Chapter 4 - The Unpacking of the Evidence
The cell block at five o'clock that evening was dark, the automated security lights on the exterior walls of the Huntsville unit having activated twenty minutes early due to a heavy thunder ridge moving north from the Gulf coast. The sound of the rain was a distant, high-frequency rattle against the corrugated steel roofing plates of the main corridor.
I sat on the concrete bunk with my hands un-shackled, a clean white legal pad resting on my knees. Across from me, sitting on a low plastic stool that had been brought in from the guard station, was Harris, my defense attorney. His hair was wet from the storm, his tie loosened until the top button of his shirt showed the gray hair of his throat.
"The stay has been granted for forty-eight hours, Gavin," he said, his fingers turning the pages of a new federal transcript with a fast, nervous motion. "The Texas Court of Criminal Appeals executed the order at sixteen-forty-two. The governor's legal counsel signed the modification after the Galveston toll logs were entered into the central database."
"Where is Chloe?" I asked, my voice remaining level as I watched a small bead of water move down the seam of the cell door frame.
"She’s at the county office in Conroe," Harris said. "The social worker is holding her under a special witness protection rider until the grand jury can review the new indictments against Thomas Lucian. Gavin, the family has already cleared two of their container boats from the Red Hook pier. They know the ledger has cleared the wall."
"They won't clear the third boat, Harris," I said, my hand closing around the pencil. "The Lucian Pride has a cracked stabilizer housing that can't be repaired without using the dry dock at Spruce Island. If Thomas tries to clear the channel before the harbor marshal signs the customs clearance, the vessel will lose its prime before it clears the breakwater."
I turned the legal pad over, drawing a simple, five-point diagram of the Houston ship channel from memory—the exact coordinates of the old oil docks, the underwater pipelines, and the hidden slips where the family had stored their unrecorded inventory since the winter of 2018.
"Tell the federal agents to look at the lower hull plates of the Pride," I said, my pencil making a dark, heavy circle near the mouth of the river. "The secondary serial numbers are welded beneath the zinc sacrificial anodes. Thomas didn't change the registration; he simply covered the old markings with three coats of marine epoxy."
The door of the cell block made a long, heavy clanking sound as the primary lock bolts retracted. Warden Mitchell walked down the narrow aisle alone, his uniform coat unbuttoned, a small yellow paper slip held between his thumb and index finger.
"The federal marshal has just executed the arrest warrant for Thomas Lucian at his residence in River Oaks, Cole," the warden said, standing outside the bars with his hands in his pockets. "They found thirty-two thousand dollars in cash and three passports inside his vehicle's spare tire well. He was trying to clear the gate lane when the county cruisers blocked the exit."
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He looked at my diagram on the legal pad, his grey eyes carrying a dry, professional respect that lacked any personal warmth.
"The state’s case is completely dead, Gavin," he said. "The attorney general will file for a permanent dismissal of the capital indictment before the morning session opens at nine. You’ll be out of the orange cotton before the noon meal is served to the main block."
