Redemption (Cambria University #2)

by Sadie T. Williams

Wonder how I know so much? My dad told me. He was honest about his life, career and everything in between. For all his faults I can say that is the one thing I am proud of him for - he never lied to me.

  Drew is three years into a thirty year sentence in the San Quentin State Penitentiary. This was his, oh I don’t know, thousandth drug bust, but he was always able to get out of it with the help of his legal team, until now. This time, as he was on his way back from Colombia with $5 million worth of cocaine for a drug lord known as “El León,” one of his guys who had been arrested on distribution charges took a plea and ratted my dad out. When he was arrested, he refused to snitch on his boss and was given the maximum sentence, which essentially made me an official orphan. After the trial, the Department of Narcotics Enforcement seized everything, including our house. Anything purchased with his drug money was gone.

  Just before the state was about to take over guardianship, because they couldn’t even find my mother, I moved in with my great aunt Mabel. My dad’s parents passed away when he was young. His father was shot to death during a drug deal – see a pattern here? – when my dad was just eight, and his mother passed away from ovarian cancer in her thirties. As far as I know, my mother’s parents are somewhere in Colombia. I don’t even think they know I exist.

  Mabel is my grandmother’s sister. Spinster, old maid and crazy cat lady? Yup, all rolled into one evil little human. She is a gray-haired, five-foot-nothing hunchback who never changes out of her nightgown. It took a lot of groveling from Drew and his lead attorney, Chet, until she allowed me to move into her small house on the west side of Los Angeles, which smells like smoke, cat pee and Hot Pockets.

  Chet took pity on me after he lost my dad’s trial and offered me an “internship” so I could make some money that I would need when I moved out east, and ease my burden on Mabel. I work so I can contribute, which eases her resentment toward me and my dad over the fact that I’m even there to begin with.

  I try to stay away from Mabel’s as much as possible, but each night I tuck myself into my “bed” – her 1970s plaid couch. It reeks of smoke and is itchy as hell, but my satin sheets and fluffy comforter that I managed to sneak out of the house before the feds took everything help make it feel more like a real bed.

  Chet became a surrogate parent when my dad was shipped up north, and now I work at Barry, Hulscher, & Zeches in L.A. and give surf lessons at the Surf Hut for cash. I also design clothes that I sell to the students at VCHS and UCLA and my friends. They bring fabric and an idea. I bring it to life. I’m constantly making my own clothes. After my dad got sent away, my wardrobe went from designer duds like Dolce & Gabbana and Yves Saint Laurent to of scraps of material I find/steal (don’t judge yet) to make sure my butt isn’t naked in public. I also find a lot of clothes at thrift stores around L.A. that I can repurpose, because people donate a lot of major labels and it’s usually good stuff. The style of most of my clothing is California chill, airy and fun.

  I know without the right connections there is a very small chance I will ever become an actual designer. So, I’m going to college to become a high school English teacher, which will yield a steady job in a field where there is a need. Chet thinks I should become an attorney because I work for him, but although he occasionally lets me work on some of his cases with him, mainly I make coffee, deliver mail and file contracts.

  “Later, babes.” Bates smiles again and paddles out to catch the next wave. He will surf the rest of the day, smoke some weed, and generally not give a shit about anything. It makes me jealous.

  I walk from the beach and drop my board at the Surf Hut. Pete, the owner, always lets me borrow a board from the stash he uses to give lessons to tourists. I’m grateful because I could never afford a board of my own and without Pete’s generosity I’d never get out on the water.

  I use the public showers to wash the sand from my body and change clothes for work in the back of the building. I can’t show up in cutoffs and a bikini top.

  I’m dressed for the part of college intern. You could never tell that I was just floating free in the waves. Black pencil skirt, cream-colored Chanel blouse and a black blazer. I found the Chanel blouse at a thrift store and it was missing a few buttons, but since I took off all the buttons and sewed on multicolored ones I had in my stash, it looks pretty. My hair is loosely braided down my back and I have just a touch of mascara on my black eyelashes. I have done a complete 180 since I left the ocean.

