“You might be handsome, but you still need to pay for any of my information. That’s how things work out here,” she said. “If you want what I’ve got, then you need to pay for it.”
“That’s not how things work. You’ll be on the stand. We can talk there.”
“That’s fine with me.” She was firm. “You can walk back out the door where you came from.”
Hunter held her gaze for a long moment before conceding. He reached into his pocket, removed his wallet, and placed two fifty-dollar bills on the coffee table.
“That’s good. This is all off the record, ok? The only official statement I’ve made is to the cops.”
Hunter nodded. She picked up the money and placed it in the pocket of her sweats.
“I’m glad we came to an understanding. I saw Rick pay someone, in cash, for the delivery of drugs.”
Hunter waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. She nodded to the table when he didn’t pick up her hint. Hunter withdrew another fifty along with a twenty and placed them on the table. The world was a marketplace, a place to sell her knowledge, and while she worked hard, she was also street-smart. Hunter held open his wallet, showing he had no more cash on him.
“You made the witness statement days after the raid on the club. Why not tell the truth at the time?”
“I did make a report to the police at the time. I talked to them for hours, but the police lost my first statement. They told me it was a clerical error. Then an old guy came here and convinced me to go back into the station and tell the truth.” She picked up the remaining bills. She didn’t have long left at the club. As soon as her name was released, she couldn’t go back there. She’d have to quit. With the trial coming in a matter of weeks, she would need every cent.
“Which old guy?”
“Some old guy. I don’t know his name, but a few days after the raid, he showed up in my apartment. He was with a younger guy as well. I think the second guy was a cop. He sure looked like it. He said if I wanted some money, then I should go to the cops and tell them what I saw on the day of the raid.”
“What did the old guy look like?”
“Gray hair. In his seventies. He told me there’d be more cash coming if I testified against Rick.” She ran her hand over her dark hair. It was neat, but hadn’t been brushed in a number of days.
“You’re saying you were paid to make the statement to the police?”
“They didn’t give me a choice. They came here, to my apartment, and offered me money to go to the precinct and make a statement. That’s not illegal, is it? They didn’t say I shouldn’t tell you that.”
Hunter sat back. “How much were you paid?”
“They said it was going to be twenty-five thousand. That’d be enough to get me out of here. It’d be enough to move away from here and go back to school for teaching.”
“Under the witness protection program?” Hunter was cautious. They rarely did that for state cases.
“Not witness protection. I don’t think this money is on the books. But with twenty-five thousand, I figured I’ll be far enough away for Cowan never to touch me.” She picked up a tourist brochure from the table and handed it to Hunter. “Florida could be a nice place. I’d miss Chicago, but Rick couldn’t get to me down there.”
She paused for a moment, as Hunter flicked through the brochure, before he handed it back. She stared at the front page, then shrugged and continued. “Then I went to collect the money and the guy gives me five thousand. I did what they asked, and they didn’t pay me.”
“Did you tell the police that?”
“No, but when I went to make my second statement to the police, they said I had to do exactly what I was told or they’d release my name to Cowan. He would get to me before the trial, and make sure I wouldn’t testify. Then the cop told me they’d at least get Cowan for witness tampering charges, but that’s cold comfort if I’m floating face down in the river.”
“You’re making a brave move by testifying against your boss.”
“It’s not brave. It’s my only choice. I have nothing left here. You don’t know the life I’ve lived. I live week to week, I struggle to pay bills, and I’m getting older. Older strippers don’t earn much money. I’d have to start turning tricks to earn any money. I don’t want that. I never want that.”
“You need the money for drugs?”
“No way. I don’t touch the stuff. Tried it a few times when I was younger, but I haven’t done drugs for years. Not my thing. It’s a bad spiral to get into. But I know this, it’s time for me to get out of this business. Out of this life. I’d even take a cleaning job, if I could get one. But I can’t. I can’t do anything. I want to settle down, have kids, live my life. I can’t do it here, but I need money to get out of this mess.”
“And this is your chance to start again?”
“This is my chance. And I’ll do whatever it takes, or say whatever I need to say, to get out of here.” She stood up. “And if it means putting a sleaze like Rick Cowan behind bars, then that’s what I’ll do.”
Chapter 12
The tension in the Five-Star was thick. None of the girls were smiling. Jasmine Langford could hear it from her colleagues, feel it in the dressing room, and notice it from the managers. They were angry—word had gotten out that someone within the club was listed as one of the redacted witnesses. Rumors were circulating, gossip was buzzing, and speculation was rife. Jasmine spent the entire afternoon shift on edge, her heart pounding hard enough to feel it with her hand, jumping at every movement, avoiding every shadow.
Her floor manager didn’t threaten her directly, but made it clear if anyone was contemplating a testimony against Cowan, there would be trouble. And not the sort of trouble people recovered from. She couldn’t show her worry to anyone in the club. Lana was the only person she was close to in the club, every other girl was working for the competitive edge. They were all trying to push each other out of the way, trying to win better shifts, and earn more money for selling their dignity.
