Light of Day, page 1
LIGHT OF DAY
Copyright © 2024 by Webb Hubbell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information, storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Author. This is a work of fiction. Any characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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To:
Suzy, my sister Patti Sharp, and George
PROLOGUE
THE DIRECTOR OF NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE watched closely as the men and women he summoned to the West Wing read the one-page document placed in front of each person. He knew them all and respected most: the heads of the FBI and CIA, the Deputy Attorney General, the Secretary of Homeland Defense, the Deputy Secretary of Treasury and, of course, the President’s Chief of Staff. At his nod, an aide walked around the table, picking up each document; there would be no leaks if he could help it.
He scanned the room one more time before he spoke, using silence to convey the seriousness of what he was about to say.
“This software must never see the light of day. Its development would cause immediate and serious harm to our nation’s security and no telling how badly it would affect the economy.”
A similar meeting was taking place in the large conference room at the Dooley Law Firm in Silicon Valley. Despite antitrust concerns, the participants were the CEOs of a group of influential technology companies. Jim Dooley, founder of the firm and respected advisor to many of these companies, had called the meeting. He was unaware of the White House gathering when he spoke. “This code must be destroyed; it must never see the light of day. The mere possibility of its existence is concern enough: this one product could wipe out your market valuations in a single day and thrust the entire world into a depression.”
The result of both meetings was the same. The attendees were to do whatever was necessary to make sure the software in question simply disappeared. The word “whatever” was the telling directive.
1
I WAS IN A BAD MOOD. My lanky body didn’t fit in the narrow second-row seat of the plane, but it had been my only choice. Fortunately, my seatmate was a small, stylishly dressed woman who had returned my smile with a glare and buried her head in a paperback for the flight. I stared glumly at the city emerging from the clouds as the smallish commuter jet began its approach into New Orleans. Clovis Jones had called yesterday to tell me I’d been summoned to lunch with the men who controlled organized crime in the state of Louisiana. I’d known this day would come—it was an invitation I couldn’t refuse.
The meeting was to take place at Charlie’s Steak House in Uptown. I’d heard the radio ads for Charlie’s: “There’s nothing fancy about Charlie’s, just a great steak, a cold drink, and a good time.” A good time was the last thing I anticipated.
As I stepped onto the jetway the blast of intense, muggy heat reminded me why I seldom came to New Orleans in the summer. I was a Washington, DC anti-trust attorney. I’d paid my dues, working first for the Department of Justice and then for a multi-national law firm before establishing my own offices in an old, unassuming building near the White House. I now split my time between my anti-trust clients and Red Shaw, a successful defense contractor and owner of the NFL’s San Antonio Lobos.
Why had I dropped everything to meet with the heads of Louisiana’s organized crime? The answer was simple—I owed them. Years earlier, during a highly charged lawsuit, the opposition had hired an assassin to kill my daughter Beth, who then lived in New Orleans. I learned of the plot through an unlikely acquaintance who convinced me to hire a New Orleans “family” to provide her protection. The syndicate dealt with the issue quickly and efficiently, and I had continued to employ their services to ensure Beth’s safety when she and her fiancé moved to St. Louis. They were very discreet—neither Beth or Jeff had any idea she could be in danger, and I slept much better knowing my daughter was safe. I knew that one day the true cost of my daughter’s safety would be exacted. Someday my phone would ring, and the syndicate would ask for a favor. Today was that day.
Why would a respected lawyer get in bed with a crime syndicate? The answer is both simple and complicated. The simple answer is that I would do anything to protect my daughter. Beth is my only child and, since the death of my wife more than five years ago, she is my only family.
The more complicated answer dealt with the nature of the practice of law. A well-trained lawyer has been taught that everyone is entitled to a defense and zealous advocacy on his or her behalf. That training, coupled with experience, gives most lawyers the ability to see beyond their client’s faults and alleged crimes.
The only person in my circle of friends who knew about this arrangement with the ‘family’ was Clovis Jones, my good friend and occasional bodyguard, who was waiting at the taxi stand on Level One. A former All-American linebacker at Middle Tennessee State, Clovis manages a security business in Little Rock and has saved my life more than once. He’d volunteered to be the contact between me and the syndicate and didn’t hesitate when I asked him to join me in New Orleans.
As the cab carried us uptown, I couldn’t help but worry. Most lawyers have a line they won’t cross. My friend and Arkansas co-counsel Micki Lawrence drew the line at representing rapists and sex traffickers. My clients are usually big-business types who’ve run afoul of the government, accused of misdoings based on what I thought of as food for the ego—money, power, and greed. So far, I haven’t refused to represent anyone. What if the syndicate asked me for something I couldn’t give? Could I refuse?
The cab pulled to the curb with a jolt, and I woke from my musings. A small white neon sign flashed—Charlie’s Steak House. When I told Beth I was going to New Orleans to meet an old college buddy, she’d asked if I’d remembered to make reservations for lunch—a necessity I frequently forgot.
