In Firm Pursuit (32 page)

I
sat cowering in the backseat of the cab as the man spat into my face. “We want those documents your nosy little friend stole. And if you have any copies, we want those, too.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I wailed.

I had never felt this kind of fear before. It paralyzed my brain, rendering me totally unable to think. The man was still holding my wrists in a makeshift vice and my hands were numb from the lack of circulation.

I have the right to remain silent
was the only thought my brain was able to process.

“Do you hear me?” the man said gruffly. “Where are the documents? We know your friend has them because of the information we found on her laptop. So where are they?”

I made eye contact with the driver, who peered at me from the rearview mirror. He looked too young and clean-cut to be involved in a kidnapping. I stared back at him, my eyes begging for his help. But he looked as scared as I was.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I said again.

I tried not to think about the gun still pressed into my stomach. I was totally ignorant about weapons. When the police rescued me, I wouldn't even be able to tell them what kind of gun it was. Was it a revolver? A semi-auto
matic? I had heard rap songs talk about Glocks, but I had no idea what a Glock looked like.

I decided to concentrate on my attacker's face so I would at least be able to pick him out of a lineup. I studied him as if I were a portrait painter, making mental notes of any and all distinguishing traits. He had pale, white skin and a thick nose, and I surmised that he was probably Norwegian or Swedish, although he did not speak with an accent. Right below his left eye, he had a fresh two-inch scar. His tan polyester pants and white shirt brought back images of my ninth-grade civics teacher. I closed my eyes and tried to commit the faces of both men to memory. I refused to consider the possibility that I would not survive this ordeal.

“If you want to make this hard on yourself, we can do that.” The man leaned in close enough for me to know that his last meal had included onions.

I could tell that he was about to blow a fuse.

“I'm sure my friends have called the police,” I said, surprised at my bravado. “They're probably looking for me right now.”

The man laughed arrogantly. “That really frightens me.”

I glanced over his shoulder. We were parked behind the bowling alley, and it was definitely abandoned. Nothing looked familiar. They could do anything they wanted to me back here and no one would hear or see.

The man set the gun on the floor, out of my reach, and grabbed me around the neck again with one hand, still holding my wrists with his other. His beefy fingers pressed so deep into my throat I couldn't even muster a scream. I
was certain I was about to take my last breath when the driver intervened.

“Hey, Paulie! Let her go!” he yelled. When Paulie didn't let go, the driver reached over the front seat and tugged at the man's forearm. “Paulie, cut it out! We can't kill her. We have to get those papers back first!”

First?

Paulie, who seemed to be in a trance, finally released his grip and I gasped for air.

“This little cunt thinks we're playing.” He reared back and slapped me across the mouth with his open hand. This blow didn't hurt as much as the others, probably because my bruised and swollen face had been anesthetized by the previous blows. I tasted my own blood as it dripped from my lips onto my silk blouse.

“Maybe we should beat her until she gives us what we want.” Paulie slapped me again, sending my head crashing into the window. “Or maybe we should make a trip to Centinela Hospital and finish off her friend.”

That threat snapped me out of my pain-filled silence.

“Okay,” I cried out, trying my best to shrink away from the man. “I'll give you the documents! Just don't hurt Special!”

T
he cab rolled to a stop in front of my house and the driver jumped out and opened the back door.

Paulie pushed me out of the backseat and yelled at the driver. “Get out of here, but don't go far. I'll call you as soon as I get the documents.” We were barely out of the cab before it sped off.

I wobbled up the driveway leading to my house with Paulie so close on my heels I could feel the gun nudging my spine. I glanced up and down the street, praying that somebody would detect the fear in my eyes or the bruises on my face before we made it inside. I looked at the house to my left and stared at the closed kitchen window.
Where in the hell was Mr. Robinson?
I thought about trying to yell out to him, but the gun stuck in my back muted my vocal cords.

The rest of the block, as usual, was quiet and deserted. That's what I got for living on a street where people minded their own business. In my parents's neighborhood in Compton, somebody would have noticed the huge white man escorting me up the driveway and instinctively known that something wasn't right.

Paulie ushered me through a side gate and into the
backyard. He snatched the keys from my purse, letting a tube of lipstick, a hair brush and my wallet tumble to the ground. “Which one is it?” he demanded.

