Family Counsel (The Samuel Collins Series Book 2) (25 page)

I was in the hospital for a total of six days with acute
subdural hematoma, along with broken ribs, a bruised kidney, and too many cuts
and bruises to count, courtesy of the ass-kicking I received from Mrs. M’s
henchmen while I was unconscious.  According to my doctors, I’d been tied up,
kicked, stomped and beaten with a blunt object.

The facts came back to me in bits and pieces, no doubt because
the whole tale was too much to take in one dose.  The story unfolded in reverse
order, and it started with a flash of Earl in green. There was a slideshow in
my mind of a huge blast and windows blowing out.  I awoke with a start, sitting
straight up in my hospital bed, yelling for Earl. I had broken out in a sweat
and the sheets were soaked.

Maddie was by my side. “It’s okay, Samuel,” she said
soothingly.  “Everything’s okay.”

“Where’s Earl?” I asked. “What happened to Earl?” 

“Earl’s fine, sweetie,” she said, patting my hand.  “Earl’s
okay.”

“There was an explosion,” I said. “He was still inside,” I
said, trying to remember details, but my mind was too foggy.

Maddie nodded.  “Some oxygen tanks exploded,” she said. “But
Earl got out.  He has some scrapes and bruises, but that’s all.  He was here
earlier to see you.”

“Okay,” I said, settling back in bed. “Good,” I said drowsily,
and I fell back to sleep.

When I woke up another time, Felicia was there, and the next
piece of the puzzle fit into place. I took one look at her and I flashed back
to the hair-in-the-box.

“You were kidnapped,” I remembered.

“That’s right,” Felicia agreed, and she and Maddie looked at
each other hopefully. Felicia had cut off the rest of her hair to match the
butcher job Mrs. M had done on her and she looked like a Pixie.

I followed the thread in my mind. “And
I
was kidnapped!”
I exclaimed.

“That’s right!” Maddie said.

“And Mrs. M’s henchmen beat the crap out of me,” I said, as I
processed more and more tidbits.  “And . . . and . . .” I closed my eyes trying
to remember.  It was right there, but I couldn’t quite grasp it.  And then I
got it.  “And you saved my life,” I told Felicia, then I clarified, “You and
Earl saved my life.”

Felicia took my hand and squeezed it. “The henchmen died in the
blast,” she stated, then she looked at Maddie.  “There’s a reason you don’t
smoke around oxygen, especially with bullets flying.”

“Right?” Maddie said.

“Anyway, good riddance,” Felicia said, and I couldn’t agree
more.

Maybe it was the drugs, or maybe it was the fact that I’d come
within an inch of death, but I was feeling very sentimental towards Maddie’s
cousin.  “I’m really sorry about your brother, Felicia.”

“I know you are,” she said, and she picked up my hand and
kissed the back of it. “You got sentimental on me after I beat up the security
guard at Serenity.”

“I did?”  She nodded and smiled.  I was horrified, but I think
I covered it well. “Did I spill all my secrets?’ I asked.

“Only the deepest and darkest.”

And last but not least was Russ. My mind had not allowed me to
back up enough in the story to remember how it all started until Russ showed up
at the hospital.

“Hey Russ,” I said. And then it all came back. From walking out
into the reception area and finding Mrs. M with her gun, to Russ’s conspicuous
absence, to the thug stabbing me in the leg with the needle, to collapsing in
Mrs. M’s lap.

“Oh shit, are you okay?  What happened to you?”

“More importantly, how are
you,
sir?” he countered.

I waved my hand. “I’m fine. Tell me what happened.”

Russ looked down and shook his head back and forth.  “Mrs.
Mirabella and some goon came in with a gun, and she threatened to kill you if I
didn’t do what she said. They took me back to the library, stabbed me with a
needle, and the next thing I knew, Niki Lautrec was shaking me awake and
untying me from a chair.

“Did they rough you up?” I asked.

“No, sir.”  Russ handed over an envelope and I opened it up.

“What’s this?” I asked Russ, after I had read the letter.

“I think it’s self explanatory, sir.”

“You’re quitting?  Why?”

“I let you down, sir.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” I said irritably, and I ripped up
his letter of resignation.  “Now get back to the office before I fire your ass.”

“Yes, sir!”

Niki Lautrec came in later that same day.  I was sitting up in
bed. “The princess awakens!” he exclaimed. “You sleep like a little girl.”  He
clapped me on the shoulder and I tried not to wince, then he shook my hand with
a grip of steel.  “You look better.  Shit, for a while I didn’t think you were
going to make it.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“So you didn’t need me after all,” he said, moving my legs over
and plopping himself down on the foot of my bed.

“No shit!  Where were you when I was getting my butt kicked?”

