Right to an Attorney: A Psychological Thriller

by Sims, R.

  “Janet, you’re set for life now. What are you worried about? No matter what happens, you’re about to be a millionaire. I assume you went to law school so that you could make a decent living. You don’t need another client, which means you can retire after my case is closed.”

  “That’s true, but I want to win your case and end my career on an honorable note.”

  “You will,” he said.

  “What happens if you’re indicted while we’re in Italy?”

  “Unless they manufacture some evidence, the cops will catch hell finding anything to tie me to the scandal. They’ll need my help. I may have slipped somewhere, but I’m sure I’ve left nothing larger than a speck of dirt on the mountain. At any rate, if I’m indicted they probably won’t start the show without us.”

  “What about the double homicide?”

  “We’ll be on a boat that has satellite. Your paralegal will be able to reach us via email or phone, and we can abbreviate the trip if necessary,” he said. “You’re thirty-four, so why no mention of any children when I brought up the trip to Italy?”

  “I won’t even ask how you know my age. You probably already know I don’t have any kids.”

  “You want any?”

  “Why? You plan to buy some of those, too? She said, feigning a smile.

  “You’ll be happy to know that a kid is the one thing I’m willing to actually work to get.”

  She laughed. A charismatic, handsome client. What had she done to deserve all of this? “Why didn’t you tell me that you had been recently released from prison after serving approximately ten years for manslaughter?”

  “That wasn’t the right time to discuss it.”

  “Would you have told me before the D.A. could share it with a jury?”

  “No, but I would have risen from my seat and said, ‘Objection, Your Honor! He’s leading the jurors!”’

  She covered her mouth and laughed. A dream client who could make her laugh. She was considering getting up the nerves to ask him for a date now.

  CHAPTER 12

  Sherri Ann Peters should consider herself lucky. The D.A. had turned hers and Kevin’s cases over to the Feds for prosecution, and she had only been indicted for conspiracy to commit wire fraud. So far. This was based on her statements and proclamations at the January 23rd presentation. In other words, the indictment was accusing her of helping to trick 106 investors out of their money.

  She and Kevin had been extradited to the county jail in Los Angeles, and her bail had been set at only $150,000. And although her court-appointed attorney had successfully argued her bail down from $250,000, Sherri knew there was no way either she or her parents could afford to pay even the required ten percent of the bail.

  Kevin Orwells’ troubles were much more sleep-depriving. He’d been indicted on counts of criminal fraud, wire fraud, embezzlement, money laundering, use of telecommunications to commit a felony, and conspiracy-related acts. His bail had been set at only $2.5 million, which the judge thought to be more than fair after considering the amount of money United States Attorney Wesley Henderson claimed he could prove Mr. Orwells had duped out of the investors.

  Kevin’s family could not afford to post his bail, and none of his business associates would be foolish enough to trust him. They thought he would probably skip bail and move to South Wheredafuck for the next thirty years, likely buying and developing small islands with the stolen money. For now, he, too, had a court-appointed attorney, but even the judge believed he would be retaining a high-profile attorney soon.

  Several media organizations, including Time, Newsweek, and USA TODAY, had appeared at the arraignment and bail hearings, working on next week’s cover story. This week, however, the television news programs, daily newspapers, and Internet bloggers were having all the fun with the fastest multibillion-dollar investment scandal ever.

  ***

  Patricia Teague had been at Thursday’s hearings, too. She was a 41-year-old white woman from Arkansas, but California had been her home for the past twenty-seven years. Patricia was unattractive and overweight but not obese, well-dressed but not good-looking, polite but…that was only a front.

  While unofficially employed by Peter Boone for nearly a decade, handling PI and bounty work, she’d heard a lot of rumors, seen a lot of things, and had broken a lot of laws.

  On this Friday evening, at exactly 6:42, Patricia sat behind the wheel of a silver Corvette in the Parking lot of an Applebee’s restaurant.

  Sherri Peters stared at her from the front passenger’s seat and said, “We’re here now. Can you please tell me why you posted bail for me and how I’m supposed to pay you back?”

  “Let’s talk inside,” Patricia said, “over dinner. You couldn’t have eaten well in that jail.”

  “I don’t have an appetite, and I need a proper shower. Can you take me to Beverly Hills?”

  Patricia sat silently watching several customers enter the restaurant. “Okay. Here it is. I work for some very powerful people who really don’t like what your boyfriend did. They’re willing to forget about the bail amount I just paid, and they’re willing to give you an extra $20,000 just to hear your side of the story.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Sherri thought about it for a few seconds. She looked at Patricia and said, “So you’re either an investigative reporter or a private eye for one of the investors who lost in the scam.”

  “That’s a good guess, but leave it at that.” Patricia removed a digital recorder from her leather handbag, which rested between her healthy thighs. “Twenty grand, your side of the story. I wanna know everything you told the cops and your lawyer. I wanna know more than what the media are reporting.”

  Sherri said, “Twenty grand? I could probably get a half million from the National enquirer or some business magazine. I’m going to need a place to stay and may end up moving back to Pennsylvania with my parents. I don’t know if…”

  “A hundred grand, my final offer. Either accept the deal or get shot right here in the car.” She showed Sherri a handgun.

