Revenge at Sea: (Quint Adler Book 1)

by Brian O'Sullivan

  My mother and Cara on one of the benches. They stood up as they saw me.

  My mother came over and gave me a hug. Spotting one of the cameramen take a picture as we hugged, I gave him a dirty look that surely wouldn’t look good when published.

  “How are you doing, honey?”

  “I’ve got the truth on my side, Mom. I’m doing okay.”

  I was tired of saying the same thing, but I felt she needed to hear it.

  She slid out of the way and let Cara through to give me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “You ready for this?” she asked.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  I hadn’t told Cara or my mother the events of the last few days, trying to keep them out of the loop for obvious reasons. The case I’d become enmeshed in had already seen four people killed. The last thing I wanted to do was have my mother or Cara know things that would make them susceptible to retribution or silencing.

  We made a few more minutes of small talk and then the doors to Courtroom 23 were opened. Everyone walked in, including some of the local media.

  And then I caught sight of Tom Butler. He gave me a nod of the head and I responded in kind. I didn’t know if he was there as a friend or a journalist.

  It went quicker than I could have imagined. I was the second case called, maybe because the judge realized most of the people in the courtroom were there for me. Getting my case over early was one way of thinning out his courtroom.

  The DA, Brent Segal, laid out the case against me, most of which I suspected.

  A different judge from the day of my arraignment, this man was a younger white guy, probably within a few years of myself. I imagined there weren’t that many forty-year-old judges out there. He seemed fair, but also acted as if he knew this was all a formality. Just as Gary Rodgers had said.

  Gary spoke a few times, but mainly let the DA do his thing. This is a time to learn about their case, not give away aspects of our defense. I knew that’s what he would have told me if I’d had time to ask.

  The judge ruled the case had enough evidence to continue and set a trial date for mid-October, three months away.

  “Your honor, if it pleases the court, I’d like to ask for an earlier date. My client is not guilty of these charges and would like the chance to prove that as quickly as possible and move on with his life.”

  The judge looked at the prosecution, namely the DA. “Is a mid-September date satisfactory?”

  “That would be fine,” Brent Segal said.

  The judge looked down at his calendar. Would Monday, September 19th work for both parties?”

  “Yes,” Gary Rodgers said.

  “Works for us,” Brent Segal said.

  “Then we will reconvene for trial in two months’ time,” the judge said.

  I left the defendant’s table and followed Gary Rodgers outside. Brent Segal came up a few seconds later.

  “You want to come up to my office, Gary? I’ve got some discovery for you guys.”

  “Wait here,” Gary said to me. “I’ll be right back.”

  Gary returned a few minutes later with an associate, each carrying a box full of evidence against me. Or at least, what the prosecution viewed as such.

  “You’re coming with me to my office,” Gary said. “Say goodbye to the women.”

  I gave my mom a big hug.

  “I’ll come by and see you in the next few days,” I said. “Promise.”

  Cara was next.

  “I’ll give you a call tonight,” I said.

  “I’ll come over if you feel like you need someone to talk to.”

  “Alright, no funny business talk,” Gary Rodgers said, and we all got a much-needed laugh.

  I said goodbye to the two women in my life and followed my attorney to his car.

  We arrived at his law office and each took one of the boxes from his car. We carried them past his secretary and back to his office. He set them down on his desk.

  He grabbed one of the smaller binders in the first box and handed it to me.

  “This is a brief outline of their evidence. Read this,” he said.

  I grabbed it and started reading. Three minutes in, I felt I hit the mother lode.

  Gary could tell.

  “What is it?”

  “I may have just blown a hole in the prosecution’s case.”

  “How?” he asked.

  The binder of potential evidence held a picture of a Starbucks cup. The discovery said it was found at the scene of the crime.

  “I didn’t have a cup of coffee with me the day I went to Griff Bauer’s house. I can promise you it was planted.”

  “That’s excellent. But remember, this is now a court of law, how do we prove that?”

  I pointed at the writing on the cup.

  “Yeah, so what?” Gary said.

  “If I can find out whose writing that is, I can see if they worked that Sunday morning I went to Griff Bauer’s. If they didn’t, the Starbucks cup is useless.”

  “You’re a genius, Quint. And more than useless, the cup shows you are being framed.”

  I took out my phone and took a picture of the picture.

  “You leaving?” Gary asked.

  “I’m going to the Starbucks by where I live. I was there the morning before I went to Griff Bauer’s house.”

  “The absurdity of a coffee cup being found at the scene always baffled me,” Gary said.

  “It’s at least plausible. But no one would ever bring a coffee cup he’d purchased on a different day. That’s why finding out who worked that morning is so important.”

  “I like where this is headed, Quint.”

  “The officers were looking for anything that would convict me. They jumped the gun.”

  “You’re right about that. Call me as soon as you find out,” he said.

  We looked at each other like we had a newfound lease on life.

  “I will,” I said.

  I took an Uber to the courthouse, got my car, and drove back to my parking garage in Walnut Creek. I didn't go to my apartment, instead walking up to the Starbucks on street level.

  Upon entering, I looked to see who was working. I knew some baristas better than others and would prefer talking to them.

