by Cherise West
"I spent a few weeks curled up in my bathroom crying over the breakup, but yeah, of course," I spit through a sarcastic grin. "Really great."
"Cuz I mean, you're on the market again, so I can pay for that drink for you, can't I?" he smirks.
"Yeah," I nod, the bartender passing me the glass filled to its rim with hard alcohol, "you know, you're absolutely right, Lukas. You can pay for it."
"Twenty dollars," the tender mentions, skeptical glance on Lukas.
"Yeah, okay, I've got it," he grins, holding his hands up defensively as he passes the bill off to the bartender. I hoped that'd be enough for him to screw off, but of course he pulls up a stool, turning my way, offering me his sales pitch. "Josh is a good lawyer, smart guy, we're lucky to have him over at Dealy and Webb. But I'm glad you got rid of him, Mara. You deserve better, y'know?"
"Lukas, he dumped me, for his secretary," I huff.
"Oh, aaaah-- right," he nods, "yeah, like I said. You deserve better, y'know?"
"And you truly. Sincerely. Think you're better, do you, Lukas?" I snark, taking a swig of my drink. It tastes like rubbing alcohol with a dash of burned wood, but the punch of it takes a good bit of stress off from the day.
"I mean, of course! I wouldn't leave you for the secretary," he says.
"Definitely a man of principal then, aren't you," I respond dismissively.
"So how's the drink?" he grins.
"Not nearly stiff enough to make you appealing yet, Lukas," I retort deadpan, swirling another sip across my tongue before gulping it down quick. "I'd need about seventeen more."
"Cool. Bartender," Lukas flags the man over; I sigh.
"Do not order seventeen more, Lukas," I hiss.
"No! Nah, I just wanted to get a martini, is all," he laughs. "Definitely wasn't going to buy you seventeen more. Definitely."
"So do you have a reason for pestering me, Lukas, or?..." I sass.
"Oh! Just, you know, professionalism, and courtesy, and... that kind of stuff." He scratches his cheek. "I figured after, you know, your... bathroom, crying, and all that, I'd just check in and see how you were doing."
"I was doing better before you came over," I sigh.
"Ahah! God, always can make me laugh," he says.
"Thanks, Lukas. Always good to know I'm such a cut-up," I say stonefaced.
And in other news, a raucous crowd of revelers attended the arraignment of Peter 'Lefty Pete' Lanza, arrested last week for an alleged high-speed, high-stakes shootout with a gang rival. Lanza, a patched member of one of the state's most notorious motorcycle clubs, the Roarin' Wardogs..
The name catches my ears; soft, barely audible, mumbled from the television set mounted over the bar. The Wardogs. Gaze immediately set on the flashing colors of the nightly newscasters, Lukas watches with me.
"Hey, that's the gang you're going after, isn't it?" Lukas asks. "Yeah, Josh always said you spent too much time, at the office, not enough with him-- I mean," Lukas fumbles, sensing my ire, "I mean, y'know, I totally respect that, though. You're an empowered woman."
"Pete Lanza, a real gangster," I scoff. "They put these sensationalized stories on TV, make them bigger than they really are."
Pursuing the case against the Roarin' Wardogs, the district attorney's office for Jersey City and the Jersey City police have spearheaded a years-long investigation of the organization, calling it a criminal enterprise, a claim its members have disputed.
I'm sure they would. But when the Wardogs went on a rampage through my parents' neighborhood, including a high-speed chase from cops that ended with mom's death, was anyone disputing that classification? I wasn't. Taking another swig of my drink, I swallow down tears welling at my eyelids. I'd put Lefty Pete away a thousand times for my mom. All of the Wardogs. I enrolled in pre-law the day after it happened. I swore I'd stop them.
District Attorney Mara Lewis spoke with us earlier, laying out the case against the Wardogs and letting us know why she, personally, believed them to be a significant public safety menace.
Stern and stately, the suit-clad, robotic-voiced news anchor introduces my face, camera zoomed close; they caught me outside the courthouse this morning, thankfully before sweat and wear began to loosen the bun in my hair and smear the makeup on my eyes.
"Hey, beautiful! You're on TV," Lukas guffaws.
"Observant as always," I declare.
"You look good on camera. What's your secret, huh?" Lukas flirts.
"I keep myself in good shape. I like to train martial arts, you know, beat an annoying lawyer's head in each day," I sass.
"Yo, you train BJJ? What gym? Wanna spar with me sometime?" Lukas answers excitedly. I roll my eyes.
Ms. Lewis, some in City Hall have resisted what the media has called a 'crusade', by city police and the prosecutor's office, against members of the Roarin' Wardogs motorcycle club. How would you respond to those voices? Pretty and perky, the channel seven interviewer holds the mic uncomfortably close to my face. She nearly slapped me right in the chin with the thing.
