Page 112 of The Wrong Side of the Law

My pulse quickens. Could she possibly have good news for me?

“What’s up?”

“Have a look.” Rita hands me a thick mailer envelope. “I think you’ll like it.”

There is a stack of about thirty sheets of paper in the envelope, held together with a staple at the top of the page. Columns of data cover each sheet, showing names and addresses and amounts of money.

I frown, uncomprehending, at Rita.

“Look!” She stabs a finger at the column headings on the first page.

“Okay, fine. I’m looking. Date… name… address… occupation… employer… race… candidate… amount…”

I still don’t get it, and I open my mouth to ask a question. Rita looks like the cat that ate the canary, though, so smug that I can almost see a yellow feather stuck in her teeth. I look again.

The first row, then. Date, last week. Name, Jason Beecham. Address, someplace in New Hampshire. Occupation, welder. Employer, Granite State Steel. Race, SA-FL21.

SA-FL21?

State Attorney? 21stJudicial District of Florida?

Candidate… Whitehall, JM.

Amount… $2500.00.

“Is this what I think it is?” I ask, not even waiting for Rita’s answer. Of course it’s what I think it is. “Why does someone in New Hampshire care about who the State Attorney is in Point Lookout enough to donate twenty-five hundred bucks?”

“Keep reading,” is Rita’s only answer.

“The next… jeeze, the nextthirteendonors are employees of Granite State Steel. Machinists. Welders. Managers. Every single one of them... even thejanitorgave $2500?”

“Yeah. It’s the max they can give to a single candidate,” Rita answers. “Every donation listed in there is for the max. And every one of them is for Whitehall. And every last one was made within the past week.”

“That’s…” I flip through the pages. The lines are numbered, there’s fifty-five lines per page, and thirty-two pages. “That’s… alotof money,” I say.

“Not quite two thousand individual donations,” Rita says, excitedly, “Totalling up four-point-fourmilliondollars. You asked me for sketchy Whitehall campaign finances, and I delivered. Oh, girl, Idelivered.”

“But what’s the… how are they sketchy? I mean, it’s weird that so many people from New Hampshire care…”

“Oh honey, you need to sleep more. Your brain’s not working!” Rita stabs the paper again. “Granite State Steel. Owned by Grant Trust, Incorporated. Managing Partner? Kendall Harper-Grant. Son of Caroline Harper-Grant, who is the sister of Sherman Lee Grant, the father of…”

She looks at me expectantly. I should know this. I know the name Sherman Lee Grant.

It clicks.

“The father of Robert Ferry. Born Robert Jason Grant.” I look down at the list of donations, mind spinning with the implications of what I’m holding. I flip to another page, listing about twenty donations from North Dakota-based employees of something called Shale Associates. “What about this one?”

“Shale? That goes straight to the Birchall-Jones’,” she says, squinting down at the sheet over my shoulder. “And so do all the rest of them. Every single one of these companies ends up with someone named either Grant or Birchall-Jones.”

“Four million dollars. To Whitehall’s campaign.” My mind boggles at the amount. “And you really think that this is… this is just to put Frank in prison?”

“Could be. But… it sure looks suspicious, doesn’t it?” Rita beams at me. “So, what do you think? Will this help fix things between the two of you?”

“I doubt it,” I sigh, looking down at the list. “But I’m going to give it to him anyway. It won’t make up for anything that I did, but maybe it can help him out with, y’know. The future.”

“Are you ready for it?” she asks.

My eyes start to get itchy at the caring and concern in her voice. Just one more push and I’ll start crying. Again. At least I’m here, though, where nobody else can see.

“Ready for what? Ready for my brother’s trial? Ready to see… him?”

“Either.” Rita says. “Both.”

“It doesn’t matter if I’m ready,” I say. “Ready or not, tomorrow is going to happen.”

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