Bio-Justice is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business enterprises, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Scott Takemoto
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author. This includes any copying, transference or electronic utility in any form of the eBook edition of this work.
Cover art by Damonza.
Formatting by Damonza.
ISBN 978-0-9988567-0-4
eBook ISBN 978-0-9988567-1-1
Contents
Meet the Characters of BIO-JUSTICE
The Proposal
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part Two
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part Three
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
A Year Later
About the Author
Meet the Characters of BIO-JUSTICE
Danny Fierro – a young, fearless carjacker for whom tomorrow has no meaning, until it becomes everything.
Sonya de Leon – Danny’s girlfriend, once taken for granted, now almost unattainable.
Milo Lapinsky – Danny’s crazy partner in crime, until he takes Danny over the cliff with him.
Senator Harley Jakes – his indiscretions will help make Bio-Justice the law of the land.
Dr. Gordon Conlan – the brilliant inventor of Bio-Justice whose pursuit of scientific discovery has blinded him.
Dr. Felice Bennett – Conlan’s research assistant, whose conflicted conscience may be Danny’s last hope.
Maggie Linden – a meddling middle-aged widow who reaches out to take Danny’s reluctant hand.
Wilson Caine – an off-the-chart psychopath with whom Danny is confronted at every turn.
General Ronald Winfield – his Project Talon sees Bio-Justice as the key to limitless power.
Nina – a beautiful but strangely-behaving young woman with the most unspeakable of secrets.
THE PROPOSAL
At nine forty-seven, Senator Harley Jakes came striding in and his secretary Leigh was there to greet him in the reception area. She handed Jakes a copy of the proposal.
“He’s in your office already. I told him he had to wait out here for you but he wouldn’t listen. I’m sorry, Senator Jakes.”
Jakes smiled. “Leigh, we both know the game. Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it.” He braced himself and then opened the door to his office.
“Bill!” the Senator greeted the man whose hand-tailored Italian suit made Jakes’ usually reliable navy pinstripe feel dated and worn.
After returning Jakes’ greeting, the man seated himself in front of the Senator’s dark mahogany desk. Jakes felt prompted so he deliberately took his time until he was comfortable behind his desk. He could see the man waiting silently, barely moving.
“Coffee?”
“Had mine already. Senator, I don’t have much time so I’d like to get to the point.”
Jakes slid the proposal a few inches away from him on his desktop as if to telegraph his intention. “You know, Bill. I’d like to remind you. As much as I’d like to move the agenda in a timely manner, this is the United States Congress, after all.”
“Bullshit, Senator,” the man said without raising his voice. “With all due respect, I’ve seen you ram a bill through in a week’s time—with the vote not even close—especially in an election year.”
Senator Jakes leaned back in his chair. The guy was forcing his hand. Oh, well. It was time to put the children to bed. “Bill, I’ve looked at the proposal. Frankly, I must tell you. I have concerns.”
“Such as?”
“Bill, do we really have to—” The Senator sighed as if he were being forced to be blunt when he would have much preferred to have gotten by on the unmistakable truth his finesse usually delivered for him. “Bill, we have a federal prison system and a state prison system. As broken as those systems may appear at times, the government is not going to farm out the business of incarceration to private business concerns. It’s been done on a limited regional basis, but with mixed results. I know your client and its stockholders stand to make quite a substantial profit over this, but the government isn’t ready to abdicate its responsibility in the enforcement of justice through its penal system.”
The man listened quietly to Senator Jakes throughout his dismissive response. Jakes didn’t recall seeing him blink once. And then the man spoke, like someone who had won the argument before he had even set foot in Jakes’ office.
“Senator, crime is at an all-time high. Now you and your bureaucrat flunkies can cook the books all you want—you can early release convicted felons, you can hand out probation like it was penny candy at a kid’s birthday party, you can flip-flop the numbers so Americans will think crime has actually decreased when the opposite is true. The plain fact is the jails and the prisons are all overflowing with nowhere to put the new bodies. There is a proliferation of poor, under-educated, over-medicated, over-intoxicated young men out there who aren’t going to work three jobs like their grandfathers did just to put food on the table. They’ve got all the guns they would ever need and they have the internet not only instructing them how to commit certain crimes but also showing them how they can get away with it. These young men are full of piss and fire, and if they want something, they’re going to take it. Ask anyone, ask the American people if they feel safer now, if crime has gone down. They will spit in your eye, my friend. How many Americans will tell you that it’s acceptable to have cop funerals on the news every night, little kids getting shot on their way home from school, husbands poisoning their wives, wives taking out hits on their husbands, serial killers attacking the places where law-abiding citizens live and raise their children. Senator Jakes, America is looking for an answer.”
Jakes looked down at the proposal before clearing his throat. “And this Premium Sentencing—that’s the answer?”
