso, left with the letter, and returned to his office. Since Jesse’s files had been destroyed in the bomb blast, Keith went to the circuit clerk’s office and dug through the old records. He found the Haley Stofer file and read it with great interest.