I tried to think up some way to keep from going inside, but my brain failed me. When Paulie shouted at me again, I pointed to a silver key. Still holding the gun on me, he stuck the key into the door but had a hard time getting it open. When he finally did, he shoved me inside with such force that I fell to my knees and slid across the kitchen floor.

I screamed, but the man did not seem to notice or care.

“I don't have time for any more crap. Give me the documents!”

I gripped the edge of the kitchen countertop and pulled myself up. I wasn't sure whether it was me or the room that was spinning. The familiarity of my kitchen provided some comfort, but not enough to erase the hopelessness of my situation. My eyes scanned the room for something I could use as a weapon. My turkey-carving knives were in a drawer next to the stove, only inches away from me. But there was no way I could grab one of them without the man blocking my path.

After the first break-in at Special's apartment, I had talked her out of buying a gun. This experience only confirmed that having a gun was useless. Even if I had owned one, it would have been locked away in my bedroom closet, of absolutely no value to me now.

“Where're the documents?” Paulie grabbed my arm and dragged me from the kitchen into the den. He sounded even more agitated.

I was trying to stall as long as I could. I knew that once
he had the papers, he would have no further use for me. “I think they're in my office,” I said.

“They better be. I'm tired of playing games, you little cunt!” Paulie backhanded me across the face and I fell to the floor, landing on my right shoulder. He grabbed the back of my neck, pulled me to my feet and thrust me toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. My knees ached and I did not think I would be able to walk without assistance. I knew exactly where the documents were, but I was in no rush to give them to him. I stumbled into the office and pretended to search through a stack of papers on my desk.

Paulie came up behind me and punched me in the side. I fell to my knees again, which were now blistered and bloody.

“Stop stalling and give me the fuckin' documents!” He pulled a cell phone from his left pocket and put it in my face. “I can call somebody right now and have them run over to Centinela Hospital and finish off your friend. Is that what you want?”

The thought of somebody attacking Special as she lay unconscious in her hospital bed hurt me far more than any of the blows I had just taken. “They're in my bedroom,” I blubbered, crouching on all fours now. “I swear they are.”

“They better be!” He snatched me by the hair, dragged me into the bedroom and flung me onto the bed.

“Get 'em!” he said, standing in the doorway.

Realizing I had no other choice, I pulled the top drawer of the nightstand all the way out, turned it over and tossed it onto the bed. A large envelope was stuck to the bottom with masking tape.

“Hand it here!” Paulie shouted. He remained just inside the open doorway, still holding the gun on me.

I ripped off the tape and handed him the envelope. He snatched it from me and smiled for the first time. His teeth were varying shades of gray. He pulled the pages out of the envelope and quickly scanned them.

Noticing that he had lowered his gun, I took a step back, hoping to make it to the closet to grab a hanger, a belt buckle, anything I could use as a weapon.

He took out his cell phone and hit the chirp button. “I got 'em,” he said. “Get back over here.”

Before I could make my move, the bedroom door hurled forward, plowing into the side of the man's face, causing his gun to fly out of his hand.

I just stood there, frozen in blissful amazement as my handsome husband jumped out from behind the door, tackled the much larger man to the ground and pounded him into unconsciousness.

Jefferson picked up the man's gun, then got to his feet. He reached out and corralled me in one of his arms, muffling my cries. I pressed my face against his chest and clutched at his T-shirt.

“Hey,” Jefferson finally said, breathing heavily. “I thought you said you wouldn't be needing me to punch anybody out.”

“K
nock, knock,” I announced as I pushed an empty wheelchair into Special's hospital room. “Guess who's here to take you home?”

Special grinned when she saw me enter the room. “Girl, aren't we a sight for sore eyes?”

Special's neck and chest were still covered in bandages and the bruises to my face had not completely healed yet. “You ain't never lied,” I said, smiling.

She gingerly sat up in bed, which still wasn't easy for her. “You have no idea how glad I am to be getting the hell up out of here. Before you take me to my parents' house, we have to make a stop at Fatburger. The cooks in this hospital don't even know how to spell Lawry's seasoning salt.”

