Rod (33 page)

“Interesting; so did you learn anything
else about this man?” he asks.

“Yeah, two things,” I state.

“What two things, Ms. Fitzgerald?” he asks
me.

“I found out that Lester Samson was part
of the
Deathdealers
.
 
And two, I also found out that he was coming into a large sum of money.”

“How did you find out about the money?” he
quizzes me.

“It was actually because of Ken Clayton
who was running his mouth about this large sum of cash that he was
getting.
 
Everybody and their mother knew
this guy was on the verge of bankruptcy and had no rich relatives on death’s
door, so I got to wondering where this money was coming from.”

“Did you find out where the money
originated?” he asks with a knowing smile.
 
He turns to the jury for their response as I tell him what I know.

“I found out that Lester Samson, along
with Boris
Cardov
and Ken Clayton, all received a
total of a hundred thousand dollars from the
Deathdealers
’
president, Seth Vinton.”

The jury collectively looks at me in
horror and our lawyer figures that their fates are doomed by the looks on their
faces.
 

“So was it a payoff then?” he asks
solemnly.

“Yes, it was.
 
It was a payoff from Seth Vinton to get our
club members distracted so they could come in and take over our club and
territory.”

“How do you know that for sure?”
 
he
turns once again
to look at the jury box.

“Rodney Vinton is Seth’s son and he said
that his father sent him over here for a possible takeover.
 
He called his father an opportunist and a
dirtbag
and said that he would risk his neck to get
whatever he wants, no matter the cost.”

“Objection, your honor!” the attorney
yells over me.

“Sustained.
 
To the jury, please disregard the witness’
last testimony and please strike the question and answer from the record.”

The court reporter nods again and removes
the entry from the record.

“No further questions, your honor,” our
lawyer says.
 

The opposing lawyer stands up and makes
his way to me as he adjusts his tie.
 

“Ms. Fitzgerald, you mean to tell the
court that you based your feelings on Mr. Samson merely on a hunch?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know Seth Vinton?” he asks smugly.

“No.”

“Do you know Boris
Cardov
or Ken Clayton?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply concisely.

“Where do you know Mr.
Cardov
and Mr. Clayton from?”

“They were part of the Green Dragons,” I
inform him.

“Were?” he says, throwing an accent on my
use of the past tense.

“Yes, ‘were,’” I say, mocking his
tone.
 
“You can’t go around kidnapping
someone’s kid and expect a man to keep you around, now can
ya
?”

“No further questions, your honor,” he
tells the judge in a fit of tamed anger.

“The witness is excused,” the judge says
looking to our attorney as I step down.
 
“You may call your next witness.”

“I call Sasha Fitzgerald to the stand,” he
says politely.
 
She gets up and bravely
makes her way to the witness stand.
 
She
stands and gets sworn in before our attorney addresses her.

“Please state your name and age for the
record,” he tells her.

“My name is Sasha Fitzgerald and I’m
twelve-years-old,” she says sweetly.
 
Her
curly blonde hair glistens, but she has the same tone in her voice the night
that we found her filthy and starving.
 
I
grow angry at the men who did this to her all over again.
 
If looks could kill, they would all four be
dead.

“Thank you.
 
Can you tell the court what happened on the
day that you were kidnapped?” he asks her gently.

“I was walking to school and I turned the
corner like I usually do.
 
I walked some
more and then this van came up to me.
 
The old man in the van said he was my grandpa.
 
He told me that my mother hates him so I
could never see him.
 
He said he was
lonely and just wanted to spend some time with me.
 
I told him that I had to go to school, but he
said it was just one day and that when he was done, he’d call my father to come
pick me up.”

“What happened next?” he asks her.

“I felt really bad for him,” she says as
she begins crying.
 
“I didn’t know that
he was lying.”

“So you went with him?” he questions her,
offering her a handkerchief to sop up her tears.

“Yes, he looked okay.
 
So I went with him.
 
He said he had candy and a bunch of games to
play.”

“What happened after that?”

“He took me back to his house and it was a
pig sty.
 
It stunk there, too.”

“Did you think anything was wrong?”

“No, not yet.
 
It had only been an hour or two, so I thought
we were hanging out.”

“Okay, so tell us what happened after
that,” he dictates.

“A long while later, it got dark and I
wanted to call my dad to come get me, but he wouldn’t let me.
 
He barely gave me any food and I missed my
mom and dad.
 
It was all weird.
 
I asked him over and over to call my dad, but
he didn’t.
 
He said that my dad was in
the hospital after he wrecked his motorcycle and that my mother would beat me
if she found me with him.”

Flabbergasted by her admission, our lawyer
says, “Go on.”

“I asked again and again to call my dad,
so he told me he would.
 
He called
someone and the other two men showed up.
 
They covered my eyes and mouth with something and took me somewhere
else.”

“And what happened next?”

“The new place smelled better, but I heard
a lot of voices in that place.
 
It stunk
like skunk a lot there, too.
 
There were
men talking in another room and sometimes all they did was laugh,” she tells us
all.

