I’ll call her Monday and tell her we’re going forward, Gonzalez thought. Maybe it will give her some peace.
He looked through the list of other victims whose cases were not barred by the statute of limitations. He needed backups to prosecute Stockton. Any one victim could balk or not perform well. He wished he could talk to Kim and Zaida. He wondered what their story was and decided to talk to Vicky again—on leave or not, Christmas or not.
With a good lead for the prosecution, others always followed. That’s how it worked. Eliana? She was an obvious choice too, but she had lawyers and Gonzalez wasn’t ready for that dance yet.
* * *
After the Gonzalez call Gary couldn’t work. He slammed his fist on his desk strewn with files. “Damn it. Gonzalez got a conviction in Skip’s case and Skip wasn’t even guilty.”
He had no money for a criminal defense lawyer and he still owed Suzanne Friedman money he couldn’t pay. He’d soon lose her because of that. He would be assigned a public pretender like Skip—if he could even be assigned one considering his home and Mary’s shameless display of San Bernardino “wealth.”
Gary wanted to go home and dig into Mary’s expensive booze for her Sunday party, but he couldn’t. She would be patrolling and nattering about. If she caught him in her stash tonight she would be relentless.
Gary hid his half-full bottle of vodka under his suit coat, locked his office door, and headed out. It was only 2:30 p.m.
“See you Monday, Miguel. I have an appointment.”
“Yes, sir. See you Monday,” Miguel had ceased to be surprised by Gary’s odd schedule. “Have a good weekend.”
“Yeah, right. You too. Lock up when you leave.”
“Sure thing.”
Gary started his Mercedes. He sat with the motor running and took a swig of vodka from the bottle. He had no place to go. He had to plan. He decided to ensconce himself at the dark and anonymous Regal Cinemas multiplex until Mary was asleep.
* * *
At the modern multi-movie complex, Gary paid for one movie and nursed his vodka in the back row of the sparsely populated theater. Then, he screen-hopped with his vodka and thoughts. The movies were white noise as he analyzed the criminal cases detective Gonzalez might have and what charges might be brought against him. Then, he tried to calculate how long he might be in prison if each of his victims came forward with the most damning claims. All he could hope for was that the statutes of limitation had run on most.
But there were so many left
Gary watched the two naked stars do it on the beach, but was thinking about the murders—Kim and Zaida. And Skip’s innocence.
Just how smart is Gonzalez?
Gary left when the only movies left were the modern CGI pieces of crap—basically flypaper for thirteen-year-old boys. He drove to Brianna’s house and parked in the dark leering at her house. He was plastered, horny, and had nothing to lose.
He called her.
“Hello,” Brianna answered in a deep, throaty waking voice.
Gary got hard instantly. She was in bed—ready for him. What difference would one more assault make come Monday?
“Open the door, Brianna.”
“No. No.” Brianna recognized Gary’s voice. “Get out of here. My kids are sleeping.”
“If you don’t want me to wake them, open the door. You know you want it.”
Brianna opened her nightstand drawer and stared at her gun. Why do the boys have to be here tonight?
She shut the drawer and crept down the stairs in her nighty, naked underneath. She opened the front door and begged him to leave before her kids woke. He just laughed.
She slammed the door into him and went for the phone in her living room. “I’m calling Detective Gonzales.”
“Go ahead. We had a laugh over your story today. You’re nothing but a lying bitch.”
Gary grabbed her by the hair, lowered her to knees, and forced her to relieve him. Then, he threw her on the floor.
“You loved it, bitch.”
Brianna didn’t move and didn’t cry. The only thing she thought of was her gun upstairs. She wished she had brought it down—boys or no boys—wished the detective had believed her.
“And don’t think Detective Gonzales gives a damn. I won’t get convicted for doing a slut like you.”
* * *
Briannaed-up, Gary headed for the Phoenix. He’d draw on his business credit card. He deserved it. He let the bright lights and happy chaos of the gambling rooms surround him.
Gary was up three hundred dollars at the craps table and enjoying a second scotch on the rocks. Then, from behind, a floor boss put his large hand on Gary’s shoulder.
“Mr. Stockton, I need you to come with me. Carmine wants a word.”
“Carmine?” Carmine was the big guy, the head, the boss from New York.
“Yes, sir.”
“But—”
“Come with us now.”
“No problem. “Gary looked at the two male mountains behind him. “Always glad to visit with Carmine.”
He smiled and gathered his chips, boiling inside. What did that asshole want stopping my lucky streak?
* * *
Gary had been invited to Carmine Fognini’s fancy office for drinks when he was a heavy hitter—but those years were long gone.
In the office, this time two muscle men remained looming behind him. Fognini didn’t ask him to sit, didn’t offer him a drink, and pinned him down with a cold stare.
“I read the news. You’re no longer welcome here, Stockton. Not you, your credit, your money.”
“What is this shit? I’ve been a loyal customer for years. You’ve made a lot of money off of me.”
“You’re poison in this town. A stench. Your piddling losses aren’t worth offending my big rollers.”
“The news is crap … all lies,” Gary slurred. “I’ll prove that in court.”
