It was the white man’s turn to speak: “A whole lot of Benjamins. They add up to one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. And if you sign some paperwork, you’ll receive a second briefcase within the next ten days.”
“So altogether we’re talking about a quarter of a million dollars,” said Jake.
The men nodded; their sneers looked more at home on their faces. Greed was something they understood. Offering bribes was part of their everyday handiwork.
The briefcase was still outstretched, waiting for Jake to take it. That much money would help launch him into a real law practice. And for a few fleeting seconds, Jake couldn’t help but consider everything he could do with a quarter of a million dollars. He could get an office with a copy machine, and maybe even a secretary. And with that kind of cushion, he could do lots of pro bono work. Jake thought of a favorite quote of his from St. Francis of Assisi, who’d said, “All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle.” Jake could be that light in Oakley and beyond.
“What paperwork do I have to sign?” he asked.
There was a momentary consultation of eyes, and then the black man opened his mouth to speak. Everything about the men was in sync. They spoke with the same low voice and had the same hard, brown eyes. The men were of similar height and weight, although one had been cut from black granite, and the other, white. “Basically, it’s a contract which says that you agree to not pursue the lawsuits you filed in West Virginia and Ohio, now or in the future.”
“Game over,” Jake said, mostly to himself. “So I’m supposed to just walk away and disappear?”
“No,” said the white man, “you’re supposed to walk away a rich man.”
His partner added, “Of course, these earnings are never to be discussed, and part of your paperwork is signing a nondisclosure agreement to that effect.”
“Why the unorthodox method of payment?” asked Jake. “Why not a company check?”
“That could be arranged, if you prefer,” the white man said, “but it would not be to your advantage. Since you’re working on a contingency fee, the lion’s share of any settlement money would go to the counties that you represent. The paltry amount you’d be left with would be subject to taxes. By giving you the money this way, we protect your best interests.”
“A quarter of a million dollars, with no questions asked?”
The two men nodded.
“I guess it’s a no-brainer, then, isn’t it?”
Knowing smirks reappeared.
“But then there’s that pesky contract I have to sign,” said Jake.
“You’ll see in the paperwork that there’s a promise of confidentiality for both parties,” said the white thug.
“Will I be provided a copy of that contract?”
“The money you receive now and the cash you receive in ten days should serve as all the paperwork you’ll ever need,” he said.
“Take the money and run, is that it?”
“Much better than that. You don’t have to run. You can stay put and thrive right here in your little town.”
“Stay put in Oakley?” said Jake.
“Why not?” said the man.
The veneer of pleasantness in Jake’s voice vanished as he unleashed all that had been building inside of him. This was the living room of his family home. This was where he and his brother had grown up. He thought of Blake, and how he’d died. These two men actually thought he would take their bribe.
“Why not? Well, for starters, I’m thinking it would be much more rewarding for me to build a case that results in the creeps you’re working for getting indicted. Tell them if they think that’s far-fetched, they can revisit the many civil court cases that have historically ended with criminal prosecutions. And to that end, tell them I’ll happily be a witness for the prosecution.” Jake pointed a finger from one man to the other. “I’d be remiss in not asking your names so that I can offer them up during my testimony.”
The extended briefcase was retracted. Unsurprisingly, neither man offered his name. Their expressions didn’t change; they appeared unfazed by Jake’s rejection.
“You’re under no obligation to take the money,” said the white man, “although it’s the safest thing to do—on a purely personal level.”
“I assume your use of the word safest constitutes a veiled threat?” said Jake.
“It’s just a word,” he said. His smile said otherwise.
“So, what’ll happen when I see you the next time?” asked Jake.
“Since you seem to be a man of great imagination, we’ll leave that to your speculation.”
“Tell you what,” said Jake, “I’m using that imagination to envision both of you standing in front of a police lineup.”
“Enough talk,” said the black man. “Either accept the payment or say bye-bye to your easy money.”
Jake shook his head. “Like good old Ralph Waldo Emerson said, ‘Money often costs too much.’ And easy money costs even more. You can tell your bosses that’s what will put them in prison before this is all over.”
The black man turned to his partner and said, “We’re done here.”
“I’m wondering something,” said Jake. “Did your bosses tell you anything about my brother? Did they mention he got hooked on the poison they helped put out on the street? And did they tell you he died from that poison?”
The black man tucked the briefcase against his side. “You’ll wish you’d taken the money,” he said.
“Like we give a shit about your junkie brother,” said the white guy. “Good riddance, I say.”
He kissed his hand and blew it Jake’s way. “Can’t wait to see you again, son.”
Equal parts valor and stupidity propelled Jake forward. He took a swing at the white guy, a move both his opponents were waiting for. They were counterpunching before Jake’s blow ever landed; he was hit just to the side of his right eye with one fist, and to his stomach with the other. Slamming into the floor felt like a third blow.
His mouth opened, but no air seemed to be traveling to his lungs. The wind had been knocked out of him. What made everything worse was the sensation that he was going to be sick, but he lacked the air to even throw up. Jake could do nothing but flop around on the floor.