“I know . . . I feel bad.  But hell, I didn’t know you were
going to get your ass kidnapped.”

“By a woman, no less,” I added, and he laughed. 

“Hey, I hired your friend Earl Jefferson. Guy’s a genius and he
doesn’t even know it,” Niki said.  “He came in today on cloud nine because his
ex-wife left town with her boyfriend and she’s given up custody of his kid.”

“Seriously?” I asked.

“That’s what he said.”

That was just about the best news I could have possibly
received, and I would have liked to have ended our conversation on that note,
but apparently Niki wasn’t ready to do so.  He sat there talking about
frivolous stuff, and when it was obvious that I wasn’t going to bring up the
topic, he finally did.

“So, aren’t you even a little curious about Serenity and La
Gente and the Mendozas?” he asked.  The truth was, I wanted to live in denial
for just a little while longer and when I told him so, he laughed.

“No, it’s some good shit!” he said, rubbing his hands
together.  “Guess who owns the shadow company that’s the front for Serenity?”

I was intrigued in spite of myself. “Don’t tell me . . .  the Mendozas?”

“Lovena Mirabella Mendoza,” he confirmed.  “Your cousin
stumbled onto some serious business. The scam involving her brother was just
the tip of the iceberg. From what I’m hearing, there were all kinds of
illegalities - Medicaid fraud, money laundering through phantom patients, God
knows what else they’ll find because the Feds are just getting started.  Let’s
just say you’ll have plenty of ammo for your cousin’s lawsuit.”

“Maddie’s cousin.  And I don’t want anything else to do with
that hell hole,” I said.

“Yeah, well, you’ll probably change your mind once you’re up
and around again.”

“Doubtful.”  I stretched and my ribs ached. “Where do I stand
with the kidnapping of Mendoza?  Am I going to be panhandling when it’s all said
and done?”

Niki laughed.  “Nah.  All they know is that you were kidnapped
by La Gente after Rafael Mendoza fingered you as his mouthpiece. And at this
point, they’ve all gone underground, so until they resurface and you’re asked
to testify against them, I wouldn’t anticipate anything coming from it. Not any
time soon, anyway.”

“Do I have to worry about retribution?  I don’t want to be
looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life or worrying about my wife and
kids.”

“I don’t know.  They know you’re not Rafael Mendoza’s lawyer. I
would think that as long as you don’t have anything to do with him, they’ll
back off.”

“That’s not going to be a problem.”

Niki clapped me on the leg.  “Okay then.  I’ll let you get back
to your beauty sleep.”  He stood up, rumpled my hair, and shoved my head to the
side.

I swatted his hand away. “Go away,” I said irritably.

“Later.”

So after almost a week of captivity in the hospital, and two
weeks of captivity in my home, I decided to venture down to my office. The
bruising on my face had gone from a deep purple to a muted shade of burgundy
tinged with a sickly yellow.  I grabbed two of Mrs. Howard’s muffins on the way
out the door and stopped off at La Taza for a cappuccino.  The puzzle ladies
had finally completed the jillion-piece puzzle and it sat on the table in its
final glory, with one conspicuous gaping hole. I looked around to see that no
one was watching, then reached into my pocket and took out the chewed up and
mangled piece, fit it into its final resting spot, and got the hell out of
there.

It was a nice morning and I was glad to be out. Traffic was
heavy as I traveled south on Hwy. 281 towards downtown, but it didn’t bother
me. I was in no hurry.  Since having the crap beaten out of me and almost
dying, I had decided to slow down and enjoy life, not take the little things so
seriously.  I must have been zoning out because I caught myself singing to a
horrible chick song.  When I went to change the station, I glanced in my side
mirror and noticed a Porsche coming up behind me, speeding and weaving in and
out of traffic. A guy three cars back had to swerve to avoid an accident and
someone honked.  The Porsche crossed two lanes of traffic, whipped in front of
me, forcing me onto the shoulder, and barely made the exit without taking out
the sand barrels at the top of the ramp.  I laid on my horn, shot the finger, and
slammed on my brakes simultaneously to avoid a collision.  The Porsche guy
looked in his rearview and we made eye contact, then he sped down the exit
ramp. The car directly behind me just managed to avoid hitting me. As the
Porsche sped away, I got a look at his license plate: 
THE JDG
.   At
that moment, I understood exactly where Felicia was coming from.

I pulled off the highway and sat and thought about it, then I
called Felicia.

“I just avoided a near miss with your judge friend,” I told
her.

“With Hawthorn Graves?  No way!  Where?”

“Same place as you.  Do you still want to sue the guy?”