Our lawyer looks to the jury and makes a
motion with his fingers like he’s smoking a joint.
 
The jurors laugh at the notion.

“How long did you stay at this new place?”
he asks her.

“I
dunno
, but
they moved me after a long time.”

“Do you know where they moved you to?”

“Yeah,” she says calmly.

“Where did they move you to?” he asks,
pausing her with his hand up, adding, “You can take as much time as you need.”

“They shoved me in a van outside of the
house where they left me.”

“Did they feed you?”

“Not really,” she says and the jurors’
faces redden with anger at these atrocities.

“How did you use the bathroom?”

She wipes more tears from her eyes with
the handkerchief she was given and stifles a crying fit.
 
She tells us, looking down in embarrassment,
“They gave me a bucket to use.
 
They
watched me pee.”

A horrified sound emanates from the jury
box as they all look on in disgust.
 
They
believe her and they already know the kind of monsters we’re dealing with.

“No further questions, your honor,” our
attorney says.

“Your witness, counselor,” the judge tells
the other lawyer.
 

He rises and steps up to the witness stand
to begin his questioning.

“Ms. Fitzgerald, did you think Lester
Samson was a bad man when you first met?” he inquires.

“No, but I didn’t know that he was going
to take me away from my family for what felt like weeks,” she exclaims.

“Can you just answer the question with a
‘yes’ or ‘no’ please?” he pushes her.

“No.”

“So you didn’t think he was a bad
man.
 
Did you willingly go with Mr.
Samson when he invited you to his place to hang out?” he asks her.

“Yes.”

She lowers her head once again and I can
tell the shame she feels is mounting inside of her.

“You thought he was lonely?” he presses
her.

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it true that Mr. Samson told you
that his toilet was backed up?”

“No.”

“Are you telling the truth?” he asks
smugly.

“Yes, I am telling the truth.
 
Do you think anyone in their right mind would
use a bucket for a toilet if they weren’t forced to?” she snipes.

I look to my dad and see a mixture of
pride and anger cross his face.
 
He wants
to rip someone’s head off and I wonder if he’s reconsidering Alex Maple’s offer
to blow up Lester’s house.
 
The jurors
all look on in horror at the thought.

“No further questions, your honor,” he
tells the judge.

The questioning between each lawyer and the
witnesses go on for days.
 
Our side
claims truth in their guilt, while they claim that they’re all innocent and
merely victims of circumstance.

Days pass and we continue to attend the
trial in full force.
 
My father stares a
hole
right through Boris
Cardov
as
he comes to testify.

We all gear up for another round of
blaming the twelve-year-old for her own kidnapping, but it’s Boris’ testimony
that does their side no favors.
 

“Tell us about your involvement in the
kidnapping,” our lawyer says, grilling him in hopes he’ll slip up.

“It was all Seth Vinton,” he yelps.
 
Our entire side of the court room looks on in
disbelief that Boris would turn on the other men.

Seth Vinton looks at Boris in disgust as
our attorney presses on.

“Tell us everything,” our attorney
commands him.

“I was a part of the Green Dragons,” he
says looking at my father.
 
“I was in a
bad way financially, but this man came up to me and offered me a way out.
 
He said that I couldn’t tell any of the club
members or they’d kick me out.”

“What was this way out you’re talking
about?” he asks Boris.

“He gave me a huge suitcase full of
marijuana and said if I sell it all, I could keep forty percent of the
profits.
 
I thought, ‘Why not?’
 
I could use the money, so I didn’t see any
harm in it.
 
I was desperate.”

“So, what happened next?”

“The man came back three weeks later to
find that I’d sold all of the pot,” Boris recalls.

“Then what?”

“So he takes a bat and threatens to break
my kneecaps if I don’t give him all but twenty percent of the money I earned.”

“What happened to the other twenty
percent?” our lawyer asks him.

“He said that it was insurance money so
that he wouldn’t tell our president that he was dealing drugs,” he tells the
court room.

“Who was this man?”

“It was Seth Vinton,” Boris says plainly.

I cover my mouth to avoid blurting
something out and sit hunched over, hanging on Boris’ every word.

“Tell us how the kidnapping came to be,”
our lawyer instructs him.

“He already had the pot dealing hanging
over my head, but he said he’d make it up to me.
 
He said he had this huge thing for me to
handle and I could make thirty thousand dollars.”

“What huge thing did he want you to
handle?” he asks Boris.

“He told me that
me
and Ken Clayton were to help Lester Samson kidnap Sasha Fitzgerald.”

“Did you want to kidnap Sasha?”

“No, I didn’t.
 
It was a lot of money and I was afraid that
he was going to get me kicked out of the Dragons, but he threatened to kill my
mother if I didn’t cooperate.”

“Seth Vinton threatened to murder your
mother?” our lawyer asks him in disbelief.

“Yes, he did.
 
I did what he said.
 
He told me it was a win-win for
everyone.
 
He wanted everyone in the
Dragons distracted and then he could swarm them with his men and take everyone
out.”

“Another witness, Rodney Vinton, testified
two days ago that you and Ken Clayton got into a fist fight at the clubhouse.”