( 2011) Cry For Justice (3 page)

I remained silent for a long moment and shook my head. I had no choice but to make my move. Leaning in closer to the starfish-looking gizmo on the table, I said, “Peter Lord, I know you can hear me.”

The room fell silent. The partners gazed back and forth at each other in disbelief.

“Are you kidding me?” Rubinstein said to no one in particular.

“Jason,” Vance said, “you’re way out of line here.”

I ignored them and pressed on. “Mr. Lord, you know what comes next. It’s up to you.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Walter Fountain hissed. He looked almost ready to spring at me.

I ignored him and fished out another file from my briefcase. “Suit yourself.” I glanced at a page in the file and said, “Does four-four-four Christopher Street, loft six-B, in Greenwich Village, New York, circa August twelfth of the current year, mean anything to you?”

Suddenly a side door to the conference room swung open. A tall, tanned, lanky man with rugged good looks and a mop of curly silver hair burst into the conference room. I recognized him immediately.

The room fell silent, and Pamela let out a gasp. It was Peter Lord in the flesh. Behind him, a large, squarish-looking man in a tight black suit, with a dark glare of distrust about him, entered the conference room. Hired muscle Lord’s security detail. The lawyers came to their feet.

“Peter!” Vance said, obviously embarrassed by the turn of events.

“Mr. Lord, sir!” Rubinstein said as he approached him. “We are very sorry about this...”

Peter Lord ignored them. His dark hooded eyes bored into mine with contempt and perhaps a dash of spite. He buttoned his navy blue sport jacket and took another step toward me. His eyes found the file in my hand. He extended a hand to ask for it. I handed it to him. Even if he and his goon ran away with it, I had copies safely stashed away. Peter Lord took a long moment to shuffle through the contents of the file and then unceremoniously closed it. The sound of the folder closing in his hands seemed disproportionately loud in the heavy silence. The file in his hands contained perhaps a dozen intimate pictures pictures that proved conclusively that Peter Lord had not only cheated on his wife but had done so with other men. Not so good for his image as the rugged all-American, thoroughly
heterosexual
male.

“I assume I will get everything. No copies will be saved anywhere by anyone. Negatives, too, if any exist. Yes?”

I nodded.

“And no one will ever disclose or have access to any of this material. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” I replied.

Peter Lord held my gaze for a long moment. “How do I know you are a man of your word, Mister... ?”

“The name is Justice. Jason Justice,” I said curtly.

“Can I count on your discretion, Mr. Justice?”

“What does your gut tell you, Mr. Lord?”

Another long silence ensued. He probed my face as if searching for something. The look of contempt vanished, replaced with a knowing glare that said he knew he had no choice. After another long moment, he finally said, “Very well. We have a deal.”

“Well, then.” He turned and faced Pamela. “I commend you, Pamela. Didn’t think you had it in you.” She merely gave him a gracious smile and a curt nod.

“Vance, see to it that the document with the new terms is ready for my signature today.” Then, to me, he said, raising the folder, “I take it you have no further use for these?”

“All yours.”

Peter Lord turned toward the door and silently left the room, his burly bodyguard in tow.

Not much else was said in the conference room. Rubinstein and Fountain left without a parting glance while Vance stayed behind and apologized for his partner’s behavior. He would personally review Paula’s settlement offer and present it to Mr. Lord that very day. We shook hands, and Pamela and I left, feeling a bit giddy.

Two

Speed is as powerful a tonic as any. Roaring over the dark expanse of Lake Worth, I banked the powerful motorcycle into a hard turn and headed west on Royal Park Bridge, leaving the ritzy skyline of Palm Beach to fade in the rearview mirror. The wind was picking up, and the skies were quickly darkening as a stiff breeze pushed a heavy slate-colored canopy before it. Rain was not far behind.