“Well, actually, I’m kind of past that,” she said, and I wasn’t
sure if I was relieved or disappointed. Either way, I wasn’t about to let the
latest episode go. After having my ass kicked while I was unconscious, I was
itching for a good fight to redeem myself. Not that I intended to beat up a
judge, but let’s just say that I wasn’t going to let it go.

The John Wood Federal Courthouse is a big round building
downtown, named after a Federal judge who was assassinated in his driveway on
the opening day of the trial of a renown drug trafficker. The building was originally
a theatre that was a part of  Hemisfair, the 1968 World’s Fair, and it looks
like a giant drum.  

I made my way down Cesar Chavez Blvd. and found a parking space
on the street less than a block from the courthouse.  I took that as a good
omen. My body was still stiff and sore, and sitting for any length of time
amplified my ailments. I took out my pocket knife and stashed it under the seat,
then got out and stretched my aching limbs, walked briskly to the courthouse, mounted
the steps, and stopped inside at security.

“Morning, Pete,” I said.  I dropped my phone and keys in a
basket and walked through the metal detector.

“Morning, Mr. Collins.  You getting better?” the security guard
asked, motioning to my face.

“Good as new.” I said.  “Hey, is Judge Graves in this morning?”

“Just came in.  I think he went upstairs.”

I stuffed my phone and keys back in my pocket and took the
elevator to the second floor.  When the doors opened, I was face to face with
THE JDG.  It took about a split-second for him to recognize the face that he’d just
seen in his rearview mirror, and by then it was too late for him to hide his
shock. He threw his hands up involuntarily in surrender and took two steps
back.  It was such a great reaction that I laughed out loud.

“Surprise!” I exclaimed, and he looked around like a cornered
rat. “
Oh shit
, right?”

He was in his mid-50s, about my height, but he was carrying an
extra 20 pounds of pasty flesh, and he was sporting a really bad comb over. I stuck
out my hand to introduce myself.  “Samuel Collins.  I need a word with you.”

Not only did he not shake my hand, but after his initial soft
response, he took on an arrogant and antagonistic air, which suited me just
fine. “What about?” he said. 

“What about?” I repeated.  “About a Federal Judge who thinks
he’s above the law, who runs people off the road with his shiny little Porsche.
That’s what about.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I represent Felicia Armstrong,” I said, and I let the sentence
hang until the light bulb went  on.

His face turned red, then the color traveled over his ears and
up to the top of his head.  “That crazy red-head!” he exclaimed.

“That crazy red-head,” I confirmed.

“You’re a lawyer?”

I nodded my head.

“I’ll have you disbarred.”

“And I’ll call the media.”  It wasn’t an idle threat, and he
knew it.  It was a stare-down, and there was no way I was blinking first.

The elevator pinged and as I turned around to look, he grabbed
me by the arm and pulled me off to the side.  “In my office,” he demanded.

Up until that point, I wasn’t even sure what I was hoping to
accomplish by coming there; I just knew that if I did nothing and the guy
killed someone with his Porsche, I’d regret it for the rest of my life. 
Felicia would say
I told you so
, and she’d be right.

The Judge sat down behind his desk and contemptuously waved me
to the chair across from his desk.

No way was I giving him the upper hand by sitting in the
subservient chair. “I’ll stand.”

“Do as you will.   What do you want?”

I took a deep breath before I spoke. “I’m speaking to you right
now in my capacity as a member of the motoring public, and not as an attorney.
And I’m speaking to you as a motorist who just ran me off the road, and not in
your capacity as a judge.”

The Judge glared but nodded.

“What the fuck is your problem!?” I exclaimed.

The Judge opened his mouth but nothing came out, then he closed
it again.

“I’ve done some research on you,” I told him, and the contempt
on his face morphed into a look of shock.  I let him stew for a minute, then
continued. “I know about three DWI’s that were quietly swept under the table.”
Little beads of sweat popped up on his forehead and he slumped back in his
chair. “I know about the hit-and-run.”  I paused again for effect, giving him
time to absorb what he was hearing. “And from what I saw today, you’ve learned
absolutely nothing from your previous incidents.”

“What do you want?” he finally asked.

There were a lot of things I could have said that I wanted. I
could have said I want to know why a Federal Judge would think it’s okay to
drive a car like it’s a deadly weapon; or, I want to know how you became such
an asshole to think that you’re above the law.  I stared him down as I thought
about exactly what I wanted from him.  And then it hit me.

“I want your car.”

He sprang back to life. “You want me to give you my car?” he
snorted in disbelief.

“Whoa!” I said, throwing up my hands. “I didn’t say I wanted
you to
give
me your car.  That’s extortion.  No, I’ll pay a fair price.”

“You want to buy my car?” he clarified.

