Thorns on Roses

by Randy Rawls

  “Not unless he’s just plain stupid.”

  “Excuse me, but did you announce yourself as a police officer when you came into the…uh…his place of business?”

  “Hell no, he didn’t,” Astole said. “That’s what I mean. He tricked me, said he wanted a tattoo. I got it on tape.” He pointed at the camera. “Course it ain’t here. It’s in a safe place.” He gave Lucy a crafty grin. “I’m a law abidin’ citizen. If I’da known who he was and what he wanted, I’da told him. But he pissed me off with the way he acted. Now I gotta pay a lawyer.” He paused as if in thought. “I just might sue the city. Yeah, that’s what I might do—sue the city. Cops like him oughta be thrown off the force—or put in jail. Harassing us honest citizens. That’d teach him.”

  Lucy smiled at him. “You certainly have the right to sue, Mr. Astole.”

  “Yeah, be a lesson to the resta them cops keep comin’ in here. Keep buggin’ me with all they damn questions. How can I run my business with cops in and out all the time?”

  Richards stayed quiet, his eyes rotating between Astole and Lucy.

  Lucy took a notebook from her briefcase. “Other police officers? This may be something I need to report. Tell me about them.” She opened the pad to a clean page. “What have they been asking you?”

  Astole scratched his unshaven cheek. “Been a bunch of them around in the last coupla weeks—gittin’ in my way. Keep askin’ about that gang.”

  Lucy made a note. “Which gang?”

  “The one he said.” Astole pointed at Richards. “Thorns on Roses. Ain’t nothing but a few punks with stupid talk.”

  “What do they say?”

  “They gonna take over the country. Gonna divide it up ’tween their friends. Said if I’d do the tattoo for free, they’d give me Montana.” He shook his head. “Now what the hell would I do with Montana?”

  “I see,” Lucy said. “Back to the cops harassing you. When was the last time—I mean before Detective Richards here?”

  Astole looked at the ceiling. “’Bout a week ago. Some plain clothes dude come in here and badged me. Said he was investigating a murder, and did I know anything about a certain tattoo. Then he showed me a picture of my rose.”

  Lucy’s head was down and her hand flew over the page, her brow creased.

  “When I told him I didn’t know nothing, he threatened me. Said if I was lying, I’d be interfering with an ongoing investigation. Humph. Like I’d tell that asshole anything. Cops is just a pain—”

  “Shut up, Miguel.” The voice came from a man who’d entered from the rear of the shop. He wore a polyester suit, white shirt, shiny tie, and may as well have had ambulance chaser written in red across his forehead. Obviously, a penny-ante lawyer.

  Miguel stared at the new arrival. “I didn’t—”

  “We’ll see.” He turned to Lucy and Detective Richards. “I assume you two are cops. What do you want with my client?”

  Richards stood, withdrew his badge, and showed it. “I’m Lieutenant Richards and, as your client knows, am investigating the murder of a seventeen-year-old female. This,” he nodded toward Lucy who had also stood, “is Ms. Lucille Bobbington, an Assistant DA who has been assigned to prosecute the case. Who are you?”

  The man eyed them. “Marvin Talbot, Attorney-at-Law. Mr. Astole is my client. I resent your talking to him in my absence. Obviously, a violation of his rights.”

  “But Mr. Talbot,” Lucy said. “We didn’t talk to him. He talked to us. He was telling me about all the cops who harass him. I mean, he has every right to make a complaint about improper behavior by authorities. He’s a citizen, and the Constitution guarantees him a life free of police harassment. It’s good I was here to listen. Right, Mr. Astole?” Lucy’s voice was so filled with innocence you could ladle it off.

  “Uh…well…kinda. But she tricked me, made me say them things.”

  “Funny,” Richards said. “I was hanging on every word, and didn’t see or hear any tricks. In fact, I bet if you play his video back, you won’t see any trickery either. If you want to view it, we can wait. Of course, we’d have to watch with you to make sure nothing happens to the tape or disk or whatever.” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “While you think it over, excuse me a moment.” After dialing, he said, “Phil. Time to make an appearance. Make sure you smile for the camera.” After closing the instrument, he addressed the lawyer. “My partner will be here in a moment. I’m sure Mr. Astole will recognize him.”

