"He caught pneumonia in November of '91, and almost died. It scared him. We fixed his will again. He wanted to leave some of the money to his local church, the rest to the remnants of the Confederacy. He picked out his cemetery plot, made his burial arrangements. I brought up the idea of a living will, so he wouldn't be kept alive by machines. He liked it, and he insisted that I be designated as the person to pull the plug, in consultation with his doctors, of course. Clovis was tired of the nursing home, tired of the loneliness, tired of life. He said his heart was right with God, and he was ready to go.
"The pneumonia came back with a fury in early January of '92. I had him transferred to the hospital here in Biloxi so I could watch him. I went by every day, and I was the only visitor old Clovis ever had. No other friends. No relatives. No minister. Not one single person but me. He deteriorated slowly, and it became apparent he would never leave. He lapsed into a coma, never to return. They put him on a respirator, and after about a week of that the doctors said he was brain dead. We, myself and three doctors, read his living will together, then turned off the respirator."
"What day was it?" Sandy asked.
"February 6, 1992."
Sandy exhaled, closed his eyes tightly, and slowly shook his head.
"He didn't want a church service because he knew no one would come. We buried him in a cemetery outside Wiggins. I was there, as a pallbearer. Three old widows from the church were there, crying, but you got the impression they had cried over every burial in Wiggins in the past fifty years. The minister was there, and he dragged with him five elderly deacons to act as pallbearers. Two other folks were there, for a total of twelve. After a brief service, Clovis was laid to rest."
"It was a pretty light casket, wasn't it?" Sandy said.
"Yes it was."
"Where was Clovis?"
"His spirit was rejoicing with the saints."
"Where was his body?"
"On the porch of my cabin, in a freezer."
"You sick puppy."
"I didn't kill anybody, Sandy. Old Clovis was singing with the angels when his remains got burned up. I figured he wouldn't mind."
"You have an excuse for everything, don't you, Patrick?"
Patrick's legs hung from the side of his bed. His feet were six inches from the floor. He didn't respond.
Sandy paced around a bit, then leaned on the wall. He was only slightly relieved to learn his friend had not killed anyone. The thought of burning a corpse seemed almost as repulsive.
"Let's hear the rest of it," Sandy said. "I'm sure you have everything mapped out."
"I've had time to think about it, yes."
"I'm listening."
"There's a Mississippi penal statute on grave-snatching, but it wouldn't apply to me. I didn't steal Clovis from the grave. I took him from his casket. There's another statute dealing with mutilating a corpse, and it's the only one Parrish can stick on me. It's a felony, and carries up to one year in jail. I figure that if that's all they can use, then Parrish will push very hard for the one year."
"He can't let you walk away."
"No, he can't. But here's the catch. He won't know about Clovis unless I tell him, but I have to tell him before he'll drop the murder charges. Now, telling him about Clovis is one thing, but testifying in court is another. He can't make me testify in court if he tries me for mutilation. He'll be pressured to try me for something, because, as you say, he can't allow me to walk away. He can try me, but he can't convict me because I'm the only witness and there's no way to prove the burned body was that of Clovis."
"Parrish is screwed from all sides."
"Correct. The federal charges are gone, and when we drop this bomb Parrish will feel enormous heat to nail me for something. Otherwise, I walk."
"So what's the plan?"
"Simple. We take the pressure off Parrish and allow him to save face. You go to Clovis' grandchildren, tell them the truth, offer them some money. They'll certainly have the right to sue me once the truth is known, and you can assume they'll do it. Their suit isn't worth much because they ignored the old man most of their lives, but it's a safe bet they'll sue anyway. We cut them off at the pass. We settle with them quietly, and in return for the money they agree to pressure Parrish not to press charges."
"You scheming bastard."
"Thank you. Why won't it work?"
"Parrish can prosecute you regardless of the family's wishes."
"But he won't because he can't convict me. The worst scenario for Parrish is to take me to trial and lose. It's much safer for him to hit the back door now, use the family as an excuse, and avoid the embarrassment of losing a high-profile case."
"Is this what you've been thinking about for the past four years?"
"It has crossed my mind, yes."
Sandy began pacing along the foot of the bed, deep in thought, his mind clicking away and trying to keep up with his client's. "We have to give Parrish something," he said, almost to himself, still walking.
"I'm more concerned with myself than Parrish," Patrick said.
"It's not just Parrish. It's the system, Patrick. If you walk away, then you've effectively bought your way out of jail. Everybody looks bad but you."
"Maybe I'm only concerned with me."
"So am I. But you can't humiliate the system and expect to ride off into the sunset."
"Nobody made Parrish run and get a capital murder indictment. He could've waited a week or two. No one made him announce it to the press. I have no sympathy for him."
"Neither do I. But this is a hard sell, Patrick."
"Then I'll make it a bit easier. I'll plead guilty to the mutilation, but with no jail time. Not one single day. I'll go to court, plead guilty, pay a fine, let Parrish get credit for a conviction, but then I'm outta here."
"You'll be a convicted felon."
"No, I'll be free. Who in Brazil will care if I get a slap on the wrist?"
Sandy stopped the pacing and sat on the bed beside him. "So you'll go back to Brazil?"
"It's home, Sandy."
"And the girl?"
"We'll either have ten kids, or eleven. We haven't decided."
"How much money will you have?"
"Millions. You gotta get me out of here, Sandy. I have another life to live."
A nurse barged through the door, flipped on a light switch, and said, "It's eleven o'clock, Patty. Visiting hours are over." She touched his shoulder. "You okay, sweetie?"
"I'm fine."
"You need anything?"
"No thanks."
She left as fast as she came. Sandy picked up his briefcase. "Patty?" he said.
Patrick shrugged.
"Sweetie?"
Another shrug.
Sandy thought of something else when he got to the door. "A quick question. When you drove the car off the road, where was Clovis?"
"Same place as always. Strapped in the passenger's seat. I put a beer between his legs and wished him farewell. He had a smile on his face."
Chapter 38
BY 10 A.M. in London, the wiring instructions for the return of the loot had not yet arrived. Eva left her hotel and took a long walk along Piccadilly. With no particular destination and no schedule, she drifted with the crowd, gazed at the store windows, and enjoyed life on the sidewalk. Three days in solitary had sharpened her appreciation for the sounds and voices of people hurrying about. Lunch was a warm goat cheese salad in the corner of a crowded ancient pub. She absorbed the light, happy voices of people who had no clue as to who she was. And they didn't care.