“Yep,” I nodded.  “And you’ll need to replace it with something
nice and slow.  No more fast cars.  And if you get one more DWI or any other
violations that don’t make it onto your driving record, I swear to God, I’ll go
straight to the media, and beg the question, ‘
Why is a Federal Judge above
the law?’
 And you can call it what you like, but that’s not a threat, it’s
a promise.”

The Judge wiped his brow with a napkin and patted it over the
top of his head. He looked like he might cry, but whether it was out of remorse
or because he got caught, I couldn’t tell.

“Your Honor, I’m not looking to ruin you,” I said honestly.
“But I’m not going to let you kill someone either.”

The Judge nodded his head almost imperceptibly, and I took it
as an acceptance of my offer.  I handed him my business card.  “I’d appreciate
it if you work out the details of the sale  with my secretary.”  I offered my
hand, and this time he shook it, and I left his office.

I was pumped. I dressed down a Federal Judge, and came away
with my law license intact. But what crappy timing. In my zeal to assure
justice, I’d forgotten that it was a big day at the Federal Courthouse.  When I
got outside, there were swarms of police and reporters waiting for the arrival
of two witnesses testifying in some big time drug trafficker’s trial that was starting
that day.

While I’d been inside, dark clouds had moved in and it looked
like it was about to piss down rain. There was a bolt of sky-to-ground
lightning, and a bone shaking thunderclap almost instantaneously, and it made
me think of my kids.  I walked down the stairs, trying to avoid the cameras, and
I noticed a limo with black tinted windows pull up to the no-parking zone right
in front of the courthouse.  One of the rear windows started inching its way
down, but I was distracted by a man coming up the stairs about 10 feet to my
left.  He was flanked on both sides by FBI agents. I took my eyes off the limo,
and glanced over at the man between the agents.

“Counselor!” he exclaimed. He had a genuine smile on his face,
which I’m sure was just the opposite of the look on my face.  “I’ve got
something for you,” he said, and he stepped away from the agents and reached into
the breast pocket of his trench coat. Somewhere behind me someone shouted,
“He’s got a gun!” and he looked around, confused, as he brought his hand out of
his pocket and extended it to me. The agents went for their guns, and so did
all the other cops in the plaza.

And all pandemonium broke loose. 

“Nooooooo!” I shouted; it came out like a growl.  “Don’t
shoot!”  I yelled, frantically.  “It’s not a gun!” I reached for his
outstretched hand, just as a gun went off, and I watched a little red circle on
his chest instantly become the size of a dinner plate. I lunged without
thinking, covering his body with mine, while shouting at the top of my lungs
not to shoot. 

Someone was yelling “Hold your fire!” but I could see that no
one had holstered his weapon.

“Don’t shoot!” I yelled.  I was covered in blood, borderline
hysterical.  I’d been shot before and it sucked; I didn’t want to get shot
again. “It’s a toy!” I shouted. “He’s not armed!” I took the cement mixer out
of Rafael Mendoza’s hand and held it up for everyone to see, keeping my head
down just in case.  “It’s a fucking toy!  Put your fucking guns away and call
an ambulance!”

When I was confident that I was not going to get a bullet in
the back, I got off of Mendoza.  My heart was pounding like a jackhammer in my
chest and my ears were ringing from the gun blast.  Someone moved in to check
on Mendoza’s condition.  It had started to rain and I sat on the steps with my
head in my hands, seriously fighting an absurd urge to cry, and trying to
process what had just happened. When I looked up again, Mrs. Mirabella was
watching me through the limo window.  It was a cold, hard stare, then her face
softened and  she nodded imperceptibly, and before I could get my shit
together, she raised the window, the limo drove off, and she was gone.

“Sir, can you tell us what just happened here?” some reporter
asked, thrusting a microphone at me.

“Get out of my face,” I said, shoving the camera away.

The ambulance pulled up in the space vacated by the limo and
three paramedics came rushing with a gurney.  I went back over to check on Mendoza.

“How is he?” I asked.

“He’s unconscious,” said a medic, then he noticed the blood and
asked, “Are you hurt?”

I shook my head.  “It’s his.”

I flashed back to the first time I’d seen Mendoza at Serenity,
in his comatose state; to him lying on the cot in the cellar; to him sitting on
top of me in the ruins of the coffee table; on the floor in my kids’ room. I
didn’t want the guy to die.

I sat on the steps in a daze, letting the rain wash the blood
from my hands. The paramedics were hauling off Mendoza towards the ambulance,
when one of them turned around and shouted to me, “He wants to know how
Sherlock is doing?”

An inexplicable relief surged through me and I laughed in spite
of myself.  I gave the paramedic a big thumbs up, and watched as he conveyed
the info to Mendoza, then he returned the gesture.