The man smiled. “That’s the answer.”
Jakes lifted the proposal and then tossed it back down on his desk. “And how long after that does your client expect the privatization plan to move forward?”
The man shook his head generously. “We can deal with that later. Once you see how well-received Premium Sentencing is with the public, we believe the next step would be obvious.”
“A fait accompli?”
“Perhaps.”
Jakes’ palms were sweaty and he kept them on his lap where the man could not see them. He then called upon his clarion voice, that magnificent instrument that won him debating contests in college, laid waste to his political opposition in his march towards his first Congressional seat, and cemented his national reputation while chairing high profile Senate Committee hearings over the past two decades.
“The answer is no,” Jakes declared abruptly. “I firmly believe this Premium Sentencing is not the solution. There are many troubling issues attached to this—moral, ethical—and the
science, I’m not convinced that we know enough.”
The man’s face darkened and he paused a moment before he reached into his briefcase and slipped a manila envelope onto the Senator’s desk.
“What’s this supposed to be?”
“Open it.”
Jakes’ hands didn’t betray him and remained steady as he opened the envelope and slid out its contents. There were four photographs, each more graphic than the one previous. Jakes looked at himself undressed with the young girl he only knew as Debbie. The first one caught them kissing, she had him in her mouth in the second, and the remaining two pictures showed Jakes pumping away from behind and then exploding his climax onto the girl’s face.
“Fifteen years old, I understand,” the man said.
Senator Jakes turned over the photographs and fell back in his chair, looking away. “Does—does my wife know?”
“Not yet,” the man said.
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
Heat rose from the street, from the radiating asphalt and the warm cracked concrete. The oppressive humidity caused moisture to pop on the surface of Danny Fierro’s skin as he stood naked on the third floor balcony. Cars were jammed up below, navigated by impatient guys with their over made-up dates, honking one another in an obvious show of primitive male bluster. One open-faced guy with a trying-too-hard hipster fedora looked up and noticed Danny and yelled out “Homo!” while his girlfriend covered her mouth and cackled next to him.
Danny flipped him the finger and shifted his gaze from the frenzied action below to high above the Brooklyn rooftops where the bright quarter moon was toppled to one side on this hot July night. He gripped the iron railing which was waist high and felt no self-consciousness.
Calling Danny from inside, Sonya de Leon’s voice sounded both annoyed and amused. “Hey! Stop sharing that with the world. It’s mine!”
When Danny didn’t answer, Sonya called out again from her bed. “Danny, bring your ass back inside.”
Danny ignored her for a moment longer and then turned to go back in. He stopped at the threshold of the bedroom and witnessed Sonya’s angry face melt at the sight of his lean, sculpted body. She cocked her head as she looked into his eyes and smiled with satisfaction.
“Get over here,” Sonya commanded. She was naked too—her body soft and her figure a perfect hourglass shape except for the slight puff of fat rising from her belly. She leaned forward on the bed so Danny could see her large breasts sway like supple pendulums. Her lips were newly frosted with red lipstick.
Danny allowed his mouth to crack a superior smile before he slowly walked over to the bed next to Sonya. Sonya reached out to Danny with both hands, clutched at his hard muscled body and drew him closer until he nearly fell on top of her.
“Fuck me, Danny.”
“We already did.”
Sonya playfully smacked him across the chest. “So?” she said. “Maybe I want to again.” Her hand reached out and she made a fist around his dangling penis. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“I gotta go, Sonya.”
Sonya sat bolt upright. “Danny, no.”
“Sorry, babe.”
Sonya encircled Danny with her arms and legs, holding him fast. “You’re not going anywhere, Mister.”
Danny sighed as if he were being supremely tested. But like some prizefighter of old on the night before the big fight, he shook his head and pulled away from Sonya.
The rejection stung and Sonya’s mouth went from seductive leer to brittle frown. “What’s so important?”
“I promised Milo.”
“You’re dropping me so you can go running to Milo?”
“We’ve got business.”
“But I’ve got business with you—right here.”
“I’m late already.”
Leaning across Danny, Sonya reached for a white cotton camisole crumpled on the floor. As she popped her head through the undergarment and pulled it down over her belly, her movements became quick, rigid. “Go, then,” she blurted out angrily.
Danny shrugged and started to dress.
Sonya’s eyes jerked back and forth, as she pondered one strategy while discarding others. She finally settled on a plea, articulated in a sad, hurt voice.
“Danny?”
Danny was already in his slacks and shirt. His socked feet were being laced up in gleaming black leather shoes. He grunted back at her.
“Danny, you won’t leave me?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You won’t leave me and the baby?”
Danny finished tying his laces and slowly turned to look at Sonya. He looked annoyed that he had to respond. “What do you think?”