I laughed. Special was finally back to her old self again and that made me incredibly happy. I helped my friend swing her legs over the side of the bed. Although she was still moving slowly, her prognosis for a full recovery was excellent. And her beautiful face barely had a scar to show for her ordeal.

In the days following my husband's daring daylight rescue, my life had changed dramatically. The first thing
I did was thank my neighbor, Mr. Robinson. He had been watching from his bedroom window and knew something was wrong the minute that cab screeched to a stop in front of our house. He called the police, then reached Jefferson on his cell phone. Jefferson got there just seconds after the cab had pulled away. I still don't know how he managed to climb through our bedroom window without us hearing him. I was just thankful that he had.

The Randle case eventually settled for $475,000, the sum Hamilton and I had originally negotiated. Hamilton only accepted the offer because Judge Sloan granted our motion on the after-acquired evidence rule. Even if Randle had won at trial, his damages would have been significantly reduced because of his application fraud and document theft.

One-third of the settlement went directly to Randle's two attorneys. Hamilton had agreed to bill only for the hours he had actually spent working on the case, which left Jenkins with a take of well over $100,000, his biggest recovery ever.

I could have tried to settle the case for less, but I was not motivated to save Micronics one dime since I later confirmed that Henry Randle
had
been set up. He eventually found a job working for an electronics company outside Atlanta, earning almost as much money as he had at Micronics.

For several days, the Micronics story led the local news as well as CNBC and the network news shows. At least eight Micronics employees, including Ferris, the CEO, the CFO, the General Counsel and the Program Manager,
were indicted on sixteen counts, including securities fraud, conspiracy and attempted murder concerning the attack on Special. The minute the story broke, Micronics's stock nosedived to a fraction of its original value. Ferris cut a deal guaranteeing him probation, and to show his appreciation, he sang like a canary with a recording contract.

A homeowner who lived on Mulholland Drive later came forward and told police that a car had been pursuing Karen Carruthers when her Mustang went off the road. Some of the news reports surmised that the indictments against the Micronics execs would soon be amended to add accessory to murder to the counts. Federal prosecutors were also planning to charge the company's executives in the deaths of those twelve U.S. soldiers in Iraq.

The full extent of Special's or my involvement in exposing Micronics's fraud never hit the press. The LAPD's top brass did not want the public to find out about all the rules breached by one of their veteran detectives. Rather than face an internal investigation, Detective Coleman quietly retired.

A week before the partnership announcements were made, O'Reilly walked into my office and closed the door. The gloomy expression on his face told me he had bad news.

“This is going to be pretty tough for me,” O'Reilly said, taking a seat, “so I guess I'll just spit it out. Your name won't be submitted for partnership this year.”

I did not allow time for O'Reilly's words to sink in. “And why is that?” I asked.

“It's been a bit of a rocky year for you, kiddo.” He forced a smile. “But don't worry, this is only a temporary setback.”

“I didn't do anything wrong, O'Reilly,” I said. “Micronics engaged in misconduct, not me.”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” he said. “We just need a little time for memories around here to fade. That's all.”

“Are you telling me I'll definitely make partner next year?”

“Vernetta, you know there're no guarantees with the law.”

“I'm not talking about the law, O'Reilly.” I refused to let him off the hook. “This is business.” The look in my eyes demanded a straight answer.

Instead of giving me one, O'Reilly looked away.

“You're the Managing Partner of this firm. You're telling me you don't have the power to give me that guarantee?”

“Vernetta, you know I can't do that. I've already said more than I should've. I didn't want you to be surprised when we made the partnership announcements tomorrow. Just give us another strong year and I'm sure everything'll work out just great.”

Looking back, I was surprised at how calmly I had reacted to the news. I had poured everything I had and then some into becoming O'Reilly & Finney's first African-American partner. The news that it was not going to happen, at least not now, left me more disappointed than angry.

I now had some important decisions to make about my career. The most significant one was whether to remain with the firm. Luckily, I did have other options. One of my favorite law school professors was now dean of the USC Law School. An assistant professorship was mine for
the asking. Working in-house for a corporation, joining another law firm, including Hamilton's, or even starting my own law practice, were also viable career moves.

