Keith was satisfied and offered a smile. “That’s all I ask.”
Beasley eyed him carefully and said, “We’ll make it happen, Keith, and as soon as possible. One question, though, is whether you’re ready for it. You’re considered the victim of the crime, you and your family. It’s a unique case in which the victim wields such enormous power over the machinery of death. Some observers have already brought up the issue of a conflict of interest.”
“I’ve read every word, Witt, and I understand what they’re saying. I’m not bothered by it. The people elected me as their AG knowing full well that my father was murdered by Hugh Malco and it would be my responsibility to defend the State against his appeals. I will not be distracted by a handful of critics. Damn the press.”
“Very well.”
Witt left the meeting and returned to his office a few doors away. Alone, he chuckled to himself at the AG’s rather lame effort to feign disinterest in the press. Few politicians in recent history had shown greater affection for cameras than Keith Rudy.
* * *
For the first three months of each year, the electorate held its collective breath as the state legislature convened at the capitol. The city of Jackson felt under siege as 144 elected lawmakers, all veteran politicians, arrived from every corner of the state with their staffs, entourages, lobbyists, agendas, and ambitions.
Thousands of bills, virtually all of them useless, were thrashed about in dozens of committees. Important hearings drew little attention. Floor debates dragged on before empty galleries. The House spent weeks killing the bills passed by the Senate, which, at the same time, was busy killing the bills passed by the House. Little was accomplished; little was expected. There were enough laws already on the books to burden the people.
As the State’s attorney, Keith’s office had the responsibility of representing every agency, board, and commission in existence, and it took three dozen lawyers to do so. At times during his first months in office, he felt like nothing more than a well-paid bureaucrat. His long days were filled with endless staff meetings as proposed legislation was monitored. At least twice a day he stood at the large window of his splendid office, gazed across the street to the capitol, and wondered what the hell they were doing over there.
Once a week, at precisely 8:00 a.m. on Wednesday, he had a fifteen-minute cup of coffee with Witt Beasley and got the latest update on the appeals of Hugh Malco. With glacier-like speed, they were inching along the federal docket.
In early May, he was informed that Lance Malco would be released in July, eight years and three months after pleading guilty to operating a house of prostitution. Keith admitted it was a harsh sentence for a relatively harmless offense, but he didn’t care. Lance had committed far more serious crimes in his violent career and deserved to die in prison like his son.
Of far more importance, Keith would always be convinced that Lance ordered the hit on Jesse Rudy. Short of a dramatic confession, though, it would never be proven.
* * *
As if to herald his return to civilian life, or perhaps to simply limber up for the tasks ahead, Lance, still in prison, sent a message.
For the past six years, Henry Taylor had served his time in a series of county jails throughout the state. With each transfer he was given a new name and a slightly modified background. Each new sheriff was leaned on by the state police and told to take care of the boy, treat him well, perhaps even allow him to help around the jail as a trustee. The sheriffs were assured the inmate was not dangerous but had simply run afoul of some narco-traffickers somewhere along the Coast. Each sheriff ran his own little kingdom and rarely shared notes with his colleagues next door.
Late one afternoon, Henry was running errands. He left the circuit clerk’s office with a stack of juror subpoenas to be taken to the sheriff’s office for service the following day. As a trustee, he wore a white shirt and blue khakis with a white band down the leg, a warning to all that he was a resident of the Marshall County jail. No one cared. Trustees came and went and were common sightings around the courthouse. As he was about to leave through the rear door, a steel club landed at the base of his neck and knocked him out cold. He was dragged to a small, dark utility closet. With the door locked, he was choked to death with a two-foot section of nylon ski rope. His body was stuffed in a cardboard box. His assailant stepped out of the closet, closed the door, locked it behind him, and eased into a restroom with two urinals and one stall. At 4:50 p.m., a janitor entered, glanced around, and turned off the light. The assailant was in the stall, crouching on the lid of the toilet.