“Look, people come here to forget their troubles. It’s all about appearances, and your appearance is bad for business.”
“I won’t go. You can’t make me.” Gary clenched his three hundred dollars in chips.
“Oh, yeah?”
Fognini looked at his bouncers and nodded his head.
“Gentlemen, let’s escort Mr. Stockton off the premises. Out the back.”
“You want us to rough him up?” The largest bruiser asked.
“What do I know?”
* * *
Gary fought the men and yelled obscenities at Fognini all the way down the dimly lit back hall. All, to no avail. The burly bouncers had him in their iron grip, and their forward thrust was unstoppable.
When they reached the isolated back door, Gary grabbed the doorjamb.
“I have three hundred dollars in chips. You owe me that. I’m not leaving. Give me my money. Cash them in.”
Fognini motioned to the door. The two massive men threw him outside onto the asphalt back parking lot, one of them landing a parting kick on his backside. As he skidded across his suit ripped, the asphalt drew blood, and his chips scattered.
Fognini peeled three hundred-dollar bills from his turquoise and silver money clip. He tossed them out the door.
“There’s your three. Don’t come back. Get the chips, guys.”
Fognini and the bouncers went back into the casino, shutting the metal security door behind them, its lock clanking as they did.
Two bearded, homeless males had stopped rummaging through a nearby dumpster to watch the show—and the money. When Fognini and the bouncers left, they started toward Gary.
Panicking, he grabbed the three hundred-dollar bills, staggered to his feet and ran, stumbling, back to his Mercedes. He escaped—only just—cursing the whole way home.
* * *
At home, Gary disposed of his torn and blood splattered suit. Still shaking from the casino encounter, he raided Mary’s good stuff larder. He drank until he passed out on her coveted floral designer comforter in the guest room to which she had exiled him.
He wished she had done that years ago.
Gary was ripped in and out of his drunken sleep by images of his abused female victims. They crawled after him and over him and into him. In his sleep-terror, he couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, and couldn’t beat them off.
When morning finally woke him, he was on the floor, mummified in Mary’s floral comforter now spotted with droplets of blood from his skinned knees, elbows, and hands. Gary’s life and the professional kingdom he had ruled were no more.
⌘
Copyrighted Material
Chapter 62
Gary slept most of Saturday, eventually forced to wake up by Mary and their progeny’s loud preparations for her Sunday charity circus. He grabbed some food and spent the day in his locked study drinking beer and watching college football.
* * *
Mary’s December 19th gourmet event was, as always, announced in the local news as the social event of the season. It drew from her wide circle of “intimates,” the elite River Oaks neighborhood, the country club, her countywide charities, and the cream of Gary’s professional circle, including judges. Mary sucked a donation check out of every guest to end childhood hunger in San Bernardino County.
With Mary’s home professionally over-decorated as always, she had prepared and revised her menu for weeks—cooking, baking, flash freezing, and thawing with exactitude and experience.
Her party now got a post-event two-page spread in the San Bernardino Sun with pictures of the social elite and a published special recipe.
* * *
In this stepchild to the L.A. megalopolis, no one ever declined Mary’s invitation to mingle, network, and eat her epicurean savories and sweets. They came, enjoyed, wrote a check, and left full, tipsy, and carrying a hostess bag of Mary’s gourmet Christmas cookies.
In Mary’s mind, she was on her way to the big time, and she anticipated the L.A. Times covering her event soon—after all she had been calling them for years.
* * *
The next day, Sunday, Gary was again forced awake by more party preparations. As he dressed, he heard Mary directing her family helpers.
Mary screeched in her last-minute hysteria, “Just finish the trays now. Don’t forget the holly sprigs.”
“Where are they?” her daughter called out.
“On the sideboard,” Gary’s son shouted. “I’m done with this one.”
“It’s beautiful,” Mary gushed. “Almost there. Then we set up the bar.”
* * *
When Gary entered the kitchen, a pall of silence descended. He had purposefully put on a red holiday tie—a satisfying threat that he was staying for the party.
“Good morning, all. I need coffee.”
Mary said, “Get it and get out.”
Gary taunted her. “I want eggs too.”
His son Larry, holding a decorated tray, intervened. “I don’t know why you have that tie on, Dad, but you need to leave. Now.”
“When I’m ready.”
Gary took a couple of crab-stuffed puffed shells from his son’s tray and popped them in his mouth. “Excellent, as always. My congratulations, Mary.”
Mary got Larry and the others out before there was trouble. “Kids, go check the dining room and get the bar started.”
Gary grabbed eggs from the refrigerator pushing aside and crushing party foods in the process.
“Stop that and get the hell out of here.”
“You get the hell out. I’m making my own omelet in my own kitchen.”
“Bastard. You’re making a mess.” Mary left.
Gary finished making his omelet and coffee leaving his mess trailing all over the kitchen. Then, he took the spatula around the corner into the alcove where Mary always lined up her restocking hors d’oeuvre and dessert trays. He went tray-by-tray crushing Mary’s months of work, leaving the spatula front and center.
Then he left the kitchen for his study.
“Now I’ve made a mess. Oh dear.” He laughed sardonically.