Another turn had me heading north on South Flagler Drive toward my law office. Beneath me, the four-cycle engine of my Ducati Superbike 1198 R Course growled eagerly. I twisted the throttle, and the bike lunged forward like a startled thoroughbred. Clearing the turn, I twisted the throttle again and shifted up through the gears. My navy blue suit jacket billowed behind me in the wind, and my silk tie whipped out behind the full-face helmet. The big red and white bike roared forward, tach needle edging up toward 8,000 rpm, its powerful 180-horse engine, straddled inches below my crotch, thrusting me forward into the warm, humid air. Of course, the bike was capable of much more, but city streets were not the place for it. Although fairly wide at four lanes, Flagler Drive was a well-traveled city street with a posted speed limit of thirty-five. I had reached close to eighty in a little over two seconds. I eased off the gas and lightly tapped on the brake handle. The massive dual front disk brakes bit hard and quickly decelerated the bike to just under forty. The wind that only seconds before had buffeted me with the ferocity of a tropical cyclone suddenly became almost pleasant, and my suit jacket no longer felt as though it was being ripped to tatters. My tie came to rest somewhere over my shoulder.

I was in a bit of a hurry to get to the office, which was odd for me. I never really hurried toward work this late in the day, especially not on a Friday. Friday afternoons were usually downtime for me. As far as I was concerned, law practice was a convenient way to earn a living. I had no agenda and no delusions of making a difference in the world. There were pretenders and do-gooders aplenty already. For me, being a lawyer was just something I did to earn a living. It made me enough money to do most of the things I wanted to do. Like most people, I detest having to work for someone else. Nor do I care much for ringing phones, nagging spouse or partners, headline news, sanctimonious television preachers or news anchors, professional wrestling, porn stars, button-down shirts, full-Windsor knots, wingtips, crowded courtrooms, and the endless mediation sessions so common to the not-so-common world of nine-figure divorces. Fortunately, this area of the law gives me some flexibility, and my time is my own, which is precisely the reason family law became my area of practice. Also, I get to pick and choose my clients. I have no one to report to and no partners to contend with. Whatever happens is entirely up to me. I’ve had stellar years and some less-than-stellar years. This was one of the latter. The bad economy had taken its toll in all areas of life, including domestic Armageddon.

My specialty is high-net-worth divorces involving prenuptial agreements. If it’s in writing, I can usually find a way around the offending clause. My work and, therefore, my reputation has not won me many friends. Sour ex-spouses have a tendency to harbor a grudge. When it comes to money lost and money won, memory tends to endure in direct proportion to how much of their fortune was affected as a result of my direct involvement. There have been even been a few death threats. As far as Vance and his partners are concerned, however, I rank right down there with the lowest ambulance chasers, extortionists, and blackmailers, and just a couple of notches above child molester.

Despite their disapproval of my methods and tactics, Vance and, to some extent, Rubinstein are polite enough to treat me with the same modicum of courtesy they afford their midlevel partners. In their haughty yacht-club eyes, I’m a nonconformist, and even if I try my best to conform, I will never match their idea of someone you invite over for dinner. My hair is on the longish side and often disheveled, my arms are a little too thick and sinewy, I have a tattoo here and there and a few ragged scars that make me look more jailbird than Ivy Leaguer, and I’ve been told that my manners sometimes come across as a bit threatening. To make matters worse, I don’t take myself or my profession too seriously, and I live by a few simple rules. Something unacceptable to serious lawyer types and therefore deemed objectionable in their lofty circles. When I don’t absolutely have to wear a suit, I default to jeans and T-shirt, if not swimming trunks. And whatever the situation, I never wear khaki clothing of any type or brown, green, any shade of pink, or periwinkle. My work wardrobe consists of several suits in dark blue, pinstriped navy blue, dark gray, darker gray, and plain old black. I also have a tux stashed away for those blessedly rare formal occasions. Shirts are not where I choose to make a statement. The color doesn’t matter as long as it’s white or light blue. I do allow some room for self-expression when it comes to ties. Shoes? Size twelve, double D, so they had to be comfortable. Choices there were just as limited; at work I wore basic burgundy or black loafers. Otherwise it was sneakers or sandals. Socks, depending on the occasion, were optional.

