“Maybe they’d want a second opinion.”
Stein was sizing Brad up.
“I want you to know, when you get out of here, that it is my personal mission in life to make sure they watch you like a hawk. And if there is one hint that you will re-offend, or plan to re-offend…”
“You can’t do this. I have rights. I served my time in full. That was hell enough without having to listen to you lecture.”
“I’m not lecturing you, Mr. Jensen. I’m telling you. You are going to have to play things very straight on the outside. And next time, daddy’s money won’t be enough to prevent you from doing real, actual time. Not here at the Club Med, as you called it once. But in a real federal prison. In genpop.”
Brad held up his arms.
“I don’t believe you feel much of anything, Brad. That’s what’s bothered me back then, that’s what bothers me now. I know you don’t respect Psychology, or me, or anyone, really. And I know that you are very smart. Very charming. Very attractive and articulate. It’s just, I’m concerned for the welfare of others. And you and I both know exactly what I’m saying. We’ve spent thousands of hours talking to each other, you and I. Lying to each other and telling each other the truth.”
“Truth is I won’t be caged again.”
“Not quite the same thing as saying you won’t offend again.”
“Gee doc. I guess I can’t promise that, if we’re being so honest with each other. I might fuck you one night. Or your sister. Or do you have any kids? I could…”
“No, Brad. Baiting me won’t work, either. And I’m not scared. I have a concealed carry permit, and so does my wife. Don’t have any kids – partly because I spent too much time around people like you. Crass threats won’t really help your case though.”
“I served my time. My case is over. I’m a free man.”
“Almost.”
“Fuck you Stein. You can’t legally keep me. My father’s picking me up. In fact, he’s probably here already.”
Now Stein laughed out loud to himself and shook his head. “Yes. About that… I spoke to him a little earlier. He is sending a car, but he won’t be here to pick you up in person.”
If Stein wanted a reaction on that, Brad wasn’t giving him one. Who cared if the old man came himself or sent one of his Mexicans? He was leaving the cage, today, now.
So the little bastard just went on: “Well, we’re certainly connecting, you and I. That’s good, Brad. That’s very good. It tells me how long I will need you to check in at your local police station.”
“Weekly, four years?”
“Yeah, you know your way around. Yes. You read a lot. I see every book you read, remember. Law. Math. Biology. Chemistry. Marketing. And your last one, snake poisons, right? But you have to be careful with that ego of yours, Mr. Jensen. Seems like it could run away from you.”
“Blow me you Jew piece of shit.”
“Let’s talk about your siblings.”
“Which ones?”
“Both.”
“I have a brother, Alex. Two sisters, Jenna and Alice.”
“They’re not at any risk, are they?”
“No one is at risk from me. I have no plans to make any mistakes, commit any crimes or fucking anything that doesn’t want me to. I’m just eager to get home now and I’m tired of talking to you.”
“Sure you are. Like I’m tired of listening to victim impact statements. How about this. Why don’t we work together? I’d like to propose an alternative model for you to engage with the world. How about we see each other, voluntarily. How about you come in every now and again – talk about things, work things through. It may be helpful to you. Adapting to the outside can be tough, and I think we both don’t want to see you locked up. This time somewhere your daddy’s money can’t protect you from genpop inmates, who don’t care for predators much. Where your celly isn’t a forty-five-year-old pedophile, but something else. I know you don’t like me, Brad, but things can turn out quite badly for you unless we work on some problems.”
“Second time you bring up the threat of a real prison. It must weigh on you, knowing you could only be hired by a federal Club Med.”
Stein stood up, put away the thick file of notes he had on Brad, and brought out a leaner, neater, crisper file.
The next words he spoke was completely level in tone. Monotone. Insincere. Formal. “You are to report to your nearest police station once per week. You will find stable employment and a place to live, or we can get you to a halfway house facility. But either way, you’ll settle somewhere, find a job, and let us know where that is. You will not attempt to contact any of your victims. You are not to live or work within a two-mile radius of a school or playground. In a year’s time from today, you will meet with me and let me know how things are going.”
