You can’t imagine what would initiate such a move. It couldn’t have come from any of your clients. Not possible. One of the other six lawyers in the office? Maybe Arie, Nathaniel’s old buddy, the only other true partner in the firm. The double mentioning of Novak in the firm name is for posterity reasons only. “Your time will come,” Nathaniel always says. You’ve always wondered what led to Arie becoming the lone second partner, or any partner at all. He’s nearly worthless as an attorney.
You glance around the room. No sign of Arie. Hmmm.
But there’s also no sign of Nathaniel. Now, you think, he has balls. Maybe all this was due to Nathaniel himself. That must be it. He’s always treading water where it’s the murkiest. All in the name of fees. A legal term for bringing in the cash.
A wave of heat rushes up your neck. You’re pissed. You want to pound the desk, find Nathaniel, and wring his neck. But you can’t lose control, not in front of all the other employees. They’re scared, for many reasons.
And then you hear that whining groan. You can’t help but jump out of your chair and look into the foyer. Nathaniel is in handcuffs, falling to his knees as two federal agents jump back, a look of shock on their faces. Nathaniel hits the floor as you run out of the meeting room, drop down next to him. He’s sweating profusely, gritting his teeth.
“This is the one, kiddo,” he says.
“Dad! You can’t die.”
Dad has a heart attack. And instead of bailing him out of jail, you rush to the emergency room, followed by two cars full of federal agents.
A second kick to the nuts.
2
I hate the smell of hospitals. An underlying scent of urine and other bodily liquids lingered in the air, while a sharp, pungent jab of disinfectant tried to smother it out. I call it “the hospital funk.” For some folks, the near-constant battle for dominance of your olfactory senses dulls over time…not a very big deal. For me, my sense of smell is always at a heightened sense of alert. It’s a natural survival instinct. I’m partially deaf. Actually, “hearing-impaired” is the more accepted term in society these days. But I was born with it, apparently, so it’s the only thing I’ve known.
I picked up a loud clip of heels and turned to see my younger brother, Tobin, walking down the hall, a hand to his ear, nodding at me. He was on a call. My eyes went to his cowboy boots. Made of alligator or something he probably killed while on his African safari adventure last summer. He was quite a character, a little like his father, which, right now, was not exactly a high compliment.
He reached me, but held up a finger. I expected no less, and my sights drifted to two sets of people who had so many lives in their hands. A group of doctors, a cardiologist included, were standing just outside my father’s room, discussing his diagnosis. They knew I was waiting to learn of his fate. Another thirty feet beyond them, a gaggle of federal officials also waited to see if their suspect would live or die. For now, they left me alone.
I checked my phone and saw a blank screen. Another dash of disappointment. On my way over in the back of the ambulance, I’d texted Nicole, among others, about the news of Dad’s heart attack. I also told her, in as few words as possible, about the raid by the Feds. Maybe she was in a meeting, unable to reach her phone. Or maybe she just didn’t care enough to reply.
Tobin touched my elbow to ensure I was looking at him. “Sorry about that, bro. Business never stops.”
“Ours did.”
One of his considerable eyebrows inched upward. I gave him a brief explanation of the raid and the presence of the Feds down the hallway.
“Fuckin’ A,” he said.
Typical Tobin response. Some might think he sounded like a skateboard thrasher. At other times, he was all about fighting oppression against… Well, just fill in the blank on the cause of the day. Then, there were his babies—not actual human beings. “Babies” was the term he used to describe his startup companies. Austin was just behind Silicon Valley in the race for the next great idea. Tobin had a lot of great ideas, and thanks to being silver-spooned by our parents, he had lots of babies, although I wasn’t sure any of them had yet grown into a toddler.
He asked about Dad just as two women in white coats walked up. They nodded and introduced themselves. The one with a mole the size of a beetle on her forehead did the talking. She was the cardiologist.
“Your father suffered a heart attack.”