  Talbot stared at Astole, then Lucy. “Give us a moment. I need to consult with my client.”

  “Of course,” Lucy said. “We understand, and you have that privilege. We’ll step outside.”

  They stood on the sidewalk as Phil walked up. “What’s the story?”

  Richards said, “He’s getting legal advice. If I read it right, your mug will produce the names we need. I mean, you’re too damned ugly for him to say he’s never seen you before. Especially, when we can trot in every other shopkeeper on the street who’ll remember you.”

  “Thanks,” Summers said. “I’ll be sure and let my parents know my good looks might save you from another failure.”

  Lucy grinned as she looked from one to the other. “Cops. Who can understand them?”

  The door opened. Talbot said, “Come in. It’s time to talk.”

  The three of them entered the parlor and watched as Astole’s eyebrows shot skyward.

  “Let me introduce my partner,” Richards said. “This is Detective Phil Summers. I believe you know him, don’t you, Mr. Astole?”

  “Yeah,” he mumbled. “I seen him before.”

  “Good,” Richards said. “Now everyone knows everyone. Ms. Bobbington, do you have some papers for our friend? Please show them to Mr. Talbot.”

  Lucy laid her briefcase on the counter and flipped the latches.

  “That won’t be necessary, miss,” Talbot said. “My client assures me he wants to cooperate, do anything he can to rid the streets of criminals.” He shifted toward Astole. “Don’t you?”

  “Yeah. I reckon.”

  “Not reckon,” Talbot said. “You’re sure. As I told you, if you’re not thrilled with this opportunity, our next visit might be across a steel table attached to the floor. Right, Detective?”

  “Works for me,” Richards said.

  Astole’s hands clenched and unclenched. “I understan’. I understan’ my lawyer ain’t worth a shit. If I had time, I’d git another.”

  Talbot stared at him, shaking his head. “Ask your questions, Detective. But make sure you limit them to this Thorns on Roses group. The rest of his customer list remains his and his only.” He held up his hand, palm toward Richards. “In return for his cooperation, you will furnish whatever protection he might need—if the situation requires. Agreed?”

  Richards looked at Lucy, who shrugged, then back to Talbot. “Like you said. Assuming he’s serious, let’s get down to business. I want names, addresses, phone numbers, descriptions, hangouts, and anything else you know about them. And, if we think he’s withholding anything, Ms. Bobbington will fish those papers out of her bag. Now, start talking.”

  Astole took a deep breath. “The leader of the group is a real nutcase named Raul Santiago. He calls himself El General…”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The senior Bernstein hung up the telephone, a deep frown on his face. After a moment of reflection, he flipped the intercom button on his desk. “Genevieve, ask my son to come in when he has time.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Bernstein.”

  “When he has time, you understand?”

  “Yes sir, I always understand.”

  A moment later, Bert tapped on the doorframe of the open door. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Come in. Close the door. Have coffee with me.” Rubin stood and moved to a conversation niche set up beside his corner windows.

  When they had settled, poured, and doctored their coffees, Rubin said, “I had a phone call from the chief of police this morning.”


  “And I see from your scowl it wasn’t good news,” Bert said, smiling.

  “Don’t interrupt your father. Didn’t your mother teach you better than that? And I don’t scowl.”

  “Yes, Dad,” Bert said as both smiled.

  “It wasn’t good news,” Rubin said, his scowl returning. “Jeffries is not working with the police. In fact, the chief added that Jeffries has never worked with anyone in his department. So that leaves us with the question, what is Jeffries doing?”

  “Abby thought—”

  “I know what she thought. She’s wrong. And wrong is not a condition I tolerate well.”

  Bert looked down. “Yes sir. I agree that she was mistaken.”

