Boca Mournings by Steven M Forman

Author:Steven M Forman [Forman, Steven M]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction/Thrillers/Legal
ISBN: 9781640190719
Publisher: New Word City, Inc.
Published: 2017-05-22T22:00:00+00:00

Two days after meeting with Noah Paretsky I received a call from the Ministry of Justice regarding Randolph Buford.

“Mr. Perlmutter,” the minister’s secretary said politely. “I’m pleased to inform you that your request regarding Randolph Buford has been approved.”

You’re kidding.

“That’s good news,” I said.

“I agree,” she said. “We still require approval from the district attorney’s office, the state attorney general’s office, and the judge. But, we are ready to proceed from our end.”

I thanked her, said goodbye, and placed a call to Bobby Byrnes, the twenty-eight-year-old public defender who had been assigned the Buford case after Aryan Army deserted.

“Bobby, we got approval from the Ministry of Justice,” I told him. “I assume your client still wants the deal?”

“Absolutely,” Byrnes assured me.

“Good. Make an appointment to see the Assistant DA,” I told him.

“The sooner the better,” Byrnes said. “The death threats just keep rolling in.”

“How’s his mother holding up?”

“She moved into a low-rent apartment by herself,” he told me.

“What about her husband and daughter?” I asked. I hadn’t heard about the move.

“They went back to South Carolina,” Byrnes said. “When the old man learned about the settlement his wife and son made with the government he took his daughter and ran back to the compound.”

“Did Aryan Army take him back?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Byrnes said. “I’m just glad I don’t have to deal with him anymore. He’s a bad man.”

“His wife says he was just a typical kid from South Carolina,” I said.

“No, he’s not,” Byrnes disagreed. “I’m a typical kid from South Carolina.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Go Game-Cocks,” he gave a half-hearted cheer. “I’m from Columbia and I know a lot of typical kids from that state. I can assure you Buford’s not one of them. Buford’s not typical of anything from South Carolina except Aryan Army.”

“Point well taken,” I said.

I met Bobby Byrnes at the West Palm Beach DA’s office the following afternoon. We were escorted into Assistant DA Barry Daniels’s office immediately. I had only seen Daniels once, from a distance, at the Palm Beach Courthouse on the day Randolph Buford shot himself in the foot with a policeman’s pistol. That day Daniels looked as if he had just made a motion in his pants but today he looked cool and confident. He sat behind his desk wearing an Assistant DA’s navy blue suit, crisp white shirt, and a striped tie. When we shook hands, I noticed my proposal was on his desk.

“Have you read it?” I asked, indicating the stack of papers.

“Yes. Interesting. In fact, very clever,” he said.

“What does the DA think?” I wanted to know.

“He passed the buck and left the decision to me.”

“What’s your decision?” I asked.

“Personally, I’d rather see this guy get the gas chamber,” he said, deadpan.

“There is no gas chamber in Florida,” Bobby Byrnes pointed out quickly.

“I’m joking, Bobby,” Daniels said.

“Oh, sorry, David,” Byrnes turned red.

“There are a lot of people who share your opinion about Buford,” I said, “but I’m hoping for a better result.”

Daniels nodded and turned to Byrnes.

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