  “It all started with this guy named Eric Adkins and a black guy named Dexter Parker, his business consultant…”

  ***

  Special Agent Phillip Walters of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, Los Angeles Division, was not impressed by methodical criminals and their spectacular crimes. Over the past fourteen years, the decent-looking white guy had been mentioned or praised in scores of newspapers and magazines — local and national — and had also been called upon as an expert in various law enforcement matters by more than a few news programs.

  Thanks to his interview on 60 Minutes just three years ago, he was now remembered for the comparisons he’d made between crime and chess games: “In a game of chess, each player will always make at least three mistakes, whether he or she recognizes it or not. And when the game is over, hindsight will give many of us the power to recognize one of those mistakes as the game blunder. The exact same can be said of crime.”

  By age twenty-six, Phillip had had a son and a daughter, a law degree, and a successful wife who was nearly three years older than him. By age thirty-one, he was amicably divorced, well-compensated as a result of some public stocks, and a budding agent at the FBI. Although he was born, raised, and educated in California, by age thirty-nine his job had called for his services in eight other states. Phillip was overqualified to be an FBI agent, but he didn’t want to do anything else.

  By age forty-three, Phillip had helped send both of his children to college and was finally considering marriage again. He was a good guy, one of the last of them, and had always played by the rules of his profession.

  Phillip could blend in at any event necessary. A full head of hair with no signs of gray, a clean-shaven face, six foot one, physically fit, and long-winded from lots of morning sprints.

  Today, Phillip was in his California ranch home. He was on the phone with his 18-year-old daughter. She was at a university in Texas. He said to her, “And I plan to ret
ire after this case.”

  “Win or lose?” she asked.

  “The thought of retiring after a loss hadn’t even crossed my mind, Vicky.” He smiled to himself.

  “Well, it might be harder for you to define a win this time.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Vicky said, “Some reports say the owner of iTFIGURES masterminded the whole thing with the help of his live-in girlfriend. His girlfriend claims a black guy named Dexter and a white ex-con named Eric set her boyfriend up for the fall. Can you claim a win if two of the main participants get off scot-free? They haven’t even been charged.”

  Phillip paused and briefly reflected on something. Then, he said, “I’m going to do what I do best — investigate, come up with hard-to-find answers, and put criminals behind bars. If there are others involved, you can be sure their masterplan has a small hole in it, a hole that will soon grow large enough to allow a 205-pound special agent and his rookie partner to slip through.

  CHAPTER 14

  Eric had been released on bail with pending arson charges. On Friday, at 7:30 pm, he was sitting in his nicely furnished living room and townhouse apartment in York, Pennsylvania, accompanied by his lawyer, Tim Agers. Tim had represented Eric years ago on a manslaughter charge.

  Tim was seated in an armchair across from his client.

  Eric was slouched on his sofa, feet propped on his coffee table, and watching his 60-inch flat-panel television, though the thing wasn’t on.

  Tim said, “The arson charge won’t be as easy as you think, but it’s likely the least of our problems. I’m told that they’re trying really hard to get you charged with the murders of the investment banker and his driver. It also doesn’t look good that your name keeps turning up in the $3.3 billion investment scheme. You may soon be indicted for more than I can handle.”

  Eric looked at him now. “The guy that killed the banker and his driver set me up with their murders. That’s the black guy I was telling you about.”

  The lawyer said, “I don’t know if the bodies will be found, but they don’t need a body to convict for murder. Times have changed in the last thirty years. What about the signatures on the insurance policy? You admit that the signature looks like your own.”

  “Okay. I don’t know how he got Jerry Bean’s signature; maybe he just asked. But as for mine, he could have gotten my signature from a number of documents, paid to have an ink stamp made from it, then set me up by using ink from an actual ink pen. A hard impression from a non-rubber ink stamp would look and feel just like my signature. He probably paid some guys to use some phony IDs, acting as me and the banker, when starting the policy.”

  Tim said, “Sounds like you’ve had some time to think about it. Don’t forget that the guy you’re blaming everything on was still in prison while all of that was being carried out. Obviously good help is not that hard to find for a prisoner.”

  Eric smiled insincerely. “I have had all the time I need to think about that. Dexter’s cellmate was in for doing similar forgeries with checks and other documents. Dexter apparently learned that forgery trick from Troy Epps. You might have to look into that.”

  Tim produced a small notepad and pen.

  “And it occurred to me that, on the day I was released from prison, Dexter wanted me to be at Destine’s restaurant at a specific time. I was supposed to pick some money up from the owner and send it to Dexter.”

  “So? What am I missing?” Tim asked.

  “So why the specific time and not earlier or later?”

  Tim just kept looking at Eric, unable to offer any help.

  Eric said, “Because he didn’t want Jenny to wait longer than necessary. Jenny was his help, which means he knew everything I was up to.” Eric was really thinking aloud. He had been dating Jenny, but finally realized that she must have been hired by Dexter for that purpose. “When he pretended to not like her, that was just part of the psychology of getting me to believe…”

  Tim was confused. “Fill in the blanks anytime you’re ready.”

