Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [73]
“You’re finished,” Christine announced crisply. From her briefcase she produced a thick manila file.
Boone laughed sharply. “Sugar, you been tryin’ to nail my ass since you first got to town. I told you then and I’ll repeat it now: it can’t be done. Not by you, anyway. Want a drink?”
“No.” She laid three legal documents side by side on his desk. One of them was fifty-seven pages; the other two were much shorter. The oral interviews had been completed by ten-thirty. Finding somebody to transcribe them so quickly had proved an ordeal.
“I think you ought to read Irma Clayton’s first,” Christine said, pointing to the thickest affidavit.
Boone shook his head. “Don’t need to, sugar. The woman’s obviously distraught. Her little girl is dead and she’s ready to blame it on somebody, so why not me? The only problem,” Boone continued, “is proof. She says that on the afternoon of August whatever-it-was, I stuffed her little girl with Quaaludes, right? Well, it so happens that a young fella from Key West High by the name of John Henry Russell was with Miss Julie that very afternoon, and it also happens that he saw her gulp down a dozen pills she had bought from some longhair during lunch hour. And in there”— Boone aimed a manicured finger toward a file cabinet—“I have a sworn deposition from young Mr. Russell himself.”
It was Christine’s turn to smile. “I’m disappointed in you, Drake. An old Conch fixer like yourself, and the best you can do is buy off some jock from the local high school.”
Boone poured himself a scotch. “You are wasting my time, Miz Manning,” he said icily. “You’re not gonna pin that girl’s death on me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m sorry it happened—I did know the girl; she liked me, I guess. She’d come around to the office now and then, looking for a little action. I told her to go home, play with somebody her own age. I was nice about it.”
Christine waited placidly across the desk, listening with an expression of unbearable politeness. Boone sensed that he was talking too much.
“I’ll wait while you read the other affidavits,” Christine offered.
Boone set aside Irma Clayton’s and studied one of the short ones. “Kerry McEvoy?”
“One of Julie’s friends.”
Boone shrugged. “Never heard of her.”
“Her nickname is Daisy,” Christine said. “She was also in your office on the afternoon of August fifteenth. Tall girl, nice figure.”
Boone’s mouth turned to powder.
“Looks a lot older than fifteen,” Christine said pleasantly. “Her statement there is only about twelve pages, but she gets right to the heart of the matter. You’ll see that she even uses the proper terminology—fellatio instead of blow job. Right there on page three, Drake. And Kerry is also conversant about certain sadomasochistic practices for which you—by her account—recruited Julie Clayton.”
Boone smiled again, only this time his tile-square teeth did not show. “Christine, who is going to believe this? What jury in Key West is going to believe some junior-high whore?”
“Good point, Drake, and precisely the reason that I bothered with a third affidavit.”
Boone looked at the name and groped for the phone. “Suzanne, no calls.” He tried to pour himself a refill but splattered the desk blotter instead.
“Where the fuck did you get this?”
“The Governor made a phone call,” Christine replied. “Judge Snow was at your little party, was he not?”
“I will fight this the whole way,” Boone snarled. “The jury will never hear a word of this. Not a motherfucking whisper of it. Judge Snow is a known drunk.”
“Is that any way to talk about your old friend?”
Boone wrung his hands under his desk. Every shred of common sense told him to clam up and get a lawyer, but he was a persistently curious man. And his adversary, for God’s sake, was a lady prosecutor. His blow-dried ego would not permit retreat.
“It’s all hearsay, Christine, but still, I am interested in knowing how you—how Judge Snow came to offer this affidavit.”
“Simple. He was