Good Intentions (Samogon 1)
Read Good Intentions (Samogon 1) Online
Authors: Eric Gilliland
Samogon
Good Intentions
by
Eric Gilliland
Based o
n True Events
Also by Eric Gilliland:
Samogon
Good Intentions
Swept Away
Crumbling Houses
Chasing Vaslav (
coming soon
)
To Tony, who finally convinced me to put my stories on paper. I look forward to more of our talks and brainstorming sessions. To my editor and publisher, Jordan, for taking a chance on me. To my cover designer, I love ‘em. A special thanks to Colette and the entire Felony Books crew. To George, for being one helluva guy and for helping out with so much research. Enjoy your retirement. To Shane, for your simple gesture and offerings that helped in editing this story. Finally, to those wayward souls I have befriended, hold on to your faith.
The
samogon
investigation, if called that, was a real event some years ago. It involved several American distillers and shipping brokers who were caught in an international investigation and prosecuted for their dealings with the Russian mob. Many of them cooperated with federal officials and paid large fines instead of going to prison. From those events, this work of fiction tells a story about a rural black family and their moonshine operation, how a young African-American girl became involved with the Russian mob and became torn between two lovers, and about the fallout from the
samogon
wars and the ensuing federal investigation.
“Hell is paved with good intentions, not bad ones. All men mean well.”
—
George Bernard Shaw
Man and Superman
, “Maxims for Revolutionists: Good Intentions”
TABLE OF CONTENTS
November, 2013
The cool November fog was s
till rolling in off the Scioto River. It was strange to see such a fog this late in the day. Rochelle Donovan was used to fog covering the Appalachian foothills and her Ashland, Kentucky, home, but this fog may very well roll over her and cause her to be lost forever. Twenty-two was too young to be lost.
She stared out the fifth floor window of the lawyers’ library in the U.S. Southern District Courthouse.
The past two weeks in Columbus, Ohio, had been more trying on her emotions than the summer her dad had died. That event started Rochelle on her current path—the event that left her mother and her to grieve with no source of income.
A pigeon nesting on the window ledge was staring back at her.
The wait seemed like eternity. The jury had been deliberating since yesterday’s lunch break.
What could possibly be holding them up?
she wondered. She was sick with anxiety and her nerves were stretched thin. It had been thirty hours since she last slept.
Movement drew Rochelle’s focus to the far banks of the Scioto.
She could barely make out the freight train through the dense fog as it passed down the track. As the train disappeared, her focus was drawn back and she saw herself in the reflection of the window.
Even now, stressed and tired, she had exquisite beauty.
Her elegant and chic business attire complimented her figure to the point most men in the courtroom were unable to keep their eyes off her. It had often been that way with the boys at school. Whether this was a benefit or a condemnation, her lawyer, James Bowers, had yet to ascertain. Usually it didn’t bother her; she had always relished the attention until now.
Her Armani skirt reached down to the top of her knees, hugging her shapely hips and thighs like a glove.
Her long legs that supported her lean five-seven frame were displayed in sheer nylons. Her stiletto heels pushed back her hips and pushed out her calves, bringing out their tone shape and lifting the curvature of her ass. Her white blouse was tailor fitted, amplifying the fullness of her breasts. Rochelle's custom-made emerald earrings were the last gift bestowed upon her by her father before he passed—an elaborate graduation present.
Rochelle’s Mexican mother had blessed h
er with a body you typically saw in bikini magazines. Her shoulder length brown hair was pulled back and held in place with a simple barrette. Her light complexion and hue she inherited from her African-American father, and it was the perfect touch to the physical attributes passed down from her mother. But where she got those green eyes was a mystery to both parents.
Rochelle was trying not to think about what the jury could be hung-up on or which way they were leaning.
Nonetheless, she replayed each day of the trial in her mind, trying to figure it out while searching for assurances where there were none. She kept flashing back to Chris and how she hurt him time and time again these past four years. There was so much she had dragged him into. He had always been willing to go along because he loved her and knew she couldn’t protect herself.
All of a sudden, as if on cue, the pigeon flew off the window ledge
, breaking Rochelle’s thoughts.
“Mr. Bowers, Ms. Donovan, the jury is back.”
Bowers nodded in acknowledgment and the court officer exited the library to notify the assistant district attorney who was waiting in the Attorney General’s office.
James Bowers stood and put his suit jacket on and straightened his tie.
He was a tall, commanding man. He was still considered a
young
trial lawyer despite being forty-two. Among his peers he was well respected, even celebrated. Needless to say, he came highly recommended with a hefty retainer.
“Rochelle, it’s time.
Take a couple of minutes to gather yourself.”