  Eric was silent. Now he knew why he hadn’t heard from her, why he couldn’t reach her, and why he would never hear from her again. He smiled again, realizing Dexter had fucked him good. The black son of a bitch was brilliant.

  CHAPTER 15

  “…Eric?” the lawyer said, snapping his client out of the daze. “Is this the Jenny that the Sherri woman mentioned to the police?”

  “Yeah, the woman she says I’m dating. Her name is Geneva Lansing. She has a Facebook account and has family in Maryland.”

  Tim said, “Looks like you just had a revelation about her. You want to share it with your lawyer?”

  “I will. I’ll tell you everything. One question first: How long do you think I have before the Feds indict me for what Kevin and Sherri are accusing me of?”

  “Well, that all depends on their investigation, about which I know nothing except what the media is reporting. You do know that I can’t represent you on those charges, assuming they charge you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have a license to practice federal law.”

  “Can’t you recommend a good defense attorney, a federal one?”

  Tim said, “For such a high-profile case, I would only recommend Darren Emoree, a young black guy. Sharp. Damn good. Very expensive.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know. Seven, eight hundred thousand.”

  Eric was looking at the blank television screen again. Neither he nor his parents could afford the big-shot attorney. “What are my other options?”

  “Well…the federal government will probably want your assistance. Earlier today, you said the Dexter guy was behind the investment scam. Your assistance may be needed to bring him down,” Tim said. “I’m not pushing you one way or another; you asked me what your options were.”

  Eric faced his attorney again. “I don’t know if I could be a rat.” He stared off into space.

  Tim knew the answer. He had come across many turncoats, snitches, and informants in his twenty-three years as a defense attorney. He knew that the suspects and criminals who were unsure about cooperating had already considered jumping on somebody’s ship. He also knew that such consideration was always followed by loose lips. Finally, Tim said, “Your decision.”

  Sure enough, Eric had already made up his mind. He wasn’t going to be struggling to retain a lawyer to fight the Feds — and still lose. Dexter could not have the last laugh; he had to go down. With billions of dollars now, Dexter could afford a hundred teams of high-profile lawyers, but what good would all that money do him if he were to still end up in federal prison with a life sentence?

  Eric said, “Contact that prosecutor in California and let him know that I’ll help him bring Dexter Parker down if he can manage to get the arson charge against me dropped with the State. And he’ll have to get the State to agree not to prosecute me for whatever they discover out of that missing persons or double-homicide investigation. I actually had nothing to do with that.”

  Tim was writing down some notes but stopped to say, “The State doesn’t have to agree to any of that, even if the federal government wants it.”

  “Just see what you can do.”

  Tim nodded. “You mentioned immunity from prosecution in the investment scandal.”

  Eric did not respond. He was thinking about something. He didn’t want to go to prison, and he didn’t really want to be a rat. There was another option the lawyer had not mentioned: Go on the run and stay on the run. That seemed like to best option, but he needed more money and a new identity.

  CHAPTER 16

  On Saturday morning, the white van that advertised Sylvia’s Pet Care was parked nearly 70 yards from 258 Oakley Drive in Harrisburg. The van was curbside in front of a brick home and had no front-seat occupants. However, there were two federal agents inside the van, and they were watching Gerald Parker’s residence on a large monitor. The vehicle was equipped with long-range listening devices, c
oncealed video cameras, and a computer with Internet access as well as FBI intranet access.

  Dexter was looking out the living room window of his brother’s home when he saw Caroline’s sky-blue convertible BMW approaching. He left the window and met her as she parked in the driveway. When he opened the driver’s door for her, he said, “You’re one of the few white women who could do that to a pair of jeans.”

  She got out of her car carrying a designer handbag. “And you’re probably the only black man whose pajama wardrobe consists of suits and ties.” She smiled.

  He slipped a hand inside her leather jacket and gently pulled her closer to him. “I only do it to impress you.” He leaned down a little and smelled her hair. “The strawberry fragrance of your hairspray makes me want to perform an indecent act right here in the driveway.”

  She smiled again. “By yourself or with me?” Her heels came an inch of off the concrete and she kissed him. On the lips. Then slipped her tongue inside his mouth.

  He sucked on her tongue, gripped her ass with both hands, then suddenly stopped and pulled away. He looked up and down the street and at a few neighboring houses.

  “What?” she asked. “Gerald is at the barber shop, and nobody in this neighborhood knows us.”

  He stared into her eyes. “We can’t get sloppy. If my brother finds out I’m fulfilling his wife, there’s nothing he won’t do to get even with both of us.”

  “You said it yourself,” she said. “He hardly ever spends anytime with me, and he doesn’t act like we’re married.”

  “That doesn’t mean you and I should act like husband and wife.”

  “You’re saying we should quit? No more sex? No more writing with our tongues? No more upside down explorations?”

  He turned away from her, staring inside her car now. “We don’t have to stop, but we do have to slow things down and be more careful. I don’t want to hurt my brother.”