“Well, I thought we’d meet for lunch at Charlie’s, sort of break the ice. I haven’t seen him in a long time,” I lied.
“Charlie’s is great,” she said. “Be sure to get the blue cheese salad. But Dad, I’m pretty sure it’s not open for lunch. You’d better check.”
I had checked and was told the meeting would be a private gathering. No other customers.
I suppressed a smile as Clovis frowned at the shiny suits leaning against the late model SUVs that lined the narrow street. They looked like caricatures of the types portrayed in old gangster movies, as did the two younger guys lounging near the front entrance. Their function was obvious: no one would enter the restaurant without permission. They followed us through the front door, guiding us to what was the coat room during normal business hours. The search was perfunctory, but efficient.
Clovis gave them a little lip as they opened the door, but the smaller of the two just grinned and pointed toward a man waiting near the host desk. He flashed an easy smile and introduced himself as Royce Peters. I recognized the name as Clovis’ contact with the syndicate whenever we had reason to worry about Beth’s well-being. I always hoped we would never need him again, but I was always wrong.
Royce looked like an aging golf pro. His dark hair was flecked with gray, and a Peter Millar polo highlighted a deep tan. The lines on his face showed the effects of the sun, and one hand absently twirled a pair of sunglasses. His face was marred by the white line of an old scar running from the corner of one eye back toward his ear. He raised a casual hand to my shoulder and said, “Jack, Mr. Thibodeaux has asked that you sit in the open seat next to him. Clovis, you and I will take the table right behind. Okay?”
2
“ROYCE WILL PROVIDE YOU THE DETAILS, but my grandson has run into trouble in your city. A group of major technology companies have sued him in Federal Court. The government has arrested him, taken possession of his computers and cellphone, and seized his bank account. They haven’t allowed anyone from his family to speak with him or have any contact at all. He needs a lawyer, a very good lawyer.”
Not much information, none of it good, but given the scenarios I’d imagined, I was relieved. I rose and said I would be honored to help in any way I could. Thibodeaux stood as well, grasped my outstretched hand, and led me around the table. Each man stood, quietly introduced himself, and extended his hand. I felt as if I were joining a fraternity. Clovis and Royce followed us as we walked toward the front door. Thibodeaux put a hand on my shoulder and said,
“I hope you’ll call me Tom. I’m sorry to have to cut our first meeting short, but as I said, we use these occasional lunches to discuss business. Royce can tell you everything we know about my grandson’s situation. None of us will forget your friendship.”
Without another word he turned back to the table, and Royce again took my elbow, guiding us through the door to a waiting taxi. “I know you must have lots of questions.
Before either of us could say a word, he vanished into the restaurant, carefully closing the door behind him. Clovis turned to face me.
“Well, Jack, what have you gotten us into this time?”
Clovis and I had packed to stay overnight, figuring we could get a room in an airport hotel and catch an early morning flight back to DC. I’d assumed that dinner at one of New Orleans’s classic eateries was out of the question, so we’d planned to eat at the nearest Theo’s. You don’t think of New Orleans and pizza, but neither New York nor Chicago can claim pizza as good as Theo’s. Now we had rooms at the Bienville, and our dinner options seemed to have broadened.
When we’d settled into the cab, Clovis asked, “Have you read or heard anything about the grandson in the press? You’d think a group of tech companies suing a single individual whose computer equipment has been physically seized by the Feds would have made The Post.”
“Not a word, but these days I try to limit my newspaper reading to the sports and the comics. The news is too depressing.”
It wasn’t long before we stood in the small but elegant lobby of the Hotel Bienville. From a quick Google search, I had learned that the building began life as a rice mill in 1835. Both its identity and purpose had changed many times since then. Over the years it had served as a firehouse, an apartment complex, and a boarding house, just a few of its incarnations. The property was acquired in 1972 by the Monteleone family, who had transformed it into the refined space I saw as I approached the front desk. I reached into my pocket, but the receptionist shook a playful finger at me and said, “No, no, Mr. Patterson. Mr. Peters has taken care of everything. Your rooms are on the fourth floor. Here are your key cards.” I wondered how she had recognized me, but decided not to ask.
The bellman escorted us to a spacious suite with two bedrooms separated by a large sitting area. Two small plates, silverware and napkins lay next to a large tray of fruit and cheese on the table, and I noticed that the bar was well-stocked. I saw Clovis give the bar a wistful glance, but he pulled his bag into his bedroom, muttering something about phone calls.
I unpacked, washed my face, and kicked off my shoes—it felt good to relax. I’d been on edge since Clovis’s call the day before, but hopefully my anxiety had been for nothing. I had no idea what kind of trouble the grandson had gotten himself into, but Tom’s request wasn’t unreasonable. The young man needed a DC lawyer, and that’s exactly what I am.