  ✽✽✽

  I arrive at Barry, Hulscher, & Zeches just before nine. It isn’t a far drive from Vista del Cielo to their building on the west side of Los Angeles, but it takes over 45 minutes via bus. I walk into the five-story building that looks completely unassuming from the road. You would never guess some of the biggest names in L.A. since the 1980s have been clients of these mad geniuses who put Johnny Cochran to shame.

  Chester “Chet” Barry is a cutthroat attorney and one of the best in L.A. Drew’s case was one of the few Chet lost. He did the best he could, but it was a slam dunk case for the prosecution. My dad was caught on a plane that landed on a makeshift runway in the middle-of-nowhere California with getaway vans prepped to drive his product into L.A.

  Chet’s clientele list is long and powerful, and I don’t morally agree with all his victories – for example, when the lead singer of War Roses, Dan Edington, killed a family of four while driving high the wrong way down PCH, Chet got him probation and stint in rehab. He was back on tour 60 days later. But Chet is intimidating, motivated, and really good at his job.

  Chet has been talking to me about law school since my dad’s trial and is baffled that I don’t want to make this a career. Once in a while he’ll call me into his office to chat about his cases. He says it’s because I’m bright and have an elite legal mind, but I think he pities me even though he does actually seem to value some of what I have to say. I always tell him that I can't willingly work to set criminals like Edington free. He said it isn’t about approving of what they did, but making sure they get a fair trial and are given their due process. And the millions in fees don’t hurt.

  Chet thinks he relates to me because he grew up with nothing. He grew up in L.A. and worked at a fast food restaurant while he put himself through college and law school. He started at the bottom, interning at a law firm like I am now, and worked his way up. Eventually, he and two of his law school cronies opened their own firm.

  I’ve heard his “rise to power” speech a million times and read it in Forbes magazine. I respect that he’s a self-made millionaire, and I would never ask him for more than the paycheck I earn – and maybe a letter of recommendation one day. I think that surprises him, since people that have far more than I do are constantly asking him for favors or money.

  Not unlike Chet, my dad grew up in L.A. and worked his way up the food chain, but while Chet took the legal path, my dad opted for another route. Before he became a smuggler, the man known as “El Camaleón” was a dealer. He sold cocaine to everyone from junkies to CEOs. He always dressed the part, and made people feel comfortable doing something they knew was illegal. That’s why I think El León took a liking to Drew and promoted him. It was a gift that I wish he would have used for a better purpose.

  I’m a chameleon of sorts, like my dad. I can fit among various groups without being out of place. It’s one of the life skills my dad taught me growing up.

  “Good morning.” I smiled at the receptionist as I crossed the marble floor to the elevators, my black pumps clacking on the hard ground with each step.

  Partners’ offices are on the fifth floor, which is where I work for Chet. My first stop is always the break room. Floor to ceiling windows overlook the L.A. skyline, and there are several coffee makers, microwaves and two refrigerators. I start all six coffee makers with various settings to make a wide variety of drinks – I should be a certified barista with all the types of coffee I can make in this office. I make my rounds to deliver the lattes, Americanos, skinny, tall, low-fat, whip or no w
hip – you name it and I can make it.

  “Thank you, my sweetheart,” Jo coos as I drop off her nonfat latte. “Heaven in a mug.” Jo is Chet’s paralegal. She’s a mid-sixties heavy-set grandmother of eleven. She’s been working for Chet since 1986 and she is wonderful, so I always bring her coffee first. She treats me like one of her grandchildren, and she babies me, even though I know she knows my dad. I let her because it’s nice to feel cared for sometimes.

  “You’re welcome, Jo. You know you’re my favorite.” I smile as I walk on to deliver the rest of the coffees.

  Chet occupies the huge corner office with large windows, and is currently parked behind a massive mahogany desk in an executive leather chair that he will remain in for the next ten to twelve hours. When he leaves, it’s because he’s in meetings with current or potential clients. Chet personally vets all of the cases his team accepts. I share an office - basically the closet right next door to Chet’s- with his full time personal assistant, Robert. Robert is a nice man, late thirties. He and his husband are expecting their first child via surrogate later this month. He is kind and doesn’t really fit in here, but he’s been a P.A. for Chet for six years. Our office has a small window, and if I squint I can see the horizon on the ocean.

