Camino Winds (Camino Island, #2) by John Grisham Read Online (FREE)
Mayfield took a sip of coffee and continued to stare down Darden. Finally, he put down his cup and addressed Sid. “First, you inform. You have about two weeks to deliver the documents. We need payment routing for the drug. How much and where does the money go? And for how long? Who’s involved in getting the money to the Chinese lab? That’s accounting and that’s your expertise. We also need names of other execs or senior management people who approved of or knew about the drug. Second, we’ll get the indictments and make the arrests. These will be carefully coordinated because Ken Reed is an obvious flight risk. So far, we’ve identified three corporate jets and three homes outside the U.S. You’ll be arrested first, and we’ll do it quietly, discreetly, no one will know. The next day we’ll send in the SWAT team for the big drama. Third, you’ll turn state’s evidence, give us all the affidavits we need, and prepare to testify if necessary. We’ll enter into a plea agreement and ask the judge for leniency.”
“How much leniency?” Sid asked.
“No fines, six months max in jail, home arrest.”
Sid accepted this with an air of resignation. His glory days were over and he’d had a good run. There was plenty of money in the bank and enough time left to rebuild a future. His wife and kids would stick by him, weather the embarrassment and move on. It was, after all, Texas, a land where pasts were easily forgotten if one picked up the pieces and made more money. There was also a certain admiration for outlaws. And, frankly, he had no loyalty to Ken Reed and his inner circle. Most of the men were on their third wives and pursued lifestyles repugnant to Sid’s beliefs. It would be a pleasant day when he walked out of Grattin and never looked back.
F. Max said, “Why can’t we go with immunity? I’d feel much better if my client were immune from prosecution. He can still cooperate fully and you’ll get what you want.”
“There will be no immunity in this case. And that’s from Washington.”
At the insistence of the FBI, and with its offer to foot the bill, Bob Cobb flew from Boston to L.A. where two agents met him outside customs and drove him to their offices on Wilshire Boulevard. He was led to an unmarked suite on the third floor and introduced to an Agent Baskin, who was all smiles. A victory was at hand and everyone seemed to feel it. Baskin walked him across the hall to a small conference room where a technician was waiting. On a large digital screen, the same image of poor old Rick Patterson trying to die came into clear view.
Baskin said, “I understand you’ve already seen some of this.”
Cobb said, “Yes, in Jacksonville.”
“Well, there’s more. This was two days ago.” Around the bed, all jackets had been removed and the five white men appeared to be weary of their interrogations. The U.S. Attorney held a legal pad and spoke down to the witness/patient. “Now, Mr. Patterson, on August the fifth of last year, a writer by the name of Nelson Kerr was murdered on Camino Island, Florida. Were you involved in any way?”