I set up shop with my laptop at the conference table and was quickly engrossed in my work. Red Shaw, the owner of the San Antonio Lobos, was completing a deal with the city of San Antonio to build a state-of-the-art, multi-purpose stadium. Every contract, every letter or email, seemingly every handshake, required my review and approval. I dove into the details, happy to earn my keep.
I was roused from my work by a knock at the door and looked up to see Clovis opening it for Royce and a short, dark-haired woman who carried a box of what appeared to be files. She introduced herself as Lula Gonzalez and dropped the heavy box on the table next to me.
Royce frowned at the untouched bar in the corner and turned to me.
“Hey, where’s your drink? Is there something wrong with the bar?”
I couldn’t help but notice the sharp look he directed toward Lula.
“No, not at all. The bar is perfect. We’ve both been dealing with work.” I saw visible relief in Lula’s face.
“Lula, you know what I like,” Royce barked as he plopped down on the sofa.
“Here, Lula, let me help,” I said, meeting her at the bar before Royce could protest. Lula poured bourbon over ice for Royce and handed Clovis the beer he asked for. I opened the bottle of Merlot and poured two glasses.
“Is this okay, Lula, or would you rather have something else?”
She nodded her thanks and took the chair Clovis held for her. Royce frowned, clearly annoyed. Too bad—my hotel room, my rules. Lula gave me a cautious smile as I handed her the glass.
I closed my computer and said, “Okay, Royce, what have you got for me?”
Royce took a healthy swallow of bourbon and began, “First, thank you again. One of the lawyers on our payroll would usually handle any charges brought against a family member, but this matter is anything but usual. Your commitment to help solves a big problem.”
“How is this matter different? What exactly is the problem?” I asked.
“First, let me give you some background.” He swirled the bourbon in his glass, taking his time before continuing.
“This young man is a favorite of Mr. Thibodeaux, a grandson who has caused no one trouble—not his mother, not his grandparents, and not the syndicate. He’s a computer genius; his curiosity is boundless. He’s respectful of his elders and has plenty of friends—even a girlfriend, although I haven’t met her. But he spends most of his time in front of a computer screen.”
“Sounds like a thousand other kids in Silicon Valley,” I responded easily.
“Oh, I think you’ll find he’s much smarter than the average computer nerd, which brings me to why this case is out of the ordinary. This young man…”
“Does the young man have a name?” I interrupted.
“Yes, of course he has a name,” he snapped, but recovered quickly. “Please forgive me—I’m not used to… Well, his name is David, David Ruple. He grew up in New Orleans, went to high school at Country Day, and got a degree in both computer science and math at Santa Clara in California. After he graduated, he moved to DC and started a software design and consulting company with two college friends.”
“Sounds innocent enough.” I commented, wondering why David had left the West Coast.
“Yes. And as far as we know, it is. David has never been involved in the family businesses. He made spending money in high school repairing computers and teaching his friends’ parents how to use them. He went to college on a scholarship, again earning money on the side consulting.”
“What about the company David started? Is it still doing business? Did Mr. Thibodeaux invest in it or provide any seed money?” I asked.
“Why do you ask? Surely David’s troubles couldn’t get Mr. Thibodeaux in danger or in trouble with the Feds.” A slight stammer in his voice betrayed a new anxiety.
“It’s a stretch,” I said with a shrug. “But I wonder if David’s troubles might be an indirect way to go after Mr. Thibodeaux and even his associates. It’s a well-known government strategy to go after a weak family link with threats of prosecution to get him to talk. Spouses, siblings, even mothers, have been held as ransom by the Feds for cooperation or a plea.”
“We are aware of these tactics,” he said, his manner again confident. “That’s why all the heads of the families were at today’s meeting. David’s problems must remain David’s alone. Your presence helped calm the waters. You, Mr. Patterson, are the perfect solution.” He smiled and raised his glass to me. “His grandson will be well represented, and you have no known ties to the syndicate.”
“Did any family member invest in David’s business?” I asked, choosing to ignore his gesture.
“Mr. Thibodeaux would have, but David never asked. I know this is hard to believe, but David hasn’t asked for money from anyone, not even his mother, since he graduated from high school.”
I raised a doubtful eyebrow and he responded, “No, really—David and his friends started the company and ran it on their own. As far as I know, even his mother has no interest in it. Sure, she cooked for him sometimes and bought him clothes, but that was about it. Family members are constantly asking Mr. Thibodeaux for money or a job, but not David.”
“You’ve mentioned David’s mother several times. Does David’s father work for either the syndicate or Mr. Thibodeaux?”
Royce glanced at Lula, who had yet to say a word. “David’s father suffered an untimely death some years ago. I prefer not to discuss what happened or why.” He went to the bar to fill his empty glass.