I am a hair above six-three and usually tip the scales at just above 225. I work out enough to eat and drink what I want without wearing it. Let’s face it, our systems are not static. Metabolic activity grinds down substantially after age forty. I was already on the wrong side of that magic figure so for me at least, with my appetite and alcohol consumption needs, plenty of exercise is the only answer to not only remaining fit, but to avoiding the encroaching flabbiness of middle age. My skin is tanned and a bit leathery from too much sun, and a thin scar on my left cheek runs from just above my upper lip back almost to the jawline a souvenir from a rocket-propelled grenade blast. A few other scars: three slashing knife wounds to my torso, two shrapnel scars on one leg, and a smooth depression on my lower left abdomen from a 7.62mm Chinese round. According to the docs and the airport metal detectors, there is also some shrapnel along my lower back that has to stay there, the remnants of war. The other scars are of a different sort and don’t show. And they have little to do with time spent in inhospitable places. I’ve been told that my mind is sometimes mired in a soup of dark memories that tends to simmer, especially at night. I sometimes hear the faraway melodies of my childhood and, riding on them, my mother’s suffering and the silent tears of an ailing woman who did her utmost to hide the disease that was quietly consuming her. In the end, she pushed away everyone who ever cared, choosing instead to die alone. I really never knew my mother well, and yet, I missed her quiet presence.

But none of that mattered much today. I had been looking forward to this day for months. When your life is hooked in with someone else’s, especially someone in a demanding profession, planning anything longer than a three-day getaway to the Upper Keys is tough. And if she’s passionate about her career, the chances of finding a week that you both have free in the same decade are fairly close to nil. It seems that in our modern day society the high school years, even the college years, offered better odds of not only finding that special someone, but time to enjoy the companionship. After those early years, dating becomes substantially more difficult and unpredictable, sort of a hit or miss game. Timing, professional demands and peripheral commitments always get in the way. Still, somehow, after a lot of tinkering and countless compromises, Nora and I managed to find five days when we both could get away.

I parked the bike in the sheltered slot under the eaves of the stuccoed five-story building that housed my law practice. With its clean, sleek lines and neat rows of rectangular windows, the building is a more modern take on the pseudo art deco style so prevalent in Miami Beach.

Pulling off the helmet, I took a moment to glance at the skies, which had darkened to wood-smoke gray. The breeze seemed angrier. A single cool raindrop splatted on my forehead. I quickened my pace, and as I approached the double glass entry doors my cell phone rang. It was Nora.

“How’d it go?” she asked cheerily.

I told her the meeting had worked out as expected: the parties had settled, and everyone went home a winner. I left out the part about how I had convinced Mr. Lord to reconsider.

Then came the pause that I had long since learned to recognize as the segue to whatever was really on Nora’s mind.

“You were involved in recovering money stolen by stockbrokers and crooks, right?”

“Not sure I’m following, love.”

“Did it ever get dangerous?”

“Sometimes. Why?”

“Just a sec...” She was always saying that. “Just a sec” meant she was doing something else or pondering how best to say something that may not be properly received or understood.

“Dangerous how?” she finally said.

“Well, shocking as this may sound, crooks tend to take an unkind view of anyone nosing around in their business. They’re kind of protective that way.”

“I see...”

“Nora, what’s this all about?”

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but I have to.”

“Oh?” Already I wasn’t liking the direction of the conversation.

“It’s about one of my patients’ daughter.”

Not wanting to lose the cell phone connection in the elevator, I still hadn’t gotten past the front doors to the building. “What about her?”

“Well, it’s kind of involved. This patient was very dear to me. I’ve known her for many years. She apparently took her own life recently and her daughter her name is Amy Kelly (her mother changed her last name) well, she believes her mother didn’t kill herself. She thinks her stepfather may have killed her and made it look like suicide.”

She paused and stayed silent for a long moment. I still didn’t understand why she was telling me about this woman. Nora’s an oncologist sad stories, terminally ill patients and death are her stock in trade.

“And you’re telling me this because…?”

“Well, her daughter, Amy, tells me this man apparently also took her mother for a ride stole everything she owned. Mortgaged her house, cleaned out her bank accounts, investments, and retirement accounts. Everything. She was left destitute and facing eviction. Then,
poof,
he just vanished. Apparently, it was too much for Mrs. Kelly to bear. She became a recluse. And now this. Isn’t that so terrible?”