Getting to one knee took a lot of gasping. Inch by painful inch, Jake fought his way to his feet. Putting a steadying hand on the sofa, he was able to take a faltering step toward the door, and then another. He propped himself up on the door, leaned on the frontdoor handle, and then found the strength to turn it.
As he feared, there was no sign of a car, and no license plate to write down. The two men were long gone.
7
ABANDON ALL HOPE
The flight by private jet from Florida to West Virginia took only two hours. Deke used that time to read up on what was being called the “Epidemic of Despair.” Opioids had been able to do something that even AIDS and wars hadn’t—beginning in 2015, American life expectancy had actually declined. Drug-related overdoses were now responsible for 2 percent of annual deaths, with most of the victims in their twenties.
Being aware of the opioid epidemic was one thing; digesting the frightening statistics associated with it was quite another. But maybe that was the problem. In the courtroom, as in life, large numbers were difficult to envision. Deke was only too aware of the saying that the death of one person is a tragedy, while the death of thousands is a statistic. Nationwide, there were almost one hundred million people taking prescription painkillers. An estimated ninety thousand of them were dying every year. During the long and protracted Vietnam War, the United States had suffered a total of fifty-eight thousand fatalities. It was as though the U.S. were losing a war—this time, the war on drugs—all over again each year.
63 Those numbers weren’t likely to change for the better anytime soon. As far as Deke could determine, the opioid epidemic was like a hydra—you struck one head off and two more surfaced. Whenever a pill mill was shut down
, heroin pushers moved in. In fact, the heroin epidemic was referred to as “the tail” of the opioid epidemic. Attempting opioid withdrawal was potentially a death sentence, with the risk of seizures and cardiac failure, so for most addicts, there was little choice but to stay hooked.
The sound of wheels being lowered on the Cessna Citation Excel made Deke stop reading. Below him he could see the West Virginia landscape drawing ever closer. He looked across to the other seat and saw that the noise hadn’t yet roused Bennie, who was fully reclined in his leather chair. Bennie’s mouth was open, and he was lightly snoring.
If I had three kids under the age of ten, Deke thought, I’d probably be doing the same thing. Deke’s two children were pretty much grown. His son was in college, and his daughter was a lawyer who worked for his firm.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he said, “it’s time to wake up. We’re about to land.”
Bennie opened his eyes, stretched, and then brought his seat to an upright position.
“You must have the cleanest conscience of anyone I know,” Deke said.
“Why do you say that?” asked Bennie.
“The sleep of the just always overcomes you within five minutes of our taking off.”
“I hate to say it,” Bennie said, “but I sleep a lot better on business trips than I do at home. Of course, I know better than to tell my wife that. She thinks these business trips must be miserable for me. If she hears about how well I sleep when I’m away, she’d probably insist on going on a girl’s weekend while I look after the kids.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” said Deke. Bennie’s wife was about half his size, but she definitely ruled the roost.
“I’ve never been to West Virginia,” said Bennie. “What about you?”
“I tried a few environmental cases here years ago. After one victory, I made the mistake of celebrating with some West Virginia moonshine. Boy, did that have a kick.”
“Cleared your sinuses?” asked Bennie.
“It pretty much blew off the top of my head.”
A welcome committee awaited Deke and Bennie on the tarmac. Two uniformed sheriff’s deputies approached; the older one, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair, took the lead. “Mr. Deketomis and Mr. Stokes? I’m Todd Poole from the Seneca County Sheriff’s Department.”
Deke extended his hand. Bennie’s huge mitt followed. Then the fourth man joined in the pressing of hands. “Jackson McCrumb,” he said. The deputy was about thirty, with a bantam strut that was offset by his quick smile.
“Good flight?” asked McCrumb.
“My friend slept through it,” said Deke, “even though we had to deal with a bit of turbulence.”
“That’s what comes with flying anywhere near the Appalachians,” said Poole.
He pronounced the mountain range Ap-uh-latch-uns.
“I hope you notice how he pronounced that, Bennie,” said Deke. “I’m told the fastest way to lose a case in this part of the woods is to mispronounce Ap-uh-latch-uh.”
“For a Yankee,” said Poole, “that pronunciation sounds pretty good.”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever been called a Yankee,” said Deke. “Usually my Florida Panhandle accent gets me categorized as a cracker.”
“Anyone who’s not from around here is a Yankee,” said McCrumb.
“We’re at your disposal, gentlemen,” said Poole. “My orders from above are to take you to wherever you want to go. Deputy McCrumb is from these parts, so he’ll be able to give you local insights that I can’t. We’ll be driving in a state trooper vehicle that was especially selected since we were told that Bennie was about as big as—”
“The Ap-uh-latch-uhs,” Bennie said.
Everyone laughed, and Poole said, “Yeah, just about that big.”
The four men walked over to a black-and-white Chevrolet Tahoe. Once again Deke found himself indebted to Carol Morris and her extensive list of contacts. People who didn’t know Carol were always surprised to find that the grandmother of two was the lead investigator and head of security for Bergman/Deketomis. Before joining the firm, Carol had been both a cop and a private investigator. Law enforcement is typically a haven for macho men; Carol’s femininity and brains had always proved much more of an asset than brute force. With all her contacts, Carol was always able to smooth the way for Deke.