When her afternoon shift finished, Jasmine didn’t feel comfortable walking home. Riding in the cab, she kept looking out the back window, watching for anyone following her. She could sense danger, she could sense the anxiety, and if anyone found out it was her listed as Witness B, she was sure her days were numbered. Riding in the cab, her knees were weak, her hands were trembling, and she struggled to hold down the sickness in her stomach.
The cab driver dropped her at her front door, and she snuck into her apartment building, keeping her head down. After running up the stairs, she bolted the door shut, took a deep breath, and then pushed the couch in front of the entrance. She pushed it hard against the door. It could still move if the door was opened, but it was the heaviest thing in her apartment. She sat on the couch, rested her head in her hands, and began to sob.
Minutes later, when her sobbing had slowed, a knock on her door echoed through the room.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Careful not to make a sound, she took off her sneakers and stepped on the cushions of the couch, peering through the peephole. She recognized the man on the other side.
She’d had a stalker before, but this was different. This wasn’t going to be a friendly conversation, and she wasn’t sure how much Cowan already knew. Was Cowan sending a guy out to every girl’s house? Or did he already know it was her? She liked the lawyer, she could’ve trusted him, but in reality, if he knew she was Witness B, it was likely Cowan knew it as well.
Making a loud noise, she moved to the window and opened it. She made as much noise as possible. If the man on the other side of the door heard the window rattling, he’d think she’d made a run for it down the outside fire escape.
The man knocked again. Louder this time.
She couldn’t run. She understood how this worked. There’d be a guy on the street on lookout, waiting for her to run out the entrance. The outside fire escape would buy her a little time, but not much. And running wasn’t her b
est skill.
As the knocking became louder, she left the window open, and crept to her bedroom, opening her closet, where there was a large cardboard box she’d used when she first moved in. She slipped inside, closed the closet door, and then tucked herself into the box.
She heard the front door break open with force. She could hear the couch being pushed across the room. It was no match for the strength of the man coming into her apartment.
Being Witness B in the case against Cowan was a stupid decision, but she wasn’t given a choice.
Money was always a problem, always a source of tension in her life. She never expected to be a millionaire, but she watched her mother, and everyone she had known, struggle to find enough money to pay the bills.
She reached for her phone. She wanted to call 911, but she couldn’t trust the cops. They would expose her the second she didn’t obey their rules. She was nothing but a pawn to them.
She’d handed out thirty resumes in the last month alone, and no one called her back. Her resume looked good—a former straight A student, volunteered with a homeless shelter, and had recommendations from respected people in the community. But competition for work was fierce, and she lacked experience. There was nothing else she could do. Nothing she could master.
She tried to apply for a job with a rival strip club, but their books were full. Cowan wouldn’t have let it happen anyway. She’d heard the owner of the other club treated his girls well, like angels, where Cowan treated them like slaves.
She heard the man’s footsteps move towards the open window. The footsteps paused there before continuing around the apartment.
Waiting inside the cardboard box with the lid closed, she tried to keep her breath quiet.
The intruder was moving around the apartment, looking for her.
Cowan would’ve been able to put two and two together. He wasn’t stupid.
The man opened her bedroom door.
She held her breath. Didn’t move.
And then the man moved towards her closet.
Chapter 13
The Western Men’s Club was painted bright yellow, a beacon for the lost, a symbol for the lonely. The building sat on land detached from the businesses next door, distinctive and unmistakable in its purpose. Sitting five blocks from Rick Cowan’s strip club, The Western Men’s Club was in direct competition with Hunter’s client, however, they charged more for drinks, more for entry, and more for private dances, attempting to attract wealthier customers. The effect of the business tactic was evident the moment Hunter drove towards the lot—all the cars parked near the club were luxury vehicles—collectively worth as much as a small bank—all perfectly clean and shiny.
As Hunter drove into the lot, he watched the car exiting. It was the same silver sedan that was parked in front of his apartment only days before. Hunter tried to look at the driver, and in a fleeting moment of passing, he recognized John Warden.
Hunter parked his BMW between a Ferrari and an Audi, and walked into the club. The second he opened the front door, he was blasted with pop music, pumping much too loud for lunchtime. The club was half-filled with young men in suits drinking, admiring the female form, and cheering for the performances. Probably young lawyers, Hunter reasoned. The bar was lengthy, the lights were dim, and the floor was smooth enough to slide on. The air was thick with the smell of booze, cigars, and female perfumes.
Hunter had spent the past day thinking about Jasmine’s decisions. If life had dealt him the same hand, perhaps he would’ve been desperate enough to obtain any job. Perhaps he would’ve done everything he could to survive. Given Jasmine’s circumstances, he might’ve ended up in a joint like the Five-Star, he reasoned, providing muscle to scumbags like Cowan.
Jasmine Langford had no family left, no support, and no backup. She had no safety net. She had to turn to the only thing she was good at, the only thing she owned of any worth. He felt sorry for her, but that was life in the city. Not everyone blossomed, and not everyone could be a winner.
Ray Jones was proving his worth. Not only had he located Jasmine Langford, but he managed to identify a second witness out of the five redacted names. Witness C testified that Cowan contacted him with the information about the drug delivery, offering him a slice of the action, and witnessed the exchange of drugs on the day. The witness was essential in the prosecution’s case by stating Cowan knowingly had possession of the drugs. Hunter wasted no time in setting up a meeting.