Rochelle just looked at him with a blank stare, forcing a smile to her face as if to say,
okay
. Seven months on bond, two weeks in trial, a day and a half deliberating, and now there was no time. At least the Government was not pursuing the death penalty, and the judge had quickly denied the Mexican Government’s requests to have her extradited—a ruse no doubt of the Ochoa cartel, hoping to get her in a Mexican jail where she could be dealt with more appropriately. But did any of it really matter with life sentences hanging over her head? There would be no chance at parole.
She took one more look out the window at the Scioto and realized the fog had disappeared.
A tear swelled up in her eye. “The hell with it. Let’s get this over with.” She was so tired. She grabbed a big chunk of chocolate, popped it into her mouth, and chased it down with a can of orange juice, hoping it would calm her nerves.
As they entered the courtroom, the gallery was already full.
Reporters lined the back wall, but there were no television cameras. The judge despised television cameras. Her courtroom was not going to be transformed into a cheap reality show to be analyzed by attorneys who had never tried a case.
Rochelle’s mother was seated in the front row just behind the defense table.
With her were several of Rochelle’s friends from Ashland who made the trip to show her their support. They had kept tabs on the trial through cable news channels.
It seemed as if the entire Ohio State student body was in attendance.
Maybe three of them cared what happened to her. The rest just wanted to be able to tell a story about how they knew her and were at her trial, or how they used to drink her famous moonshine. One of them even testified against her, hoping to see herself on television. But what did she really know to testify about?
Nothing
. Bowers made work of her in short time, and afterward when the post-day interviews and commentaries took place outside the courthouse, she saw herself being portrayed as an opportunistic fool on prime time. Everybody laughed at her, even the jury. The assistant DA looked like an idiot for even calling her.
As Rochelle and Bowers reached the defense table, in walked Assistant District Attorney Melanie Cochran with her two assistants in tow.
The young assistant DA was no longer sure about her case and was just as apprehensive as Rochelle. Calling the university girl wasn’t her only mistake at trial. In haste to make a name for herself and to get that big conviction, she underestimated Bowers and his investigators. Her own investigators were good, but their case was more easily made against the other players still awaiting trial.
Cochran couldn’t stop worrying about how the jury took so long.
Behind Cochran and her team followed ATF Agent Laurent Daniels, who for twenty years chased that Donovan-family moonshine all over the Kentucky-West Virginia border before getting pulled into the
samogon
investigation. He never knew until now whose whiskey it was that had such a reputation and demand. He still couldn’t figure out how a twenty-something girl learned to brew whiskey in such little time spent with her father―or had she? He kept that astonishment to himself. Cochran didn’t need to be bothered with it.
Daniels was a simple man who never had career plans for international investigations.
His shoulder was healing quickly, which couldn’t be said for his ear. It had been seven months since she shot him―twice. But he didn’t hold a grudge, he understood. He was content not having to wear that damn sling anymore.
Daniels worked his way over to the gallery behind the district attorney’s table and took a seat next to DEA Agent Kelly Reed and two members of her Mexican-narco team.
Reed and her boys got involved in Rochelle’s case by happenstance. Her name kept popping up from sources in Mexico. Reed’s assets in Mexico were excellent sources of human intelligence on the Ochoa cartel, and that information may very well have been what saved Rochelle’s life.
One of Reed’s team noticed a pair of Ochoa family associates sitting in the middle of the gallery and blending in nicely.
Agent Reed wasn’t worried. “Don’t sweat ‘em. Let it play out.” Reed was praying to God Rochelle would avoid conviction on the serious charges of murder and attempted murder. Those charges the young college grad did not deserve, although Cochran would never agree.
Rochelle took one last look among the gallery and noticed that none of the Rimsky family or their people were present.
Peter and Nikolay were in federal lockup awaiting trial. She looked everywhere for Mikhail, hoping if she saw his sweet face that this would all be just a bad dream. But the fog had already rolled over her lover. She had been there, holding him when it had.
“All rise.
This court is back in session. The Honorable Francis Ellen Smith presiding.”
The judge entered and took her place at the judge’s desk.
“Bailiff, show in the jury.” Francis Ellen Smith was a no-nonsense type of gal in every aspect of her life. She was a graduate of Virginia Law School with twenty years on the bench, who treated everybody in her courtroom the same. It didn’t matter who you were or what side you were on—you better not come in her courtroom unprepared and not ready to argue. At least she kept it fair.
After the jury was brought in and some instructions were given to everyone in the courtroom, Judge Smith addressed the foreman of the jury.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?”
“We have
, Your Honor.”
“The defendant will rise.”
Rochelle stood with her lawyer.
Shaking and gasping for air, she smoothed out her skirt and blouse in preparation of being judged.
“As to Count One,” called out the Judge, “the murder in the first degree of Mexican national,
Damon Ochoa, how does the jury find?”
“We find the defendant, Rochelle Maria Donovan
...”