“That’s not an answer!” Sonya’s eyes were now brimming with tears. Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Danny, I’m afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
Sonya paused a beat. “That you’re going to run.”
“What?”
“Angie was only four months pregnant when Jesse left her.”
“Hey—I’m not Jesse. Why are you comparing me to that chicken shit coward?” Danny turned his face from Sonya as if disgusted and then just as quickly turned to face her again. “A man doesn’t run.”
Sonya, delighted with his response, purred, and slipped her arm through Danny’s, giving it a squeeze. “Baby, when can we get married?”
Danny bolted up from the bed, roughly disengaging himself from Sonya, leaving her with a slightly stunned look. “Damn,” he said, “all I said was that I wasn’t gonna run out on you and the baby. The rest of that shit, I don’t know, you’re creating your own damn soap opera.”
Sonya dabbed her wet eyes with her fingertips. “I’m sorry, Danny.” She seemed to wait until the next words would have their maximum effect.
“I love you,” she said sadly.
Danny brushed off his shirt front and walked deliberately to the front door. Before he opened it, he turned to look at Sonya who was breathing heavy, her eyes both angry and hopeful.
“I gotta go,” he said.
The Diamond Bar was a neighborhood fixture, weathered and barely noticeable amongst the clothing and electronics stores, the barber shops, the pizza slice joints and the late night grocery stores on Flatbush Avenue south of Prospect Park. The bar had been established in the forties, run by a G.I. who lost a leg in the Ardennes during World War II. He had come home to a hero’s return, purchased the place with a small inheritance, and used the company of his customers to keep the ghosts of his decimated platoon at bay. He had died leaving behind two children and five grandchildren, his oldest grandson now proprietor of what the young men straggling in from the street, after looking at the wood paneled walls and the red vinyl booths, called a “retro” bar.
George the manager, a heavyset Puerto Rican widower with four kids, smiled when Danny came through the door. When Danny caught George from a certain angle, he looked like his father whom he never knew and of whom his mother never spoke of except for a couple of times when she had been drinking. There was a faded photograph of Augustus “Augie” Fierro in a dark suit leaning against a white Caddy, an unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers, that Danny had hidden the day before his mother decided to destroy all evidence of his father’s existence. George poured some Old Grand Dad in a shot glass and slid it over to Danny when he sat down.
“Thanks, George,” Danny said, taking a swallow. “What’s up?”
“That guy. He’s asking about the Lexus. The one for his nephew.”
“LS 460, 2014. Sure he doesn’t want a 2017?”
“Nah. The guy says he doesn’t want to spoil the little punk. It’s the kid’s first car. Says the kid will probably junk the first one anyway.”
“I’m meeting Milo tonight. He’s got a lead.”
“I hope so, Danny. This guy—he doesn’t like to ask too many times.”
“George, I got a good feeling. Milo—he seemed pretty sure.”
“Good.” Geo
rge smiled warmly. “And Danny, he’s a mob guy so…he knows how to show his appreciation.”
George excused himself and hustled over to his boss, the G.I.’s grandson Andy, chronologically but not physically younger than George, with a heavy, ruddy face squirting out of a starched white shirt.
Danny took another slug of his whiskey and noticed a young woman slide up to the bar one seat over from him. The first thing Danny noted were her legs which were long and perfectly tapered as they disappeared under her leather micro skirt. Then the half-buttoned blouse and black stiletto pumps. The woman immediately noticed Danny and she smiled openly, her thickly mascaraed, large brown eyes taking him all in. She ordered a martini from the regular bartender, Nick, and then broke the ice.
“Cassandra.”
“Danny.”
“Well, Danny,” Cassandra said, lighting her cigarette, “you got a girlfriend?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Cassandra smiled, not looking disappointed at all. “How nice for you. I’ve got a boyfriend too. Listen, I’m going to a party tonight. Want to be my escort?”
George noticed Cassandra smoking and yelled over nicely. “Hey, kill the butt.”
Cassandra winked at George. “Sorry, honey,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette.
“I’ve got some business,” Danny said. “Maybe I’ll catch up with you later.”
“There might not be a later.”
“I’ll have to take that risk,” Danny said, flashing a smile, the one that prompted most women to laugh suddenly before responding back with a slower, more interested voice.
“There’s nothing sexier than a man with confidence,” Cassandra said.
“Just leave your number,” he said. “I’ll call you.”
“You know how to read lips?”
“If I have to.”
“OK. Read this.” Cassandra parted her lips and sensuously mouthed her phone number. “Get it?”
Danny smiled. “Got it.”
Milo Lapinsky was navigating a wooden pick between his teeth while Danny looked impatiently on. “Fucking ribs—first, they get your fingers all sticky and then they get jammed between your teeth.”
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