In Plain Sight. Tara Quinn Taylor
a member of the Ivory Nation.” Judge Warren’s nod indicated that he was familiar with the name. The Ivory Nation was one of Arizona’s largest white supremacist organizations and its involvement was suspected in several unsolved murders and numerous other felonies.
“Anyone who’s going to come forward with information against any member of such a group would be putting himself at almost certain risk of retaliation if his identity was disclosed—”
“Mr. Hall’s private memberships have not been proven, nor are they on trial here, Your Honor,” Michaels broke in.
“There was an article in the press two weeks ago and again on Friday,” Jan continued, as if the opposing counsel hadn’t spoken, “claiming Mr. Hall’s alleged association with the Ivory Nation.” The calmness of her voice belied the pounding of her heart. “The state was not responsible for that information, Your Honor, but whether the allegation is true or not, there are now many who believe it. Police officers’ use of informants is common practice,” she said. “Based on evidence gained from informants, we’ve been able to protect the citizens of this state by apprehending, prosecuting and removing from the streets many dangerous threats to society. And how can we ask these citizens, who are willing to come forward for the good of all, to do so without also granting them the protection we seek to provide every citizen? Detective Ruple has been with the Flagstaff police department for twenty years, Your Honor. His record is impeccable. He’s made more arrests than anyone else on the force. But those arrests mean nothing to the people of this state if we don’t support them by prosecuting offenders to the full extent of the law. The use of confidential informants is allowed under the law, Your Honor. I ask that you deny Mr. Michaels’s request.”
Judge Warren was reading something in the file in front of him.
Jacob Hall stood without moving, facing forward, his hands cuffed together in front. The observers behind her maintained a stillness that seemed almost automatic, in deference to the powerful man seated in front of them all.
If he doesn’t grant it, you’ve still got ninety days, Jan reminded herself silently. He did the crimes. You’ll find another way to prove it.
She couldn’t let emotion diminish her ability to think with agility and focus.
“You both make valid points.” Warren’s voice cracked the uneasy silence that had fallen. “I find that I can neither grant the motion nor refuse it, with the limited information provided. Therefore, I’m setting an evidentiary hearing on this motion to be held no later than two weeks from today.” He glanced at Jan, and at his frown, her heart sank.
“Ms. McNeil, bring in your cop and have him fully prepared to give specifics regarding this confidential informant.”
Damn. Damn. And damn. “Yes, sir.”
“Counsel, please approach.”
Without so much as a peripheral glance, Jan passed Jacob Hall, and with Michaels at her side, she stood before the judge’s bench. It took only a few seconds to confer over dates and the hearing was set for Monday, two weeks hence, at eight-thirty in the morning.
She had two weeks to convince a cop with twenty years on the job to do something he’d never done before. Something that could endanger his own life, and the life of someone he’d given his word to, as well.
3
The phone rang moments before the first bus was due to drop off Simon’s youngest group of neighbors on Tuesday afternoon. He glanced at caller ID and then back at the screen in front of him. With a click, he maximized the manuscript he’d minimized in order to play freecell, covering the game he hadn’t won yet rather than closing it. He had a ninety-one-percent win ratio and he wasn’t about to see that drop because he’d quit a game.
Going rate for methamphetamine in Arizona (prices vary by state).
Simon read what he’d written half an hour before and waited for the ringing to stop. He checked the time in the lower right corner of his screen. Two minutes until the bus. Fingers on the keyboard, he deliberated over bullet choices. Made a decision. A pointing finger.
1/4 gram—$25.
One minute until the bus. The phone sounded again. Same number. The FBI agent was persistent. He picked up.
“Hello, Olsen. What can I do for you?” Simon said, eyes focused on the corner outside, waiting for the bus. After all, what else did he have to do with his day but munch on carrot sticks and watch other peoples’ kids get safely home from school?
“A map found at the Snowbowl corroborates the girlfriend’s story.”
Simon didn’t say the choice words he was thinking. “Who found it?” How legitimate was it?
“Full-time custodian. An older guy who’s been there close to ten years. Keeps to himself. He was cleaning a locker and found the folded sheet caught between two pieces of metal at the bottom.”
“Like it was planted there?”
“Like it dropped out of something.”
The better of the two scenarios.
“Someone lost it and doesn’t know where.”
“That’d be my guess.”
“Who used the locker last?” Not that it mattered to him. He hadn’t agreed to anything.
“A student of Leonard Diamond.”
The white man with the background that was apparently untraceable, or was traceable to contradicting places, who privately trained cross-country skiers and paid the Snowbowl for use of the facilities. Or so he’d said. The FBI had a tip that suggested something different.
“Was the student male or female?”
“Male.”
“An old piece of paper obviously left behind. Why did the custodian keep it? Turn it in? Why not just throw it away?” Those questions belonged to the agents and local police detective on the case, not to Simon. He didn’t want them.
“It incorporated every inch of the Snowbowl property, but it wasn’t like any other map of the Snowbowl he’d ever seen. The trails on the map aren’t standard Snowbowl trails. The way they’re engineered, only the most proficient skier could hope to master them or even make it over them alive. Turns out they aren’t sanctioned, which means they shouldn’t exist. The map was detailed, computer-generated, possibly one of many. Snowbowl officials contacted us.”
“Someone spoke to Diamond?”
“Never saw the map before in his life.” Scott Olsen’s mimicking voice made clear his lack of trust in the other man’s word.
“And the student?”
“Quit the class.”
“Let me guess,” Simon said. “The guy left no forwarding address and Diamond had no personal information on him.”
“Correct.”
“So how does a map of nonexistent trails tie in with a disgruntled girlfriend’s tale of hearing about terrorist training?”
Simon didn’t want to know. Deep in his soul, if he still had a soul, he didn’t want to know.
“Marking the beginning and ending of each trail was an emblem. A circle with three crosses in the top half and a blackened dagger at the bottom.”
Just as Amanda Blake—the disgrunteld ex-girlfriend of an acquaintance of Diamond’s—had told it.
“I’m not the right man for this job.”
“You had a master’s degree in law enforcement at twenty-three and you were one of the youngest under-cover agents the FBI ever had. You have antiterrorist training.”
“That was a long time ago.” And ultimately all that preparation