“So, he took some cash?”
“More than likely.” He rubbed his thinning hair and looked almost pale. “I can’t believe this, Jesse. Almost thirty years on the bench and I’ve never seen this before.”
“Jury tampering is rare, Judge, but it happens. We shouldn’t be surprised given the number of outlaws around here. The problem is proving it.”
“You have a plan?”
“Yes. I’m not pushing for a retrial until the supreme court decides the nuisance case. If we win that, then I’ll hound Ginger until I get her back in the courtroom and in front of a jury. In the meantime, I’ll scare the hell out of Joe Nunzio.”
“Paul Dewey and Chick Hutchinson are the other two. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
“As always, Your Honor, I heard nothing from you.”
* * *
The mistrial calmed the Strip like a gin martini. Carousel was still open. Ginger had kicked ass in court, walked out free as a bird, and was back at her desk. The hotshot DA with all of his lofty promises was flaming out, just another fading reformer.
Within days, the working girls were back in the nightclubs offering their services, but for members only.
Stofer reported to Jesse that as soon as the trial was over, it was as if someone flipped a switch and let the good times roll. He had heard other clubs had installed slots and tables and quietly reopened their casinos.
After three months at Red Velvet, Stofer was slowly fitting in. He started as a janitor, with the unpleasant job of reporting each morning at dawn to clean and mop the dance floors, wipe down the tables, chairs, and collect broken bottles and discarded cans. He worked a ten-hour shift, six days a week, and left each afternoon before the happy hour rush. He never missed a day, was never late for work, and said little but heard as much as possible. After a month, he’d moved to the kitchen when two cooks quit and help was needed.
He was paid in cash and, as far as he knew, there were no records of his employment. The manager had asked if he had a criminal record, and he said yes. For stealing cars. This did not bother the manager in the least, but Stofer was warned to stay away from the cash registers. He kept his head down, his nose clean, and worked overtime whenever he was asked. He found a library book on mixology and memorized every type of booze and every drink, though such knowledge was rarely needed at Foxy’s. He made no friends at work and kept his personal life to himself.
He had no gossip or inside info to report. Jesse was pleased with his progress and told him to continue on course. As soon as possible, get in a few hours behind the bar where he could see and hear much more.
* * *
For his new role, Gene Pettigrew wore starched khakis, a wrinkled navy blazer, and pointed-toe cowboy boots, an ensemble he would never try around the office. In his four years as one of Jesse’s partners, he and his brother Gage had been in more courtrooms than most lawyers under the age of thirty. They were still fighting insurance companies and usually winning. They had honed their litigation skills, and with Jesse cracking the whip from his other office, they were gaining reputations as aggressive trial lawyers.
Now, though, Jesse needed a favor, a bit of undercover work.
Gene found Joe Nunzio where he worked selling auto parts at a store in Gulfport. He was behind the counter, checking a sheet of inventory, when Gene approached with a smile and said in a low voice, “I’m with the district attorney’s office. Got a minute?” He handed over a business card, a new one with a new name designed for his new role. Gene had no training as an investigator but the job couldn’t be that complicated. Jesse could hire whoever he wanted, pay for his business cards, and give him whatever title and name he chose.
Nunzio glanced around, smiled, and asked, “What’s going on?”
“Ten minutes is all I need.”