Joe took out two pages from the file, handing the first to Brad. It listed his demands. It was getting close to over. The keys to his freedom were now just moments away.
Before handing Brad the second of the two pages, Stein continued:
“Inmate Keegan…”
But an urgent knock at the door interrupted him.
“Just wait,” he said to Brad, who sighed and slumped down in the chair.
Stein went outside, and Brad could hear two muffled voices, speaking in the background. Brad looked around Stein’s office. He would never see the inside of it again.
When Stein came back, he was pale and jittery.
“Brad, I… I don’t know how to say this. So, I’m just going to say it. I have some bad news. Your brother Alex was killed.”
Stein watched Brad, as if he was expecting Brad to react, or something. “I’m very, very sorry for your loss, Brad.”
Stein sat down. He showed his palms and opened his legs, trying to play receptive to Brad. His eyes seemed to search Brad’s face.
“There was a massacre in Fairbridge. This past June. A lot of people were killed. Your brother Alex was one of them.”
Brad knew he was supposed to cover his face and sob, so he did. Nothing too much, nothing overly dramatic. Stein wouldn’t buy that, anyway.
Then Brad sat back, surprised to actually feel a sensation close to sorrow inside himself. His eyes were wet.
“I am sorry for your loss. I’m also concerned about you. This is a big trauma.”
Brad looked down, avoiding Stein’s stare.
“We tried to find information for you, but couldn’t find any details on an Alex Jensen specifically.”
“Keegan,” Brad said.
“What?”
“My brother’s last name is Keegan, not Jensen. Alex Keegan.”
“Right. Your mom’s side of the family.”
“Amazing how you get all effective when you take your head out of your ass, isn’t it, doc?”
Stein said nothing.
Alex was a good kid. He also had potential. Not as much as Brad – but some. The idea that someone had killed him pissed Brad off.
“You want truth. You want to connect. Right, doc? Truth? Truth is I was born in a Keegan house but taken to a Jensen life when I was ten. Truth is my daddy was travelling and knocked up some barefoot country gal. Truth is daddy felt guilty and spent the rest of his life making good for it with his connections and his money. Truth is he doesn’t care about me. That frigid bitch of a wife of his? She don’t care. Those two blond haired little barbie dolls called ‘my sisters’ – well, they don’t care. The country girl? She didn’t care. Her snake handling praise the lord type husband? Nope. No care there either. And here you are getting in some parting shots, because you don’t care. And all because you believe I don’t care. But you know who cared? Who always gave a shit, no matter what shit there was to give about? Alex Keegan.”
Again, Brad saw that condescending judgement in Joe’s eyes.
“Must suck b
eing you. Giving me all that crap and then having to deliver some bad news. Fuck you, Dr. Joe. Really. I was in here and I did my bit. No fights. Lots of credits. No trouble. I spoke to you and I volunteered. But a few minutes from now I’m walking out of your facility. No thanks to you. And you can take your kind words about my brother and shove them up your ass.”
“This is not how normal people react?”
“How should I mourn that I might be acceptable to you?”
Shrugging to himself, Stein handed Brad the other sheet.
“Inmate Jensen, you are hereby released from the Federal Medical Center Devens. Time served.”
Brad couldn’t help smiling again. Smirking.
He looked at Stein’s smug little expression and bit his lower lip as he said: “Those words must have been really hard to say.”
“Every week,” Stein answered. “And in 12 months, we talk again. At the latest.”
“It was really helpful to get to talk to you, Dr Stein. To get to know you, I mean. Your process really did give me insights.”
“One last thing. You get your clothes back at Intake and Processing. You also handed in these.”
Stein produced a set of keys from his pocket and dropped it into Brad’s hand. Brad felt a tingle as they hit his skin.
The very best moment, in all that routine, in all that time.