For now, I just wanted to spend some quality time with my husband and help nurse my best friend back to health. Haley was babysitting my cases while I was out of the office and was trying her darnedest to be my new best friend, but I wasn't having it. The word around the firm was that she probably wouldn't last another six months.

I reached for the duffel bag I had brought with me to collect Special's belongings and pulled out a brightly colored, floral-print sundress that buttoned up the front.

“What's that?” Special scrunched up her face as if she had just sucked on a lemon.

“I bought you a new dress. I tried to find something in your closet that would be easy for you to slip into, but I couldn't find a single thing that didn't have spandex in it.”

“That's ugly.” Special stared at the dress as if it might bite her. “Who'd you buy that for, my grandmama? I ain't wearing that. Somebody I know might see me.”

“You're kidding, right?” I laughed. “If you don't wear this, just what're you going to wear out of here?”

She grabbed the dress from me and held it out in front of her for a better look.

“Where'd you buy this thing, the Goodwill? When have you
ever
seen me in a floral print dress? I have an image to think about. I can't wear that.” She tossed it onto the bed.

“I bought it at Nordstrom,” I said. “And it cost me eighty dollars. If you don't put it on, I'll make sure you never lay eyes on Jefferson's cousin.”

Special sulked for a few seconds, then snatched up the dress. “I'm only doing this because there's a man involved,” she said. “And if he's not as fine as you say he is, you're taking me back to Nordstrom and buying me three dresses.”

I smiled at my crazy friend. “You've got a deal.”

“How's your husband doing?” Special asked.

“He's fine. That project in San Diego should be wrapped up in three more weeks. And oh, I forgot to tell you, after they laid off LaKeesha, she filed a workers' comp case stress claim. She barely worked twenty hours a week. Can you believe that girl's nerve?”

“Really?” Special said.

“Yeah, but for some reason, she suddenly dropped it,” I said.

“That doesn't surprise me at all,” Special said, grinning. “I told you that girl had some major issues.”

“Jefferson's been coming home every weekend,” I continued. “And he's been insisting that we go to church every Sunday. I almost fainted last week when Bishop Blake opened the doors of the church and Jefferson got up and walked down that aisle. I still can't believe it. I've been trying to get him to join West Angeles ever since we got married, but he always claimed organized religion wasn't for him.”

Special smiled. “You've got yourself a good man, girlfriend.”

“Yes, I do,” I said as a gust of emotion snuck up on me. “He rushed up here the minute I told him you'd been hurt. And God knows what would've happened to me if he hadn't jumped out from behind our bedroom door.”

Special eased herself off the bed, and with my help, slipped into her new dress.

“You look marvelous,” I said. I had never seen my friend in anything that allowed her skin that much breathing room.

“Yeah, whatever,” Special replied, sitting back down on the bed.

I scooped up her get-well cards and magazines and stuffed them into the duffel bag. I was headed toward a vase of flowers sitting along the window ledge, but Special stopped me.

“My mother took the rest of my flowers home,” she said. “I'm leaving those for one of the nurses. She snuck me some chicken sausage from Woody's Barbecue yesterday.”

“You could've gotten that woman fired,” I said.

“I know, but I was desperate for something besides watery soup and strawberry Jell-O, and you were nowhere to be found.”

Once I had everything packed up, I sat down next to Special on the bed. I could see that everything she had gone through had suddenly hit her.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, I'm fine.” Special's voice softened. “It's weird to think about it, but I was almost a goner. I'm pretty blessed to be able to walk up out of here.”

“Yes, you are,” I said, realizing that I was equally blessed. I held out my arm and helped Special into the wheelchair. I hung the duffel bag on the back of the chair and pushed her into the corridor.

I waited while Special thanked the nurses for taking such good care of her. When she was done with her
goodbyes, I steered the wheelchair toward the bank of elevators at the end of the corridor.

Special gazed up at me. “Thanks for always being there for me,” she said somberly.

I gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Ditto.”

I looked away as my eyes began to moisten and a big lump settled in my throat. I did not want to set off another crying spell.

By the time we reached the elevators, we had both perked up.

“Now getting back to Jefferson's cousin,” Special said as I rolled her to a stop. “You claim he's really fine, right? Well, I just need to know. Is he sophisticated fine like Denzel or roughneck fine like Ice Cube?”