Sandra Brown - Fat Tuesday

Fat Tuesday [067-011-066-4.9]

By: Sandra Brown

Synopsis:

Precise details change with the ages, but you can bet that the first story ever written had something to do with revenge. Sandra Brown continues the tradition with her latest brick of a book, Fat Tuesday. After a gruff 'n' tuff New Orleans narc, Burke Basile, mistakenly blows a hole in his partner's noggin, he vows revenge--not only on the thug who was directly involved, but also on the sleazy kingpin behind it all. And in finest cop-drama tradition, he vows to do it outside the law. Fat Tuesday only begins to cook after Basile turns in his badge and--mixing charm and coercion--enlists various underworld elements in his cause. It's all a little B movie-ish at times, but for every hooker with a heart of gold, there's a fresher character like Gregory, the homosexual hustler who uses his drama degree to Basile's benefit. The villains are bad (can't go wrong with a lawyer), the heroine good, and the hero a big, wounded warrior looking for true love.

Warner Vision;

ISBN: 0446605581

Copyright 1998

Burke Basile extended the fingers of his right hand, then formed a tight fist. This flexing motion had recently become an involuntary habit."There's not a chance in hell they'll convict."

Captain Douglas spat out, commander of Narcotics and Vice of the New Orleans Police Department, sighed discouragingly."Maybe."

"Not maybe." He'll walk," Burke repeated with resolve.

After a moment, Pat asked, "Why did Littrell assign this particular assistant to prosecute this case? He's a newcomer, been living down here only a few months, a transplant from up north. Wisconsin or someplace.

He didn't understand the ... the nuances of this trial."

Burke, who'd been staring out the window, turned back into the room.

"Pinkie Duvall understood them well enough."

"That golden-tongued son of a bitch. He loves nothing better than to hammer the N.O.P.D and make us all look incompetent."

Although it pained him to compliment the defense lawyer, Burke said, "You gotta hand it to him, Doug, his closing argument was brilliant.

It was blatantly anti-cop, but just as blatantly projustice. All twelve jurors were creaming on every word." He checked his wristwatch.

"They've been out thirty minutes. I predict another ten or so ought to do it."

"You really think it'll be that quick?"

'"Yeah, I do." Burke took a seat in a scarred wooden armchair.

"When you get right down to it, we never stood a prayer. No matter who in the D.A."s office tried the case, or how much fancy legal footwork was done on either side, the sad fact remains that Wayne Bardo did not pull the trigger. He did not fire the bullet that killed Kev."

"I wish I had a nickel for every time Pinkie Duvall said that during the trial," Pat remarked sourly." My client did not fire the fatal bullet." He chanted it like a monk."

"Unfortunately, it's the truth."

They'd tramped this ground at least ten thousand times ruminating, speculating, but always returning to that one irreversible, unarguable, unpalatable certainty: The accused on trial, Wayne Bardo, technically had not shot to death Detective Sergeant Kevin Stuart.

Burke Basile wearily massaged his shadowed eye sockets, pushed back his unkempt wavy hair, smoothed down his mustache, then restlessly rubbed his palms against the tops of his thighs. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. Finally, he set his elbows on his knees and stared vacantly at the floor, his shoulders dejectedly hunched forward.

Pat observed him critically."You look like hell. Why don't you go out and have a cigarette?"

Burke shook his head.

"Coffee? I'll go get it for you, bring it back so you don't have to face the media."

"No, but thanks."

Pat sat down in the chair next to Burke's."Let's not write it off as a defeat yet. Juries are tricky. You think you've got some bastard nailed, he leaves the courthouse a free man. You're practically assured an acquittal, they bring in a guilty verdict, and the judge opts for the maximum sentence. You never can tell."

"I can tell," Burke said with stubborn resignation."Bardo will walk."

For a time, neither said anything to break the heavy silence. Then Pat said, "Today's the anniversary of the Constitution of Mexico."

Burke looked up."Pardon?"

"The Mexican Constitution. It was adopted on February 5. I noticed it on my desk calendar this morning."

"Huh."

"Didn't say how many years ago. Couple of hundred, I guess."

"Huh."

That conversation exhausted, they fell silent again, each lost in his thoughts. Burke was trying to figure out how he was going to handle himself the first few seconds after the verdict was read.

From the start he'd known that there would be a trial. Pinkie Duvall wasn't about to plea-bargain what he considered to be a shoo-in acquittal for his client. Burke had also known what the outcome of the trial would be. Now that the moment of truth was if his prediction proved correct approaching, he geared himself up to combat the rage he knew he would experience when he watched Bardo leave the courthouse unscathed.

God help him from killing the bastard with his bare hands.

A large, noisy housefly, out of season and stoned on insecticide, had somehow found its way into this small room in the Orleans Parish courthouse, where countless other prosecutors and defendants had sweated anxiously while awaiting a jury's verdict. Desperate to escape, the fly was making suicidal little pflats against the windowpane. The poor dumb fly didn't know when he was beaten. He didn't realize he only looked a fool for his vain attempts, no matter how valiant they were.

Burke snuffled a self-deprecating laugh. Because he could identify with the futility of a housefly, he knew he'd hit rock bottom.

When the knock came, he and Pat glanced first at each other, then toward the door, which a bailiff opened. She poked her head inside.

"They're back."

As they moved toward the door, Pat checked the time, murmuring, "Son of a gun. Ten minutes." He looked at Burke."How'd you do that?"

But Burke wasn't listening. His concentration was focused on the open doors of the courtroom at the end of the corridor. Spectators and media streamed through the portal with the excitement of Romans at the Colosseum about to witness the spectacle of martyrs being devoured by lions.

Kevin Stuart, husband, father, damn good cop, and best friend, had been martyred. Like many martyrs throughout history, his death was the result of betrayal. Someone Kev trusted, someone who was supposed to be on his side, furthering his cause, backing him up, had turned traitor.

Another cop had tipped the bad guys that the good guys were on the way.

One secret phone call from someone within the division, and Kevin Stuart's fate had been sealed. True, he'd been killed in the line of duty, but that didn't make him any less dead. He'd died needlessly.

He'd died bloody. This trial was merely the mopping up. This trial was the costly and time-consuming exercise a civilized society went through to put a good face on letting a scumbag go free after ending the life of a fine man.

Jury selection had taken two weeks. From the outset, the prosecutor had been intimidated and outsmarted by the defense attorney, the flamboyant Pinkie Duvall, who had exercised all his preemptory challenges, handpicking a perfect jury for his client with hardly any argument from the opposition.

The trial itself had lasted only four days. But its brevity was disproportionate to the interest in its outcome. There'd been no shortage of predictions.

The morning following the fatal incident, the chief of police was quoted as saying, "Every officer on the force feels the loss and is taking it personally. Kevin Stuart was well respected and well liked among his fellow policemen. We're using all the resources available to us to conduct a complete and thorough investigation into the shooting death of this distinguished officer."