by Hazel Parker
“You liked that, huh?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, keeping to my three phrases.
“Well, then you are going to love the offer that my dear friend here reminded me of,” he said. “You see, Shaun—or should I say, Splitter, VP of Savage Saints—you are a big gun there, it’s true. But you’re not the biggest gun.”
What the actual fuck are you getting at?
What the fuck!
“Your friend, Tracy Cole? Yeah, see, we can say between the three of us that we all know he’s engaged in some illegal matters. Drug smuggling, murder, you name it. Unfortunately, we also know that he has friends in, let’s say, high places that make our job difficult. You were sloppy and will surely be convicted of all of this.”
I had to fight not to roll my eyes, although really, I had no idea how heavily the evidence was stacked against me.
“So we know that we can at least take down the VP. However, that’s like cutting off the end of a snake. It’ll just grow it back, and it’ll keep going. Or, perhaps the metaphor is better said it’s like cutting off its fangs? You are more important than the end, after all.”
Noticeably, the assistant DA rolled his eyes, although his superior didn’t seem to notice. I had to put my hands over my mouth to hide my smile at that.
“In any case, we’re interested in ending this domestic terrorist threat of the Savage Saints gang once and for all, and the only way we feel confident in doing that with one fell swoop is by getting Mr. Cole behind bars.”
There was so much that fucking infuriated me that my face turned red. “Domestic terrorist threat?” “Gang?” “Mr. Cole behind bars?”
The only real question was which of those three pissed me off the most, but one thing was for certain: I was not selling out Trace. To do so would have violated the very core of who the Saints were—a brotherhood that stood up for each other, never ratting out anyone—and in any case, Trace was a friend of mine. I was not about to send him behind bars so that I could get out when I was fifty instead of when I was going to my grave. That was fucking laughable.
Well, it would have been, if it was not so goddamn infuriating.
“So, we are happy to cut a deal with you, Shaun,” the DA said. “All you have to do is agree to testify against Mr. Cole. I daresay that such a deal would allow you to walk free.”
I couldn’t fucking take it. I slammed my fists on the table, drawing a jolt from both the DA and his assistant.
“If you… if you think…” I began, having to exert every ounce of energy not to swear, “that I will ever sell out Trace… I swear—”
But before I could finish, the door swung open. All three of us turned to see what might have been the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life.
She was about my height, maybe a couple of inches shorter. She had long blonde hair, piercing green eyes, and perfect curves that told me she’d look great naked.
“Amber Reynolds, legal representation for Shaun Reddings,” she said.
She’s my legal representation?
Holy fuck. I have the hot lawyer! Damn, at least some part of this situation is going well.
“And I am not going to let you speak to my client until I have a chance to sit down with him.”
“I’m sorry, Amber, I am fully aware of who you are,” the DA said. “And you’re representing him? Can he even afford you?”
“The payments between my clients and I remain between my clients and I, Edwin,” she scolded him. “I suggest that you remain professional and focused on what matters, not on the relationship with my clients.”
Heh, relationship. I’d like to have some kind with you.
Damn. Like… there’s beautiful, there’s hot, and then there’s the kind of beauty that makes you feel like an awkward middle school kid all over again. She is most certainly that. Good Lord.
“Now then, if you’ll excuse us, I need a chance to speak to my client in private.”
“Jesus,” the DA said.
“Would you mind?” Amber said.
I was unsure of what she recoiled at, but Edwin quickly apologized. I gave her an askance look, but she seemed only interested in getting me out of the room at that moment. Not that I was going to argue—the sooner I got away from the situation that left me on the verge of cracking emotionally, the better.
“You can use the break room, three doors to the left,” Edwin said. “Fifteen minutes.”
Amber nodded, motioned for me to follow her, and then led me down. I kept silent until she had latched the door behind her, and as soon as she did, I leaned back into the couch, letting out a long sigh.
“Thank fucking heavens,” I said.
I noticed that she winced when I spoke.
“Are you OK?”
“Something you should know about me, Mr. Reddings,” she said. Her voice was soft but firm—she was not scolding me, but there was little doubt that I would listen to her. “I am a devout Catholic. I cannot tell you what to do, but I would appreciate it if you did not take the Lord’s name or anything associated with him in vain.”
Oh, the religious type.
Trace… I sure hope you didn’t just get me a missionary that I won’t ever be able to do missionary on. Because if you did, I’ll have to kill you myself!
“Apologies, ma’am,” I said. “I am a bit emotionally up and down, so sometimes, in heated moments, I swear, but I will do my best to temper it around you.”
Amber must not have had a lot of clients who respected that wish, because she had a different kind of look on her face—one of pleasant surprise.
“Thank you,” she said. “I know no one’s perfect. I mess up sometimes. But please respect my wishes, and we will get along fine.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “And just one request from me.”
“Hmm?”
I smirked.
“Call me Splitter. It’s more personal that way.”