The moment his cage opened up, and Brad got his own keys.
“Thanks, doc. I’ll check in. Gotta run now. Bye.”
Chapter 5
Big Money
Paul felt slightly out of place in a large, indoor environment. It was a space designed to be its own habitat. Not quite artificial, but manicured and curated.
Glossy wooden walls and imposing bookshelves, a thick original carpet, two stylish sofas with a coffee table. Sculptures and paintings. The space was designed to create the impression that this was as high up in the food chain as it got. And in a way, it was.
Getting to the offices of the law firm of Hamilton, Goodman and Rosenthal took Paul on a local, early flight to Charlotte. He wanted to be back home by nightfall. Had to be, because Beth was only staying until he got back.
So, he went to the airport as early as possible, flew out as early as possible, and by regular folks’ breakfast time, was having a cup of street coffee in the Queen City’s Downtown area.
Fairbridge had some buildings with a floor or two. The highest was eight.
Now Paul was on the top floor of an actual skyscraper. From the outside, a towering shard of steel and glass. On the inside, something that seemed more like an old library at Harvard. The furniture for the waiting area cost more than the annual salaries of the average consumer in the State.
Paul stepped into the reception area directly from the elevator. There were two people waiting on the sofas, and there was a team of two receptionists. When Paul entered, one of them approached him while the other reassured the waiting clients that Ben Goodman and Ari Rosenthal would see them very shortly.
He recognized the receptionist coming towards him. She was a very smooth operator. She was really the personal assistant of Tom Hamilton, the man Paul had come here to see. That position required a certain pedigree and competence that few of the people waiting in the room with her would appreciate.
When she was on a job, things invariably happened. No turnaround time issues or amateur hour with this grand dame.
Paul was embarrassed that he couldn’t remember her name.
“Mr. Draker. Tom is right through here, if you would like to follow me.”
“Great. How are you? It’s good to see you.”
“I’m doing very well, Mr. Draker, thank you. While we’re on our way, are there any refreshments, beverages or meals I can arrange for you?”
“Just some coffee, please.”
“Certainly. I trust you are well, Mr. Draker.”
“I’m fabulous. Just a bit of nasty business I need Tom to help clean up, nothing too serious.”
“He has been working on your case almost exclusively for the past week. He’s assigned some teams to it as well. And he has at least a dozen people working the firm’s law library in shifts. I’m certain he can achieve suitable outcomes, Mr. Draker.”
“Could you please call me Paul?”
“We do this every time. And I assure you if we’re ever mingling at a cocktail party, I’ll call you by your first name. But around these offices I’m afraid I insist on Mr. Draker.”
They were moving quickly down a hallway. Paul recognized some bestselling signatures on some of the artworks that lined the walnut and upholstery walls like a military parade.
She was not saying her name. So, Paul tried to roll with what she said: “And I’d call you?”
She smiled warmly as she knocked on the door of the corner office.
“You haven’t the faintest what my name is, Mr. Draker, do you? I’ll have the coffee sent in.”
When she opened the door, Tom Hamilton was ready with his handshake. He was a tall man with silver blond hair. He had the handsome looks of an anchorman or an on-camera reporter. He used to play pretty good football back in college.
His handshake was firm, quick and to the point.
“When you bring the coffee, will you close the door?” Hamilton said to his assistant. Still no name.
“Sure.”
“Thanks, Margaret.”
A smile crossed both Paul and Margaret’s lips.
Hamilton noticed it and looked from one to the other.
Hamilton had a way of commanding a room. When Margaret left, he had Paul’s full attention. This was the first progress report. Paul supplied him with the details of the plate, the Sutherland Ridgefield branding on the truck. He didn’t want to take any other actions, wanting Hamilton to ensure that every step from the beginning was completely legal – and would stand up to the kind of scrutiny that litigation would bring.
But Hamilton was also a friend: “Firstly, Paul, how is life otherwise?”