  Fatima was there, a woman in her early twenties who had aspirations of becoming an architect. She was a hard worker and I had no doubt she’d reach her dreams.

  As I approached her, I realized I hadn’t been here since being arraigned for murder. Avoiding being in public even included my favorite Starbucks. I had to assume they all knew my situation, but I didn’t care. This was something that could prove my innocence.

  “Hi, Fatima,” I said, and I could tell by her reaction that she knew. She eyed me coldly, when she was usually very vibrant and cheerful.

  “What do you need, Quint?”

  “I need to talk to you. It’s hugely important. Could I have two minutes of your time? We can talk at one of these tables.”

  She didn’t seem too enthused by the idea, but said, “I’m on break soon. I’ll come find you then.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said.

  I found a table in the corner and five minutes later, Fatima approached.

  “If our manager saw you here, he’d probably ask you to leave,” she said.

  “I’m out of here after this.”

  “Fine. What did you want?”

  I grabbed my phone and brought up the picture of the Starbucks cup. I focused in on the writing of “Quint” on the cup itself.

  “Do you know whose writing that is?”

  “It’s Sarah’s,” she quickly said.

  “You’re sure?” I asked.

  “Of course I’m sure. I’ve worked with her for a year.”

  I couldn’t show my excitement, but it was building inside. I’d gone to this Starbucks enough to have a general feel for their schedules. I had to double-check with Fatima, however.

  “And Sarah doesn’t work weekends, does she?”


  “No,” Fatima said emphatically. “She always works four days during the week.”

  She could tell how important this was to me. “Does this show that you’re innocent?” she asked.

  “It goes a long way,” I said.

  “None of us thought you were capable of murder.” Her affable personality had returned.

  “This information means more than you know. I need one more favor. When will your manager be in? I need to verify that Sarah didn’t work on Sunday, June 18th.”

  “Tony will be in tomorrow morning. But I can already assure you that she didn’t.”

  I bowed my head and felt my eyes starting to tear up. I used all my power to stop them. This wasn’t the time or place. But I felt like a five-hundred-pound boulder had just been removed from my shoulders.

  “I’ll come by early tomorrow. Thanks so much for your help, Fatima.”

  “This is surreal. I’m glad I could help.”

  She walked away, leaving me alone. It took a few minutes to gather my thoughts and then I got up to go.

  As I passed by the counter where they set your drinks down, something hit me.

  I remembered being at this Starbucks a few days before I was arrested. Turning around into a man behind me and almost knocking my drink into him. Finishing my coffee and setting it in the garbage. And then noticing a scratch on my wrist later that day.

  Holy shit! Is that how they got my DNA? And the coffee cup?

  I tried to think back. I oftentimes had a photographic memory, and the day in question was no different. I could quote my jokes with Laurel and Sarah exactly.

  And Sarah had handed me my drink.

  Which meant she’d likely written my name!

  26.

  Euphoric, I almost called Gary Rodgers from the Starbucks itself, but figured I could wait until I got up to my apartment. The charges would surely be dropped. They had a coffee cup that hadn’t come from the Sunday on which Griff Bauer was killed. It was from a few weeks later.

  I was going on the assumption that the man scratched me intentionally and picked up my cup once I left. My DNA and a “smoking gun”: a coffee cup with my name on it. Only, it wasn’t. It was now a smoking gun for my innocence.

  From the Starbucks, I headed directly to Avalon Walnut Creek, beaming the whole way. I’d outthought the cops. I’d outsmarted the man who’d tried to frame me. I was going to be a free man and boy, did I have a story to tell.

  Likely it wouldn’t be for the Walnut Creek Times, but I’d already moved on from them. I’d broken a few journalistic codes, but after people read all I’d been through, I thought I’d be given a second chance.

  Arriving at the downstairs lobby, I pressed the up button on the elevator. It soon arrived, empty. I stepped in and pressed the button for the fourth floor. I continued smiling, thinking my time as a murder suspect was nearing its end.

  The elevator arrived at my floor and I got off, taking a right toward my apartment. Every time I walked down the hallway, I realized just how long it was. It felt like being stuck in the farthest room from a Vegas elevator. After a solid forty-five seconds, I arrived outside of my apartment.

  I had put the key into the door when I heard a slight noise coming from inside of my apartment. Or was I just paranoid?

  A knot in my stomach began to form. Something was wrong. I knew it.

  My thoughts turned to Tricia Knox, who’d been killed in her apartment.

  As quietly as I could, I removed the key from the lock. I tiptoed back down the hall, hoping like hell whoever was in there hadn’t heard me.

  After taking about thirty steps backward, I was all set to turn and run, when my door began to open. A tall man—I couldn’t see much more—walked out. A gun hung at his side.

  At this point, I whirled around and started running as fast as I possibly could. Everything was happening in slow motion, just as the cliché says. I made it another thirty feet before I heard a series of gunshots. I knew in that moment the extra-long hallway was going to be the end of me.

  I tried to zig-zag within the narrow hallway, and it must have worked because the first set of shots missed me entirely. Instead, they ripped up the walls around me. I saw the door to the stairwell fifty feet ahead of me and I knew if I made it that far, I’d likely get away.