Chapter 2: Amber
Sitting in the break room of the police precinct with my newest client, Shaun “Splitter” Reddings, about five feet away from me, positioned as if I were his therapist, I could not help but wonder how I had gotten there.
As soon as Mr. Cole had driven off with his woman and I had gotten home, I just sat on my couch for the rest of the day. The feeling of the finality of it all had been unbearable, and to some extent, still was in that moment, but the immediate experience after of having Mr. Cole come up to me, ask to work with me, and then puffing a cloud of smoke into the paparazzi was… well, surreal.
That was the only adjective I could think of, and while I hated to say it for how arrogant it sounded, it wasn’t often that I found myself speechless. I’d had a lot of clients approach me in, shall we say, inappropriate ways—offering their bodies to hire me, offering me amazing parties I had no interest in, offering me Lord knows many illegal things—but this odd mixture of rude yet kind of chivalrous behavior was charming.
It had only taken until the next morning for Mr. Cole to give me a call. He explained that he was a member of the Savage Saints, a motorcycle club—he had been very adamant that they were a club and not a gang—and that he believed the authorities had set out to make an example of one of his members. He explained that he recognized that my price was high, but that just as the authorities wanted to make an example of Mr. Reddings… er, Splitter, he wanted to make an example of them by hiring me.
I told him then that I would need to do some research and I would get back. Admittedly, Mr. Cole had not sounded the most confident about the deal, but I needed to make sure that I could take on such a case based on my own ethics and values. There were many a client who had requested help for cases like sexual assault that I had refused to take on, not wanting to defend someone who was so readily guilty and having to live with myself afterward.
The press readings, as he had warned me, were all negative. “Motorcycle gang causes public disturbance.” “The age of the bikers is over.” “Why the Saints are anything but.” On a
nd on and on. Reading the news clippings only would have made me believe that the Saints were the closest thing to ambassadors for Satan.
For better or for worse, though, my time in Los Angeles had made me distrusting of what I read in the newspapers and online. The publications weren’t necessarily looking to tell the truth; they were looking to tell a story, and whatever they wrote about had to fit the narrative that they presented. Sometimes the two could overlap, but nothing got me to tune it out faster than representing clients that were so totally opposite of their public image that I could not help but wonder how they ever got to that point.
I called up a few people I knew in Green Hills. Sheriff Wiggins was one, someone that I had become acquainted with early in my time here. Though some district attorneys and some cops saw me as a nuisance—like Edwin—Sheriff Wiggins saw me as someone worth getting to know, even if we were on opposite sides at different times. His words resonated with me.
“You are a woman who is strong in her values. Think of the Saints as an angel wearing the worst kind of clothes possible. Everything that you see about them on the surface—the swearing, the parties, the groupies—you will find distasteful and probably offensive. But I swear on my job, Amber, that they keep the bad element out and that they are good people. In some ways, yes, it’s like dealing with the devil that you know. But you know what? That devil actually helps us out, so I can’t really call them a devil.”
That he spoke my language was basically what sold me on it. I spoke to a couple of other people, such as the mayor and the head of the hospital, and while they weren’t as effusive in their praise as Sheriff Wiggins, the argument had been made loud and clear—the Savage Saints were, well, exactly what they said they were. They were savage, but they were… kind of saints.
I had too much faith in actual saints to call them that, but I understood the meaning of it.
I told Mr. Cole I would work with him, drawing a surprised shout of joy. He had not sworn on the phone, but I suspect that was more of a coincidence than anything else—though I hoped that that wasn’t the case; I didn’t want to make any presumptions about it.
Which brought me to sitting in front of Mr. Reddings… er, Splitter. That is going to take some getting used to. I don’t know that I’ve ever had a client say it like that.
But then again, I have never had a client apologize and be so sincere about respecting me as him.
“Alright, Splitter,” I said, showing a faint but genuine smile. “You’ll have to forgive me if I slip into calling you Mr. Reddings. Professional habit, you know.”
“I understand, Amber,” he said with a reassuring smile. “As long as you extend the same to me.”
“Of course,” I said. “Now then, before we get into any of the evidence or anything with the case, I require three things from you. One, I need the full truth from you.”
I let the words hang for a few seconds in the hopes that Splitter would understand. So many clients who had been caught on film doing something illegal would try and tell me it was one way. I had to tell them that it was not their job to interpret what they saw, but mine; if they drove drunk, they had to tell me the truth. If they hit someone in a bar fight, they had to tell me.
I did my best not to judge—not that judging was ever my place—but I would absolutely judge not telling me everything.
“The full truth, huh?” Splitter said.
“Everything,” I said. “What you tell me remains confidential. I know from talking to Mr. Cole and others in Green Hills that you all have a code of confidentiality and do not ‘rat out,’ as you say, what happened, but I need to know everything from you. It’s the only way to ensure that we’re fully prepared for what is to come.”
Splitter nodded, let out a long sigh, and laughed.
“Shit,” he said. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just… maybe we should have a conversation about that later.”