As if that wasn’t already apparent. I withheld a biting response. “Okay,” I managed to say. “How bad?”
“He has a partial blockage in two arteries. One is fifty percent blocked; the other is thirty percent.”
“That old fart just doesn’t know when to lay off the chicken-fried steak and the double shots of vodka for dinner every night,” Tobin said with an inappropriate chuckle.
She gripped both ends of the stethoscope that hung around her neck. “Diet is certainly part of the problem. I also understand that he’s been seeing a doctor for this condition, but he’s been inconsistent in taking his medication, not following the instructions on food, exercise, and stress reduction.”
Sounded like Dad. No one else could tell him what to do with his body. Well, maybe one person. I wondered when she would show up.
“Is he going to be okay?” I asked.
She pursed her lips, pausing for a second. “Your father is naturally inclined to have plaque buildup. While this heart attack didn’t permanently damage his heart, he’s now prone to having another myocardial infarction. And, well…”
She paused, glanced at her colleague. “Your father seems to think he’s immune to any further medical issues. We were, uh…rather blunt in explaining the gravity of his condition.”
“We know he’s stubborn.” I reset my feet and loosened my tie.
“Well, we’re hoping you can convince him that he needs to follow the protocol he’s been given, the full cardiac rehabilitation. If he doesn’t, then we can’t provide a positive outlook on his longevity.”
I noticed movement just over the doctor’s shoulder. A Fed was walking in our direction. His double chin made his neck look like a tree trunk.
“Sorry to butt in,” he said, finding a small place between the two doctors.
“But you just did,” I said.
He eyed me, nodded as if he had some sort of power over me, then went back to the doctor. “When can we take the suspect to our office?”
“You’re going to charge a man who’s on his deathbed?” Tobin asked with too much dramatic flair. It seemed fake, probably because it was. He was obviously trying to throw up some type of smoke screen for Dad’s protection. Not sure why he thought it would be effective.
Double Chin nodded at Tobin, then looked at the doctor. “I’ll let the expert give me the answer I need. So?”
“Agent…?” She waited for a name. He didn’t provide one.
She looked at me, and I gave her a slight nod.
“So, while Mr. Novak’s condition at this moment is not life-threatening, he still will not be released from the hospital for several days, and that will only occur if he follows the protocol I was just explaining to his sons.”
“Sonofabitch.” Double Chin tugged loose skin around his neck. An image of a walrus came to mind. “We’ll keep at least one agent outside of his room at all times.”
“Why? He’s not a flight risk. And it’s not like he can run off.”
He looked at me and nodded again. There was a story in there that he wasn’t telling me. Or maybe my radar was extra sensitive today. Well, I knew that was the case. He asked to be kept in the loop as Dad’s health improved. He started to walk off.
“When are you going to let me look at the charges in the sealed warrant?” I asked, as the two doctors slowly peeled away.
He walked back up, held up a badge that I ignored. He put it away and said, “I’m FBI Special Agent Bowser. Bruce Bowser. You know I can’t show you the sealed warrant. Not yet. That’s why we need to formally book and charge him. Then we can
let the justice process play out.”
I could feel my chest swelling, but I let out a slow breath. “I need to know the name of the attorney in charge of the prosecution in the US Attorney’s Office.”
“In due time. First, we need to formally charge him. We’ll do it right here if we have to. But it would be preferable if we went through this at our office. We want to be respectful of his health.”
They wanted a live suspect so they could punch a notch in their career belts. I thought about my options. “My father is not a career criminal. Whatever evidence you think you have I’m sure is circumstantial at best. We represent a lot of clients in our firm, and we can’t babysit all of them. This won’t even make it to trial—that much I can assure you.”
He snickered, moved closer, and tapped my chest. That fucker just tapped my chest. A quick flashback to seventh grade, dealing with the bully in the locker room. To say I didn’t like it was the understatement of the day. But I bit my lip and said nothing. Not yet.