Paul gave him the main beats, the improvements he’d made so far, the booking he had for training well into the next summer. The California trip. The Loveday acquisition.
Coffee arrived and the two of them each took a few sips. Tom Hamilton had been a very good friend of Reuben’s. He was known and feared wherever money was kept or managed, internationally. But at heart he was an Estate guy. He ran Reuben’s Estate, the Cro’s Post Trust and the Cro’s Post business entities’ assets.
So, he took the time to fill Paul in on the state of the vast range of assets that Reuben left him.
“Funds are doing well. We’ve averaged between twelve point seven five, and thirteen point five percent returns over the past few years. It’s been good and we’ve been lucky. I’d expect a few bumps and hits in the coming three fiscals, just in case markets correct. But the listed equities portfolio looks good. The private equity portfolio is still being sold off as suitable opportunities arise. We’ve split the proceeds into a mix of real estate, cash and fixed income instruments. All as per quarterly reports. The Estate is healthy.”
“Great,” Paul said.
“Now to the nasty business.”
They finished their coffee and sat back. Hamilton was calm, and he seemed to be in a philosophic mood. He was about to tell Draker his high-level strategy.
“Fundamentally, we face three big excuses. One, Sutherland Ridgefield was not itself involved in any wrongdoing, and the employees acted on their own behalves. They have been fired. If you want money, go after them. They’d argue matters of fact first, if they go this way. We’ve got them beat here. Employment law, consumer law, health hygiene and standards.
“Two, Sutherland Ridgefield is not liable for damages due to a legal technical issue. Environmental Protection loopholes. There are about twenty-seven of these, and I am ready with counterattacks on al
l of them. They will argue a matter of law if this is the route.
“Three, it is a criminal matter and not a civil one. This means they throw the two guys who did the dumping under the bus. They demonize them, get them sent to jail. And they are not legally responsible for a crime that someone else has committed. Pure culpability play. They could do this, but they would first have to convince a judge that civil matters are not at all admissible. That’s a very tough cell, but someone silver-tongued enough in front of the right judge and they could pull it off. That won’t end our case, because I have alternative strategies with that kind of legal musical chairs. I’d tell you about these in just a second.
Paul made each point slowly and clearly, bringing a finger up on each point.
“Firstly, they will try to stall. Then they will feign incompetence. For as long as they do this, we know they don’t know who is coming for them. The moment someone senior enough in the legal department picks it up, alarm bells will go off, and they will get back to use quite seriously and suddenly. The duration of this comeback time is what we can think of as their responsiveness. This is how much time it takes, in the ordinary course of business, to get decisions made at their outfit. We will give them precisely that time to respond with a favorable offer. I’ve placed the damages at $1,750,000. I will take no fee here; the Estate more than adequately compensates me. They pay us that, in that period of time, and we are done. We all go home happy and we begin to repair and recover. There is a Dutch firm I know that have some interesting ideas about cleaning the soil. My due diligence and engineering teams are looking into that. I’ll let you know. We might actually be able to permanently reverse the damage.”
Paul Draker said nothing, but nodded.
Then Hamilton counted on his second finger.
“If they come back with any muscle, this firm will launch simultaneous different legal attacks at the same time, in a coordinated fashion. We will hit them criminally, civilly. County laws, city laws, State laws, Federal Laws. Environmental law. Consumer Safety. Your law enforcement and military customers make some very interesting terrorism opportunities open for us as an angle of attack. We will keep separate teams, each highly focused and incessantly aggressive. We do this until Sutherland Ridgefield capitulates, or we weaken them to the point that we boy them. And then we shut them down. But at some point, the pain of paying becomes far less for them than the pain of not paying. However. Should they force us to go this way, we will have to increase the size of our ask by about a million dollars per week. I will ask for your authorization for a million and a half a year fee to keep the fight going. But we would make at least triple that by the time they agree to just settle. Anything, as long as we promise to go away.”
Brimstone Page 6