* * *
Gary hid in his study with his breakfast and a bottle of Mary’s primo-guest-worthy scotch—door locked, Steelers-Patriots game blaring, and mind in turmoil. Financial ruin was survivable. Divorce welcome—after all, the bitch would now get half of “zero.” However, facing Gonzalez Monday was the death knell—in prison as a convicted rapist and sexual predator he would be the other inmates’ quarry as they meted out their own form of justice and satisfied their own perversions.
Gary broke out in a cold sweat and tore off his red tie.
This Sunday during the party, he would be a man without a country because he was a man without absolution. Mary and his children had prejudged, prepackaged, and exiled the criminal off the premises. They didn’t care where.
In years past, he had entertained himself at the event by fantasizing and leering at the young, Christmas-decorated wifeys. That was out of bounds now as everything he enjoyed was. He could not even sequester himself in his own study to quietly watch pro-ball where big money changed hands as the players concussed their gray matter.
He ate a few bites of eggs but preferred the smooth scotch. He took his fork and speared Mary’s gourmet hors d’oeuvres, envisioning her face. He smiled at the thought of Mary’s own large check to the charity today bouncing—which it would.
He unlocked his top desk drawer. He shuffled through his current financial statements, from the overdrawn checking account to the depleted savings and investment accounts. He glanced at the pile of past due bills and the past due payments on the house and his stucco office building.
“Damn her and her house.” Gary slammed the drawer shut. “Damn that loser bloodsucking she-lawyer Friedman.”
* * *
Gary stood at his study window drinking Mary’s scotch and watching the partygoers arrive. Most were Mary’s old faithful friends of years—a grotesque parade of rotund hags wardrobed in the sparkles of the season and escorted by their walking-dead spouses.
He’d leave as ordered—but under protest, because in his mind his locked study was separation enough. But it wasn’t enough for the cow—she wanted him gone. Probably forever, even if he had nowhere to go. She had no idea he couldn’t even afford a hotel room.
Worse than that, come tomorrow at ten he would be fodder for that pit bull detective. Then the relentless gears of the criminal justice machine would start. It had eaten up the innocent Skip—and Gary wasn’t innocent. He would go the way of Skip—arrested, arraigned, remanded, and brutalized by the system until his trial where he would be convicted and serve time. That’s the best Gary could expect. The worst would be if Gonzalez uncovered the murders.
At Gary’s age, there was no way he would see freedom again. Those stupid bitches would finally get him. Their sheer numbers would bury him. There were too many women over the last thirty years and the statute of limitations hadn’t run on enough of them. Even on those where it had, the evidence of what he had done would be allowed at his trial to show a continuing pattern of criminal conduct. To show his actions were in keeping with his “habits.” Just like with Skip, only worse in Gary’s case.
But what fine habits. Gary smiled at his last time with Brianna—maybe his last time with anyone.
As he sat again, watching the game and eating more of his eggs, an involuntary tear dropped to his unshaven cheek.
I can’t be a convicted pervert in prison.
* * *
Momentarily, Mary’s loud shriek from across the house buried the announcer’s analysis of a fifteen-yard penalty. Mary had discovered the trays.
Gary slapped the tear from his cheek as his eyes shot around his study looking for an escape—some magic hidden door where he could slide down the “rabbit hole.” There was none.
He grabbed his keys to leave. He had to escape Mary’s ire and this three-ring circus with all its clowns. He grabbed the handle of the study door, but let go when banging resounded on the other side in the hallway.
“Let me i
n,” Mary screamed. “You’re in there. I smell the eggs.”
Gary looked over at his leftovers on his desk.
“Open this door. I hear the TV.”
Like a child, Gary instinctively turned off the TV. It didn’t work. Mary wasn’t going away. Her anger increased geometrically, feeding on his silence. Her uncontrolled rants battered his mind—bad husband, worse father, loser, pervert, cheater, rapist, disgrace.
* * *
Gary unlocked the door to run, but Mary, stuffed in a red sequined dress, blocked his getaway. Her ballooned red face was dotted with angry bulging eyes and a megaphone mouth that assaulted him with earsplitting shrieks and garlic breath. Behind her was an audience of guests. Beside her was her army of their procreation who should have been in the houses he bought for them far, far away.
I should have offed her. He mind-flashed his covetous murders. I’d have a grateful young piece of ass by now.
“Get out of my way.” He shoved Mary to the floor, flabby arms flailing and sagging breasts bouncing.
He fought to get past Larry, Charlotte, and their spouses yelling and his grandchildren crying. But Larry, not passive for once, shoved him in the chest.
“Do that to Mom again and I’ll press charges if she won’t”
Gary’s massive body repelled the shove. He stood encircled and raged. “Fuck off. All of you leeches.”
He turned to Mary still on the floor. He wanted to kick her, but the men present would take him down. Instead, he yelled, “You want a divorce now? Go for it, you cow. We’re broke. Foreclosure. Both properties. No equity left. The credit cards maxed … the accounts empty. Life insurance? Gone.”
Mary started shrieking, but Gary couldn’t leave without a parting shot.
“You won’t be in your precious house anymore. You’ll be in the poorhouse.”
Rogue Divorce Lawyer Page 26
