Free The Hearing by James Mills Page A

seconds he said, “Why do you say that?”
    “Because … I am thinking of the airport.”
    Harrington didn’t understand. “Yes?”
    “And the suitcases.”
    Still in the dark. “Yes?”
    “There was four million dollars in the suitcases.”
    Oh,
that
airport,
those
suitcases. “Okay.”
    “You’re not surprised, when I tell you that?”
    “Should I be?”
    “They
counted
three million, Mr. Harrington. Three million one hundred eighty-six thousand and four hundred, to be exact.”
    “You have a good memory.”
    “It was my money.”
    “What are you saying?”
    “What am I
saying
?” Vicaro wheezed, pushing himself heavily back into an upright position. “I am
saying
that Judge Augustus Parham is a thief.”
    “Why is he a thief?”
    “Because he
stole
eight hundred thirteen thousand and six hundred dollars. Out of the suitcases.”
    This was ridiculous. If Gus Parham had been after money he’d have accepted the offer Harrington made in his Montgomery office.
     But that had been vague promises. This was stacked cash, right before his eyes. People who had never seen four million dollars
     in hundred-dollar bills didn’t understand. The sheer blaze of it could burn principles to a crisp.
    “What makes you so sure?”
    “I was there when the four million went into the suitcases. I counted it. Parham said he sent the cop—Carlos somebody—to the
     phone to call for help. So while the cop was gone, he scooped up a few handfuls, stuffed them into his briefcase, pockets,
     whatever. The
fact
is, when they counted the money at the bank, there was only three million one hundred and eighty-six thousand and four hundred
     dollars. Eight hundred thirteen thousand and six hundred dollars was missing. Parham took it.”
    “That’s very interesting.”
    True or not, Harrington didn’t care. If it was true, it’d be easier to prove. But even not true, it might be made into a credible
     allegation. When you wanted to destroy a nomination, credible allegations were all it took.
    “That’s what you call it?
Interesting?
”
    “It’s more than that, Ernie. But it’s your word against his.”
    “Maybe not.”
    Vicaro smiled. Those little red baby lips, pulling back from tobacco-stained teeth. Harrington had never seen anything so
     revolting.
    “Tell me your thoughts.”
    “I think the cop—Carlos …”
    “Carl Falco.”
    “Yeah, Falco. Carlos knows.”
    “What makes you say that?”
    “He was there, right? Maybe he got some too. They’re good friends, I hear.”
    Harrington thought it over. Vicaro could swear out an affidavit. It wouldn’t be worth anything, a convicted felon accusing
     the prosecutor who locked him up, but it’d be a piece of paper, a document. Carl Falco, a conspiracy between him and Gus,
     that was—
no one
would believe that. But Vicaro. An affidavit. Maybe. Yeah. The more he thought about it, the better it got. Handled
just
right. He’d give it to Helen Bondell. She’d know how to make the most of it.
    Carl saw him on the corner across the street from the Montgomery DEA office, just standing there, doing nothing. He did not
     look like a man who stands on street corners doing nothing.
    Carl turned right, headed for the garage where he parked his car, and heard footsteps at his back. He stopped at the corner.
     The steps stopped. He crossed against the light. The steps followed. Outside the garage, Carl stopped, turned, and faced the
     man.
    “Was there something you wanted to ask me?”
    The man was young, early thirties, small, tanned, nice-looking. His dark gray suit jacket fit like another layer of skin.
     The laced shoes were black and shiny. His smile, filled with charm, matched his friendly eyes. Carl had never seen him before,
     but he knew him. An attorney, good school, ambitious, sharp, fun to be with until he started chewing on your liver.
    “Excuse me for following you. I wanted to talk to you, but I wasn’t sure how to make the approach.”
    That’ll be the