“It’s OK,” I said, telling myself that it would take Splitter more than a few times not to swear. That he still looked genuine about it, though… as weird as it was to say this about a man with slick back hair, tattoos, and the general smell of oil, he was a true gentleman. “And don’t worry. This is just so you can understand what I’m about. We will go over that later. I just need to know that you will tell me everything.”
“I’ll do my best.”
I arched my eyebrows and let the silence compel him to up that answer. “My best” was not good enough. Only the absolute truth would do the trick.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” he said.
“Splitter,” I said, deciding to make him more comfortable by sitting on the same couch as him, closer to him. The smell of oil got stronger, but…
Well, let’s just say it also let me see his better side a little more clearly.
“I promise you that what you tell me remains between you and me. I hold secrets of Hollywood people that you would not believe. And you know what? They remain with me. Because I know God is judging me, and if I spill their secrets and betray their trust, well, I’m a modern day Judas.”
Splitter snorted and nodded.
“I’m a big dummy, but even I got that reference,” he said.
He’s not a dummy. He just knows how to play a part.
“OK,” he said. “I promise I will tell you everything. But, Amber. I don’t mean this in a threatening way. But the Savage Saints do not take kindly to rats.”
I got the message loud and clear. I’d heard a similar threat many times before.
“All respect, Splitter, but I fear God judging me more than the Savage Saints,” I said. “I would sooner face whatever your consequences are than the Lord’s.”
I don’t think Splitter was expecting that kind of answer, because all he could do was stare wide-eyed at me. I imagined that most people who did not look intimidated were either people who had too much power to be killed, drunks who didn’t know any better, or people who had violent tendencies. I felt quite confident he’d never met anyone like me.
“I think we’re on the same page then,” he said with a laugh.
“Good,” I said, stacking my papers and waiting for him to finish his laughter. “That’s the first rule. Here’s the second rule. No swearing, and no smoking.”
“Ah, fuu….udge, really?”
Now it was my turn to laugh. It was almost cute the way Splitter was squirming, trying to follow my rules.
“I can understand not swearing, but smoking? How am I supposed to cut my stress?”
“You can smoke with your Saints; I’m not saying that,” I reminded him. “But if you come into my office smelling like cigarette smoke? Or if you take a break and sneak one during one of our consultations? I’ll kick you out. Show up to court smelling like cigarettes, and I will find a way to get off the case.”
“Damn,” he said. “Wait, is that bad?”
He’s adorable.
Just remember he’s a client. Treat him as such.
“It’s not the worst thing you could have said,” I said.
“Fair enough,” Splitter said, folding his hands over his knee. “God, you’re going to turn me into a priest. Oh, wait, can I say God?”
Now I was the one laughing loudly. I’d never had a consulting session like this before! It was…
Fun?
If Splitter had sought to make it more personal, he certainly had. The walls between us were coming down, and I certainly felt like Splitter was the kind of person whom I could have a drink with on a Friday night.
“Ya of course, just not in vain,” I said. “But we’re clear on that, right? No smoking around me and no swearing around me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Good.”
For someone facing a murder charge, arson charge, and five other counts related to property damage, he sure seemed like an awfully nice fellow. Of course, the prison yards were littered with men who could make you feel special and then kill your father when you weren’t looking, but I had developed a s
ixth sense for the charmers and seducers. Splitter did not seem that way; he just seemed genuine and sincere in his attempts to be good for me.
If nothing else, this case will make for a great story. Not every day that I feel as friendly with my clients as I do my friends.
Just, be careful. You know your boundaries.
“And this is the last rule I have, and this is something that goes for you not just when you are with me, but at all times.”
“Uh oh,” Splitter said with a smile, but when he saw the serious expression on my face, he dropped the grin. Which, thank goodness, because this one was perhaps the least flexible of them all. I could pry truths out of him later, I could forgive the occasional four-letter word, but this one would have a serious impact on the case if not followed properly.
“If we make bail I need you to remain quiet and keep a low profile,” I said. “Follow all of the local laws. Don’t speed. Don’t squeeze yellow lights. And when it’s the evening, stay away from the bars. Keep to the clubhouse. If you want to have a meal with Mr. Cole or something like that, that’s fine, but keep low.”
Splitter seemed more confused than bothered by that one.
“May I ask why?”
“You may,” I said, but then I stopped.
I thought about my divorce and how it was all but impossible to keep a low profile, most especially in the city. If—or when, really—the paparazzi found out I had taken on a member of the Savage Saints as a client, the coverage would be unending and annoying. I would be violating my own rule in a way.
But I would still follow it as best as I could. And that’s really all any of us could do, anyway; we were human and bound to fail. I just had to hope that Splitter could forgive me as I would do my best to forgive him if it looked hypocritical.
“Because you have a target on your back. Assuming we can get bail posted and you will be free to roam, but they’ll be watching you, just waiting for you to slip up. And for that matter, other people will be watching you too. Your friends in Green Hills. Me. The less reason you give people to watch you, the better.”