“Ozzie, if I were you, I’d be a little less boastful about what you think of the situation and start worrying about yourself. Get what I’m saying?”
He held my gaze for a moment. I didn’t shift my eyes.
“Your firm is essentially shut down. Your father was the lead partner. We know the place can’t remain open without a partner in good standing with law enforcement and the bar association. And I would imagine, in a matter of hours, you’ll lose most of your clients anyway. Some might even sue you. It could get real messy and very expensive. But that’s not the worst of it.”
Tobin stepped into our space. “Can it get any worse than that?” Now he sounded like a scared teenager. I wished he would have just kept quiet.
“Oh yeah. For anyone whose livelihood is based upon the man in that room, it could get much worse. Frozen assets. No revenue. Lots of expenses.” He chuckled once. “But you know what, Ozzie?”
I crossed my arms, forcing him to back up a few inches.
“You can protect yourself and your family if you’ll help us out. Just need you to corroborate our evidence.”
“You want me to turn on my father?”
“You don’t want to be indicted as well, do you? Accessory to the crime.”
I had no idea what crime he was referencing.
“You want Oz to flip on Dad?” Tobin’s voice pitched higher. “You…you’re fucking nuts. This is a witch hunt. I’m going to hit social media and soil your career.”
Agent Bowser flicked a wrist in Tobin’s direction, as if he were nothing more than an annoying gnat.
“Think it over, Ozzie. I’m looking out for you, man.” He attempted to pat my chest—I lurched back a step to avoid the bro-contact—and then he turned to walk away. But he wasn’t done. He looked over his shoulder.
“Your mother, even your brother here, will thank you in the long run. If you back us up, you’ll be the hero. You might be able to save the firm, keep those precious fees rolling in. Like I said, think it over. I’ll be in touch.”
Bowser went off to join his Fed buddies while Tobin proceeded to bombard me with demonstrative proclamations about what he was going to do to the FBI and how he had friends in high places to make Bowser and these charges disappear. It was all hot air, I knew. Besides, I was hit hardest by a new waft of hospital funk.
3
Alfonso tore off his greasy apron, hung it on the back door, and tossed the keys to his 1977 Monte Carlo on the counter.
“You home, Alfonso?”
He paused, looked toward the hallway, then shuffled to the refrigerator and opened the door.
“I know you’re home.”
It was his girlfriend, Lupita. She sounded like his damn mother.
“I need help with the twins.” Her voice carried like she had a megaphone implanted in her chest. It literally made his ears ache. “One of them crapped all over my white leather pants,” she droned on at a decibel level fit for a rock concert.
“Oh, Lupita. You’re wearing me out, girl,” he whispered, rubbing his weary eyes. He’d just finished a twelve-hour shift flipping burgers. On his feet the entire time. No breaks. He had grease burns up and down his forearms. His back felt like a twisted pretzel. He was going to plop his ass down on the couch, watch a soccer game, and wait for the Schlitz to help the pain subside.
He leaned over and felt a kink in his lower back. “Fuckin’ A, man.” Looking inside the fridge, he searched for his cans of beer. Lots of bottles and unwrapped food—a stick of butter, a half-eaten burger from the previous night, molded Jell-O, an old box of pizza. “This is disgusting,” he said to himself.
“I hear you out there. Are you going to take care of your little girls?”
Damn, she must have this kitchen wiretapped or something. “This fridge is fucking gross, woman. Aren’t you supposed to keep this house clean while I’m off at work?”
Not a beat later, she stood at the edge of the hallway, one fake eyelash flapping like a bird’s wing. “Did I just hear you say that it’s my duty to clean the house while you’re off working, like I’m some kind of servant to the almighty Alfonso?” Her in-your-face attitude was out in full force, as evidenced by both her tone and her twerking torso.
He was so tired, he didn’t know how to respond. He shrugged and said, “Well…what the fuck?”
“Real smart, Alfonso.” Her eyes narrowed, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her fake lashes. He would have laughed at her if he didn’t think she’d slap him.