  Rubin frowned at his son. “I’ll accept that as your realization your faith in her is misplaced. Now, my interrogatory is, why was she mistaken? Simply a case of jumping to an incorrect conclusion or…”

  Rubin let silence fill the room as Bert squirmed.

  “And,” Rubin added, “if she jumped to an incorrect conclusion, that is not a favorable trait for an attorney with our firm.”

  “Dad—”

  “Think before you respond. A lawyer must learn that silence is an asset when outwitting the opposition. Most often, the opponent will say something he regrets later.”

  Again, the second hand ticked its way around the clock as Bert’s face reflected inner turmoil. “You know she’s Pat’s sorority sister. And Pat thinks the world of her.”

  “I know.” Rubin sipped from his cup, studying his son.

  Bert hesitated, appearing to be deep in thought. “Okay, I say Jeffries lied to her. He somehow fooled her into thinking he worked with the police.”

  Rubin stood and walked to the window. He stared toward the ocean, then turned back to his son. “Always soothing to watch the broad expanse of the Atlantic. Reminds me how inconsequential humans are—even those we call close friends. That same ocean has been there since the beginning of time. Will be there long after we’re gone. It nurtures more kinds of life than humankind can catalogue. It seems to go on forever, yet we know islands and the coast of Europe and Africa interrupt it. For me, that proves we cannot trust what our eyes tell us. They’re wrong when we view that broad expanse of water.” He shifted his gaze downward. “Then I look at the traffic on the street below. My eyes tell me it’s in gridlock and may never move. Should I believe it? Is this real…or another illusion like the ocean?”

  He returned his gaze to his son. “I’ve told you many times you can only believe in tangibles. If you can’t touch it, hold it, feel it, or taste it, it’s not trustworthy. Friendships are like the ocean, like the traffic. You may think what you see is true, but there may be islands and another coast in the way. It may simply be a mental aberration creating what you see. You’re an attorney. Put your trust in what you know, not what you feel.” He looked downward again. “Traffic is beginning to move. The gridlock is resolved. It was only a traffic light. Had I jumped to a conclusion, I would have been wrong.”

  He returned to his chair. “I’m concerned about Abby. She’s a talented attorney, and her jury presentations are first-class. But if someone like Jeffries can cause her to miss the obvious, she may not be best for this firm. And if she allows the reputation of the firm to be besmirched…”

  Bert looked uncomfortable, but faced his father. “Do you want me to talk to her?”

  “No. I want you to demand she tell you about Jeffries. The time for talking is past. If she has a problem sorting out her loyalties, you are to let her know what they must be if she is to have a career with BGE and B.” The elder Bernstein stared at Bert, seeing a plethora of expressions cascade across his face. “And, while you do that, I’m in the mood for a long talk with Jeffries.” He paused again, trying to read his son. “You can go now. I have work to do.”

  * * * *

  Bert walked from the office knowing his mission, but wishing it were anything else. How could he challenge Abby? She was the best attorney in the house. She was his friend. And most damaging of all, she was his wife’s sorority sister and confidante. And Jeffries was the man who saved his daughter. He shuddered, thinking of what might have been had Jeffries not intervened. Didn’t matter. None of it mattered. His father had spoken. He knew what he must do.

  Walking into his outer office, he said, “Beth. Find Abby and tell her I’d like to see her this afternoon after my last appointment.”

  * * * *

  Abby sat at her desk, a case file laying unopened when her interoffice telephone line rang. “Abby,” she said into the receiver.

  “Bert would like to see you about four, if you can make the time.”

  “If? Of course, Beth. Tell him I’ll be there.” She glanced at the papers on her desk. “Gotta be better than this mess Ashford passed on to me.”

  Beth hesitated. “Abby, he looked really serious after speaking with the senior. I don’t know what they talked about, but you might want to be ready. I don’t think the invitation is for cocktails.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be prepared. Probably something about this messy file I inherited.” She hung up and leaned away from her desk, a strange feeling creeping up her spine. Had to be one of the cases she picked up from Ashford. What else could have Bert stirred up? She’d spend the rest of the afternoon memorizing every detail.