“Tony Kokkinos?”
“Mr. Hunter, the defense lawyer. Always my favorite type of person.” Kokkinos looked Hunter up and down, and then stepped away from the half-naked girl he was talking with. “This is a conversation we need to have in private. Let’s go to my office.”
The strip club owner led him away from the lunch-time crowd in The Western Men’s Club. Kokkinos towered over most people, although he didn’t stand as tall as Hunter. His looks were classic Greek—thick dark hair, olive skin, broad shoulders. In his early fifties, he never had a problem with the ladies. His Mediterranean looks were smooth, as was his voice and his sense of easy style.
“I heard a joke about lawyers this morning.” Kokkinos smiled as he held the door open for Hunter to enter. “There were three surgeons talking about which patients they preferred. The first surgeon said he preferred librarians, because all their organs were alphabetized. The second said she preferred mathematicians, because their organs were numbered. And the third said he preferred lawyers… because they’re heartless, gutless, spineless, and their heads and rear-ends are interchangeable.”
Hunter didn’t laugh.
“I thought it was funny anyway.” Kokkinos closed the door behind him. “I can imagine you’ve received the witness list. I was told you might contact me when you found out my name was on there, but I thought it wouldn’t be for a few more weeks’.”
“I haven’t received the list yet, but I’ve received a tip that you’re on it.”
Kokkinos squinted. That caught him off-guard.
The office was spacious, a place for entertaining guests as much as a place to work. There were two red couches on each side of the room, a large television screen to the back and a small bar fridge near the door. An office desk sat at the top corner of the room, tucked away and filled by three computer monitors.
“Why were you at a rival strip club on October 5th?” Hunter questioned.
“Straight to the point.” Kokkinos replied, holding his hand out for Hunter to sit down on one of the couches. “Why don’t you take a seat first?”
The cushion sank a long way as Hunter sat down.
“Coffee?” Kokkinos moved to the coffee machine on top of the small fridge. “Anything to drink?”
“Let’s not waste anyone’s time. I’m sure you’re a busy man. So why don’t you tell me why you were at a rival strip club on the day of a drug raid?”
“Haven’t I already answered these questions in a written statement?”
Hunter was silent.
“Listen…” Kokkinos drew a long breath, and poured a mug of coffee. “I was scoping out my rival. It’s that simple. That’s how business is done, and I’m sure you understand it. The Five-Star is a rival of my club, and if they’re doing anything new, I have to know about it.”
“How often are you there?”
Hunter’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.
“Every two or maybe three months. Cowan does the same. He comes in here to check out how things are for me. We’re rival businesses, but we’ve worked together in the past.” He sipped his coffee and leaned against the arm of the second couch. “And yes, Cowan told me he was going to receive a shipment of drugs, and offered me a slice of the pie. It’s illegal to have cocaine delivered to your door, you know? I was there when Cowan had the drugs delivered. I saw it all. I saw him pay the dealer for the drugs. When the cops approached me after the raid, I told them the truth.”
“Is it true you tried to set up Cowan before?”
Kokki
nos’ mouth hung open for a moment, and then he smiled. “You’re good. You’re obviously well-informed.”
Hunter’s phone buzzed again. He removed it, looked at the number. It was Esther. Hunter hesitated, before sending the call to voicemail.
“Esther?” Kokkinos leaned across and read the name on the screen of Hunter’s mobile. “Girlfriend? Wife? Mistress?”
“Assistant.” Hunter put the phone back in his pocket. “You didn’t answer my question about your attempt to set up Cowan.”
“I’ve said all I need to say in the written testimony. Cowan had the drugs delivered to his club. It’s that simple. He was the only one with a key to the room. I saw it all. He’s guilty, and with the evidence against him, I can’t see how he’s going to get out of it. He’s been warned in the past—when you play so close to the edge, some day you’re going to fall over it.”
“I know you’re connected with John Warden. I saw him driving out of here as I drove in.”
“Many people come in and out of here. That’s the nature of my business. I don’t know them all, and you can’t prove that I do. We’re—”
Hunter’s phone buzzed again. He removed it from his pocket. It was Esther again.
“Sounds urgent.” Kokkinos pointed to the phone. “She wants something.”
Hunter looked at the number, but again sent it to voicemail. He was in the middle of pressing a witness and didn’t want to be disturbed.
“It can wait.” Hunter responded. “Your history with Cowan?”
“Listen, Cowan and I have a past, there’s no denying it. And I’m sure you’re going to try and exploit our past on the stand, but I’m prepared for it. I heard what I heard and I saw what I saw. That piece of trash bought those drugs. I saw it with my own eyes. He treats those girls so terribly, you know? He’s a terrible boss, gives us all a bad reputation. You have to treat your girls with love and respect. Be a great boss. Treat them like angels.”
“If Cowan gets fifteen years behind bars, then you’ll get his club for cheap. Sounds like a motive to me.”
Deadly Justice: A Legal Thriller (Tex Hunter Book 4) Page 7