“You sound very educated with your comment. This isn’t your old thug world. You can’t talk like that and expect anyone to think you’ve got two brain cells to rub together.”
He wiped a hand across his face. He knew she meant well, but damn, he felt like he was about two inches high. His fatigued mind could focus on only one thing right now. “Where’s my beer?”
“It’s all gone. You had the last one yesterday.”
She turned around and disappeared down the hallway, but still yelled out, “You going to take care of your daughters?”
He grabbed his crotch. “You going to suck my—?”
“I can hear you.”
Jesus. Really? He snapped his fingers as a smile came to his face. The backup plan. He always had a backup plan. He walked over to the closet that doubled as a pantry. Underneath a pile of newspapers, he found a bucket turned upside down. He flipped it over and found three cans of Budweiser.
“Hell yes,” he said. He popped the tab, tipped his head back, and chugged for a good ten seconds. It was warm as piss, but he didn’t care. He found his usual spot on the couch and clicked the remote. The soccer game was twenty minutes in, still no score.
“Okay, I guess I’ll have to change the diapers…again,” Lupita yelled.
He closed his eyes for a moment. Would it ever end? She had no idea the kind of crap he had to deal with every day. No way in hell could she put up with it. She talked all about being equal partners and shit.
Equal partners, my ass.
He slurped another mouthful of Budweiser. Blue ink from the top of his hand caught his eye. Part of the tattoo had been bleached away, but he could still see the outline.
6 + 7
It was simple and delivered a deafening message. At least in some circles. Around the house, it might as well be shooting the middle finger to God. But man, in his day, that symbol, along with a host of others hidden under his T-shirt, would bring instant respect. Without saying a word or even looking in their direction, people feared him. They gave him gifts…just so they wouldn’t get their teeth knocked in. Yeah, those were the days.
He could hear Lupita in another corner of his mind, listening to his thoughts of the good old days. “And look what that got you, Alfonso Liriano. Two years of hard time. You were somebody’s bitch. Is that the kind of life you want to live, being someone’s bitch day after day, wondering when they might decide to gut you like a pig?”
He noticed an open bag of sour cream and onion potato chips on
the coffee table. Had the kids been eating this crap? Damn, they were barely over two years old. He turned his head toward the hallway, ready to grill Lupita about what she was allowing the girls to eat. He paused a moment. What would it buy him? Would she change?
Hell no. She just does her thing, and he ain’t allowed to make one fucking comment or even a suggestion. It was like he had no say in his kids’ lives…in his own life. No control over anything. Just get up, go work a shit-ass job for twelve hours or more, and then come home to this.
Seemed like he would always be someone’s bitch.
He grabbed a couple of chips from the bag and tossed them in his mouth. They were stale, but he didn’t spit them out. He ate another handful, chugged more of his beer, and tried to lose himself in the soccer game.
He then heard Lupita speaking in Spanish. She sounded pissed. She had to be talking to her sister. He could make out the gist of what she was talking about. Mainly complaining. Complaining about her lousy house, her crappy car, and her lazy-ass husband.
He went and grabbed his second beer, returned to the couch, and turned up the volume on the game. Still, though, her voice was like a frickin’ diamond-tipped needle. It could pierce anything.
He felt a buzz in his sagging jeans. He pulled out his phone and saw the name from his contacts on the screen. He paused and looked back down the hallway, debating whether he should answer the call or let it roll to voicemail. He could hear Lupita cackle, then rattle off a string of cuss words. She had to be talking about him. That was all she and her sister ever did. Sit around, get fat, and complain about the men in their lives.
Fuck it.
He punched open the call. “Yo, Tomas.”
“Alfonso, my man. It’s been a while.”
“Yeah. You know I’ve got a lot going on.”
“That’s what I heard, man. A lot of diapers, a lot of laundry, a lot of—” He laughed so hard, he didn’t finish his thought.
ON Edge Page 2