  She flipped open the folder and began the first page. Malpractice, and this time it looked real. The orthopedic surgeon replaced the wrong knee. Not much way she could defend that. Unless she found something a lot better than the nurse marked the wrong one, she’d have to recommend a settlement. Especially when the doctor was the one who called for the surgery. The patient had been seeing him for five years as the knee condition worsened. Abby shuddered. She could see the insurance company paying the policy limits with monies left over for the doctor to pay.

  Thirty minutes later, she paced around the office, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension. Nothing she’d read had changed her mind. She considered letting the insurance rep know he should be ready to cut a check—a big one. The phone rang. She glanced at the flashing light. Outside line.

  “Abby Archer, Attorney-at-Law.”

  “Hi. It’s Lucy. Got a minute?”

  “Anything’s better than this case I’m working. In fact, this is a great time for you to offer me a job. Putting criminals in jail must be more fulfilling than this.”

  “You think?” Lucy said, irony dripping. “But, if you’re serious, I’m halfway to the DA’s office. We need people with your kind of talent.”

  “Hold off for a while.” She forced a lightness into her voice, a lightness she did not feel. “The only thing that’s not iffy here is the salary I make. Giving that up would be a definite downer. Why did you call?”

  “Oh, yes. Your tease about joining us made me forget for a moment. Big breakthrough on the death of that teenage girl. Lt. Richards nailed the tattoo artist this morning, and he sang like the winner on America Idol. With what he provided, we should have the gang in custody before the end of the week. This one is going to be fun to prosecute. I’m going for the maximum. They are some real sleazeballs.”

  “That’s great,” Abby said. “In fact, that’s wonderful. You said gang. How many are there?”

  “He named eight. Three of them are female. Gang molls, I guess you call them. It was shocking to hear the parts of the anatomy a couple of them had tattooed. His deposition had me blushing. I can’t imagine having some guy stick pins there.” She chuckled, a nervous laugh. “The dead girl was one of them. There were five males. Those are the ones Richards is after. And I have to say, I hope he nails them soon. From the way the snitch described them, my hunch is they’ll be lining up to rat one another out. I’m looking forward to putting them away. I see a murder one prosecution in my future.”

  “Will they get death?”

  Lucy sighed. “I’ll push for it. As far as I’m concerned, there is no reason they shouldn’t. But, she was a tattooed member of the g
ang. No way the jury won’t consider that. They might think she got what she deserved. And if that comes up, they might go for less. It gets tougher every day to put street scum away, much less have them executed. Too much violence on TV and on the streets. People are numb to it. And, it’ll depend on the judge we draw. Some of them… Well, you know what I mean.”

  Abby’s voice was heavy. “Thanks for letting me know. I understand what you’re saying. Sometimes, it seems like juries bend over backwards to do what’s not right. I see the same results you do, only in a much less vicious world.”

  “But we have to keep trying,” Lucy said. “That’s why we need people like you on our side. Attorneys who can sway a jury to return the verdicts that are deserved, then hand out sentences that match.”

  “You make a persuasive argument,” Abby said. “Leave that door cracked a bit. I promise to give it some serious consideration.”

  “That’s all I can ask.”

  They talked a few more minutes, promising to meet for lunch soon, then hung up.

  Abby’s stomach was queasy as she thought of Tom. If he were indeed hunting the gang—and she believed him when he said he was—he would not be happy to learn the police had names and addresses. Should she tell him? If she did, would he speed up his schedule—whatever that was—and thwart justice? Or should she keep the secret and hope he completed his mission before the police caught up with the gang? That was the sure path to justice, to the killers getting what they deserved. But there was the possibility Tom would change from hunter to hunted. Was her love strong enough to support him if he became the thrust of the investigation?

  * * * *

  Tom had slept late, but not well. He’d arisen at three a.m. and taken more Tylenol, then again at six. His arm throbbed through it all. At nine-thirty, he gave up and crawled in the shower, after wrapping the bandage in plastic to keep it as dry as possible. Two more Tylenol after he dried himself made him wonder if his liver could take the hit.