  But I didn’t make it that far. Another series of gunshots went off and I felt two bullets tear through me in rapid succession. At first, it just felt like a dull burn, but as I fell to the ground, the acute pain kicked in. And it was grotesque.

  If I didn’t get to the stairwell, twenty feet ahead of me, my life would certainly be ending. I’d be a sitting duck.

  I heard some yelling and just hoped no innocent people would get shot. But I didn’t hear anymore gunshots.

  I started to get up.

  I’d never felt more pain in my life, but I got to my feet and struggled to the stairwell, opened the door, and made my way inside. I assumed he was reloading, but possibly, hopefully, he’d run in the opposite direction to get away.

  My life was now at the mercy of the shooter. If he kept coming my way, I’d never outrun him. I could barely walk.

  I managed a few steps until I was standing over the stairs that led to the third floor. I couldn’t just stand there or the shooter would look directly at me when he entered the stairwell.

  I took the first step, and my feet gave out. I fell and started somersaulting down the stairs. Each thud sent a new, intense pain throughout my body. I got to the third-floor landing and the momentum took me into a wall. Pain made me pass out.

  At some point, I came to and a tall man stood above me. I was in too much pain to recognize if he was the shooter. I said a quick prayer and everything went black a second time.

  27.

  It wasn’t my turn to die. At least not yet.

  Although it was close.

  After I was found on the stairwell with bullet holes in my left shoulder and left flank, EMTs feared I might die. I was losing a lot of blood. Luckily, they got me to John Muir Medical Center, a few miles from my place, soon enough to save my life.

  But it wasn’t easy. I went through two surgeries to repair my left shoulder.

  The bullet that penetrated my flank had been a through and through, meaning it entered and exited. Doctors told me I was very lucky, that it came within a few inches of hitting my heart, which would have immediately ended my life.

  My mother received a call once I arrived at the hospital and was apparently by my bedside any time the doctors deemed it permissible. For the surgeries, she stayed on the hospital grounds, just waiting to hear how it went.

  Cara was much the same. She spent most of her waking hours at the hospital, often looking after my mother. Obviously, I heard about all this after the fact, but if there had ever been a doubt as to how great a woman Cara was, there wasn’t any longer. Not that I needed verification. I’d always known.

  I was unconscious, or highly sedated, for the first twenty-four hours, and when I was finally weaned off the drugs, I awoke to the smiling faces of my mother and Cara. I was still a little loopy, but realized I was alive, which was a start.

  My hospital room was sparse. The bed stood almost flush against the door and two small chairs sat beside it. My left shoulder and arm were raised in a massive sling. I also had a giant bandage covering the wound from the through and through.

  I didn’t have a roommate, but all the same I flashed back to my time sharing a hospital room with Griff Bauer. Which had started this all. I tried to forget about it.

  Cara and my mother both gave me hugs as my eyelids fluttered. Their expressions showed how important this moment was, but I could tell they didn’t want to overstimulate me. They were just happy to see me showing signs of life.

  Pretty soon after coming to, I started remembering what happened. Hearing a noise from inside my apartment. Taking my key out. Backpedaling down the hall. Seeing someone emerge from my door. With a gun. Turning around and running. Being
shot. Making it to the stairwell. Falling down the stairs. Everything going black.

  And then I remembered the Starbucks cup. The drugs were wearing off and for all I knew, what I said next was my first coherent sentence.

  “Mom. Cara. I need to talk to Gary Rodgers. Or a police officer.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes,” I said forcefully, although it still came out as a whisper.

  “Gary was here yesterday, but he has court in San Francisco today.”

  “Then go grab me a cop,” I said. “I’m sure there’s a few around eagerly waiting to talk to me.”

  My mother came back a few minutes later with two police officers. With my left shoulder in the sling, it was painful to raise my head, so all I saw of the officers as they walked in was their uniforms. One was from Walnut Creek and the other from Oakland. As my eyes slowly made their way up, I realized the Oakland police officer was none other than Detective Ray Kintner.

  “Look at what the cat dragged in,” I said sarcastically.

  Detective Kintner looked in my mother’s direction. “You didn’t tell him?” he asked.

  “I was waiting until he was totally lucid.”

  “Tell me what?” I asked.

  Ray Kintner took a step closer. “All charges against you have been dropped.”

  “But how?” I asked.

  “Two women from Starbucks. I believe Fatima and Sarah were their names. When they found out you had been shot, they came to the hospital. They approached the first police officer they saw. Told him about the questions you asked them. This was relayed to me and I quickly understood that the coffee cup we’d found hadn’t been bought on the day of Bauer’s death. We realized we’d made a grave mistake. The coffee cup had obviously been planted. We had no case.”

  “Case?” I said.

  “I phrased that poorly. We think you’re innocent, Quint. There’s no excuse, but we were under tremendous pressure to arrest someone. And we jumped the gun. There’s no other way to look at it.”

  I wanted to be mad. Furious. Enraged. Apoplectic. This officer had helped make my life a living hell the last few months. But he seemed genuinely apologetic. That wasn’t enough in and of itself, but I chose to focus on the positive aspect.