  “Morning, Mr. Barry.” I pop my head in and deliver his large Americano with two extra shots. He runs on caffeine, possibly a little cocaine, and zero sleep. I wonder if he ever bought my dad’s coke. I dismiss that thought because that could ruin a lot of things for me and I don’t want to lose the respect I have for Chet.

  “Morning, Maisy.” He smiles. The dark circles under his eyes tell me he didn’t sleep again. Chet was probably a handsome man at one point in his life, but stress has aged him. He’s short, sort of round, with soft salt and pepper hair, eyes that are a light shade of hazel – some days they almost look gold. He always has a little dusting of black and gray whiskers, which make him look approachable, even though he’s not friendly with most people.

  “You good, sir?”

  “Of course, and for the last time, no more calling me ‘sir.’ It makes me feel old. Call me Chet. I’m getting ready to see what Kathryn is so excited about. She has a new client that she thinks we should take on. Requires a decision ASAP,” he says as he slips his glasses down his pointed nose and he pinches the bridge. Kathryn is a young, eager attorney on Chet’s team and sometimes wears Chet out.

  “What type of case?” It isn’t my place as an intern to inquire, but Chet is usually pretty open with me for some reason.

  “Money laundering and counterfeiting,” he huffs. “Remind me not to let these fuckers pay me in cash.”

  “You know,” I begin, “I saw on the news that Eddie got arrested again. I bet he’ll be calling. Don’t spread yourself too thin, Chet.”

  “Dan Edington got arrested, again?” He stares at me over the top of his glasses. “What now?”

  “Do you really want to know?” I flash him my you-don’t-really-want-to-hear-this smile.

  “Hit me, kid,” he sighs. “I’ll find out eventually.”

  “DUI, possession of heroin, and—” I pause. Chet’s eyes narrow at me.

  “And…” He drags the word out.

  “Soliciting an underage prostitute.”

  “FUCK! How old?” he exclaims as he pounds his fists on his desk. His outburst doesn’t faze me in the least. I met a lot of dad’s “co-workers” before he went to jail, so there is little that shocks me anymore.

  “TMZ is reporting she was only thirteen.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ. Get Robert on the phone. Have him start digging into the girl’s background. This prick is going to kill me.” Chet pounds his fists on his desk again. He is so pissed. Besides the whole killing a sweet family of four thing, Dan “Eddie” Edington has been arrested for battery of his housekeeper, two DUIs where he didn’t actually kill anyone, and soliciting a minor over the internet. He’s also rude and egotistical. Expensive cars. Hard drugs. Designer clothes. Life has been easy for him even, when he was in prison, because he writes hit songs and makes a crap load of money for a lot of people in the music industry.

  “You know, Chet, you can say no. Maybe let the little guy squirm for a while. Maybe it would do him some good to not be bumped to the front of the line all the time.”

  “I’m sorry I swore. I know you don’t curse. You’re too—” He thinks for a minute. “Pure, but Maisy, if I don’t represent him, someone else will. I truly think you would say no to this douchebag regardless of the millions it would cost you. You’re a good person, Maisy – don’t ever lose that like I did. If you ever decide you want to go to law school, I’ll get you in anywhere you want to go as long as you intern here every summer and keep your grades up. We could use more integrity in this field. Shit, we’re going to miss you around here. I’ll miss you.”

  “Don’t get soft on me, Chet,” I joke. “I appreciate the offer and you know I have the grades, but I wouldn’t be a very good lawyer.” I graduated high school with a 4.3 GPA, which included taking my entire junior and senior years at UCLA. I’m entering college at Cambria as a junior even though I’m only eighteen. The best part about studying at UCLA is that I don’t have to live in the freshman dorms at Cambria. They are letting me transfer in as if I were a true junior.

  “I know, my little genius. One more week.” He sighs again. Chet is aware of some parts of my life story because he represented my dad and he kindly never mentions my mother. That is part of my story that is sometimes too unbearable to share, because once that is out there, pity inevitably follows. Nothing sucks more than seeing people look at you with pity in their eyes.