“We appreciate your hospitality,” said Deke. “If you don’t mind, we’d like Deputy McCrumb to take us to Zombieland.”
McCrumb’s brows rose. “Never thought I’d hear visitors make that request. That’s like asking to go to a war zone.” He got behind the wheel. “Y’all better buckle up.”
vvv They were five minutes into the drive, and everyone was beginning to get comfortable with one another, when Poole said, “I know these parts, but not nearly as well as Deputy McCrumb does. Still, we’re not exactly touring one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Is there anything in particular you want to see when we get to Zombieland?”
“I’m not sure I’ll know what I want to see until I see it,” said Deke.
“But what I’m looking for is how the opioid epidemic is impacting, and has impacted, your state.” Poole did some nodding and thinking, and then said, “You ever see how blight hits the trees in a forest?”
Deke and Bennie nodded.
“Well, that’s just how it is,” Poole said. “In the forest you see a few dying trees, and then you see a few more. Then it’s like there’s this whole patch of forest that’s dying. And before long the rot is more common than not. Sometimes parts of the forest try and resist—you hope they’ll be able to hold out, but that doesn’t usually happen. Eventually the contagion overwhelms everything.”
“How do you stop the blight?” asked Deke.
“I assume we’re talking about the human blight now,” Poole said. “Lord knows, there are no easy answers. Like trying to put toothpaste back in the tube.”
McCrumb turned the black-and-white at a sign that said oakley toWnsHip park. As they followed a road that led toward playing fields, Deke looked to his right and left at the bucolic setting. There were walking down paths lined with trees.
“Nice-looking park, isn’t it?” said McCrumb. “Look closer.”
Deke and Bennie looked around them, trying to see what the deputy was talking about.
“If the two of you were wearing boots,” McCrumb said, “I’d consider taking you on a walk. You’d get my point then, probably all too literally. The thoughtful junkies toss their needles into the trash cans. The bad-off ones don’t give a shit and leave them everywhere. You get stuck, you run the risk of AIDS or hepatitis A, B, or C.”
“I’d hate to pick my poison,” Deke said.
“Me, too,” said McCrumb. “Disposing of needles in these parts has become a major health hazard. Junkies flush needles down their toilets. In the past year, the sewage system has had to be shut down twice because they clog up the pipes.”
He steered the black-and-white into a parking lot, and its presence didn’t go unnoticed. Two of the six vehicles turned on their engines and started to pull away, clearly seeking to avoid a run-in with the law.
“Do you want me to light them up?” asked McCrumb.
Poole shook his head. “If they were aware enough to notice us, they’ve probably already stashed their drugs out of sight.”
They made a circle through the parking lot, getting a good look at the empty baseball field.
“Are the sports fields still used?” asked Deke.
McCrumb shook his head. “Night games are a thing of the past. The fields still get some use on the weekends, but not before a safety committee clears them for play. Needles,” he added.
“Last year the softball league disbanded after more than twenty years of play,” Poole said.
To the casual observer, Deke thought, the park looked like any other in the U.S. That’s what made the hidden tragedy so insidious.
“Next stop, Dresden,” said McCrumb, swinging the car toward the main road.
“One of the old-timers around here came up with that name,” said Poole. “You ever hear about the firebombing of Dresden during World War II?”
“I saw some pictures in a history book,” said Bennie. “It was like seeing the aftermath of a nuclear blast.”
“No bombs in our little Dresden,” McCrumb said, “but it’s been just as ravaged.”
The area of Oakley known as Dresden consisted of around fifty houses. Perhaps half the residences were still occupied, but it was hard to tell—Dresden was dark even in the light of day. Fires had blackened the walls of several homes. There was no pride of ownership; there was no pride at all.
“Ten years ago, it was a pretty nice place to live,” said McCrumb. “But around five years ago, almost all the families that were holding on here gave up. Now you have the squatters. That’s why everything looks so dirty. There’s no gas or propane deliveries, so people cook with wood and coal.”
Dogs barked at the SUV; most of them had ribs showing. Dresden was even more overrun with feral cats. Sickly eyes of green and yellow looked out from behind piles of trash and from under rotting porches. Deke wondered if the scrutiny of the almost-wild animals made the other men feel uneasy as well.
The deputy slowed the car down. An older man in a faded green John Deere cap was walking toward them.
“Here comes Victory,” said McCrumb.
The nickname, Deke was sure, was a result of the way the man held up his index and middle fingers, almost in a victory sign. When the man spoke, though, the reason for the pose became obvious.
“Got a cigarette?” Victory asked.
“None of us smoke,” said McCrumb.
That didn’t deter Victory, or maybe it just didn’t register with him. “Got a cigarette?” he repeated.
“No,” said McCrumb. “How are things going, Victory?”
“Got some money for a Vietnam vet?”
“Victory wasn’t born until the late sixties,” McCrumb advised. “I think either ’68 or ’69.”
With a start, Deke realized he was about the same age as Victory, though the man looked at least twenty years older.
Law and Addiction Page 7