  “I’ll miss our little talks, but I’ll visit and there are plenty of criminals on the East Coast. I’m sure they could use some help,” I joke. I know he’ll never come. He’s far too busy.

  “Any word from your dad?” he asks. He makes it a point to ask if he’s reached out at least once a month. I keep telling him my father hasn’t been in my life since his arrest. I’ve stopped crying over him and my situation. I’ve stopped crying over my mom and the crap Mabel puts me through. And people wonder why I have trust issues.

  Everyone in my life who was supposed to take care of me has either willingly left, been forcefully removed from my life, or despises me because of my last name. Once people find out that Drew Knight is my dad, our friendship gets dismissed pretty quickly. I’m not exactly the friend your parents want in their house.

  “Don’t lose faith, Maisy.”

  I shrug. The way I figured it I had two choices. I could fall apart. Numb myself with drugs and alcohol, party hard and just lose myself in substances that would eventually kill me or send me to prison, or I could take the exact opposite path. I could study my butt off, be the best and most perfect child, so much so that I don’t even curse. Be the best of the best and work myself into the life I felt I deserved. I would get the heck out of California and away from my parents’ mistakes. I chose the latter, and I don’t regret it for a second, even at the expense of my youth.

  I head into my shared office and stare at the piles of case notes and contracts on my desk. This will take me half the day to sort and file, but at least I’m not Robert right now. Poor guy.

  I’ll miss Chet and Jo. They were very good to me during a very hard period - a period I’m still trying to withstand, but with each passing day I get closer to leaving and closer to a new life.

  Chapter 3: Donovan

  I live off campus in a townhouse my father bought me as an investment property through The Echelon Group. The townhouse is pretty sweet for college kids. I live with three other football players – Jessup Rhodes, Tanner Bateman and the newb, Jaxon Taylor. Mine and Bateman’s bedrooms are on the second floor because he moved into Brooks’ old room after Brooks was drafted by the New England Patriots and he moved to Connecticut with his fiancé, Kiernan.

  My room is the biggest, with a private bathroom, king-size bed, desk, huge closet, and dresser. All of the rooms
are painted gray with the white trim and dark wood floors. Downstairs is where Rhodes and Jax’s bedrooms are, along with an eat-in kitchen and good-sized living room. There is a large sectional and a recliner facing a 72-inch mounted flat screen. Our daily battles of Madden are done on that TV.

  “What’s up, BDB?” Rhodes asks as I walk in. Of course he’s starting shit with the rookie here. He’s sitting in the living room with Jaxon, watching SportsCenter. BDB is short for a stupid-ass nickname that the sorority sisters gave me my freshman year. It started after a sorority chick refused to fuck me because my dick wouldn’t fit inside her. My teammates and even my best friend never let me forget it. I don’t hear it too much from my friends, mostly from jersey chasers who really love the nickname, but every once in a while one of them will drop it into conversation.

  “What’s BDB?” Jax asks.

  Rhodes laughs. “Just a nickname our boy earned a couple years ago.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Big Dick Blake.” Rhodes chuckles as he says it out loud. Jax’s eyes go wide.

  “My dick didn’t fit in some chick one night and I’ve never lived it down. She was fucking small in every way. She was like four-ten or some shit. Remember her?” I laugh at the memory as I ask Rhodes.

  “Bro, her name was Teeny Martin. She was a gymnast. You were warned,” he deadpans.

  “Like I knew her fucking name.”

  “BDB.” Jax thinks about it for second. “Huh.”

  Rhodes shakes his head and turns his attention back to me. “You feeling good after today?”

  “Fuck no. What the shit is up with Coach lately?” I reply.

  “He wasn’t like this last year?” Jax questions.

  “Not even a little. He worked us hard, but this is a whole new level of hell,” I respond as I grab a Gatorade from the refrigerator. “I’m fucking beat and that says something.”

  “Yeah, bro. That don’t make sense. Didn’t you box over the summer? You should be better conditioned,” Rhodes laughs.