I think that I, and the other city prosecutors, have the support of the police chief and the people themselves, in taking the fight to the streets, ridding us of the violence of these ruffians, I answered. That's really who we ought to be listening to. It's who we represent. The people of New Jersey.
"Yeah. Tell 'em, beautiful," Lukas cheers, voice full of sleaze.
Of course, the newscast cuts back to the newsroom, my face frozen in the corner of the screen, stuck on the most unflattering still they could've gotten out of that whole interview. A recent poll of New Jersey residents revealed that, since the death of notorious Wardogs leader Quentin Hill, the Roarin' Wardogs rank as one of the least feared factors in crime in the whole state, with many residents stating they think the violence has ended, with the death of Hill. Several members of the commmunity even called for Ms. Lewis's resignation from the prosecutor's office, citing conflicts of interest within that body.
"Damn," Lukas shakes his head, "that's rough."
"They're far from the first to ask me to quit," I say, shrugging casually. "They won't be the last, I'm sure."
"Conflicts of interest, though, Mara? What've they got on you?" Lukas asks.
"That's an awful personal question," I answer defensively, swallowing another hard gulp of liquor. My mom still fresh in my mind, as if she had died yesterday to the Wardogs, I breathe out in a quiet shiver. "Just you remember, Lukas, that the Wardogs, the violence, it didn’t end when Quentin Hill died."
"Hey, boo, I believe you, you don’t have to convince me," Lukas retorts. "If they’re the threat you think they are, though. You should watch your back. Somebody from Dealy and Webb, somebody who’s been in the law business for a long while, used to tell us as interns, the horror stories about the times he represented some of the Wardogs. The bodies that piled up, and how they weren’t afraid of anyone. Especially not pretty district attorneys. No offense," Lukas insists.
"Thanks, Lukas," I sass back. "You don’t think I can take care of myself?" I ask.
"When Quentin Hill was in charge, I don’t know if anybody could’ve taken care of themselves, going up against him and his boys, beautiful," Lukas warns. I hear Lefty Pete’s voice, snide and dismissive, hissing dangerously in my ear. Eyes clasped shut, I see my mom’s face; then, I see his again. Like a snake, coiling itself slowly around my neck, the expression strangles me. I sit in silence, letting another punch of liquor warm my throat.
"...But that was then," Lukas shifts uncomfortably. "You say it’s different now, right?"
"Yeah," I gulp, speaking more to convince myself than him. "I think it’s different now."
"I hope so, boo," Lukas says. "So how about another drink, huh?" he offers, that sleaze back in his voice. I exhale deeply, pushing my glass across the bar.
"Sure."
Chapter 3
“I hope you’re ready for this,” Scott grumbles. Scott wears cheap suits; glasses thick as coke bottles, and the same black tie a
nd grease-stained shirt to every hearing. His stringy gray hair barely looks combed. He always smells like stale coffee. He doesn’t like me. He doesn’t trust me to handle practically anything in court myself, shuffling papers along the desk hastily, searching for the file for the next case. He ha a mean misogynistic streak. Scott doesn’t think I can do the job, and take care of the Roarin’ Wardogs.
He’s also my boss.
“What makes you think I wouldn’t be?” I ask defiantly.
“Perhaps the way you handled the Wardogs last week,” he chides.
“I’m not a bailiff, Scott.”
“They’re going out of their way to make a mockery of our courtroom,” Scott sneers. “Dragging them in here, you’re giving them every opportunity to. It doesn’t help, having a pretty young woman as the head of an investigation into one of the nastiest gangs on the streets. Could use a firmer face to stand up to them.”
“Would you prefer I let the gang run the streets, intimidating all of us?” I snark back. “A firmer face, you say? Maybe yours, then?”
“I’d prefer if you stopped flirting with the chief of police to try to carry out the vendetta you have against this gang,” Scott says harshly. Secretly I seethe, but I keep my cool outside.
“That’d be very unprofessional of me, just as it’s unprofessional for you to let criminals go because you’re scared of what they might do to your family,” I retort, unwavering. “As unprofessional as remarks about your female coworker flirting with officials, or how she can’t stand up to face down a gang because she’s young and pretty.”
“That’s not unprofessional. It’s just smart,” Scott snaps back. “Quentin Hill ran Jersey City. I started out wanting to throw him in jail for a long time, same as you, Mara. The problem, thankfully, solved itself instead. We should all appreciate that, and go on with our lives.”
“The Wardogs haven’t changed, Scott,” I assert.
“Maybe you’re right. I hope, for your own sake, you’re not,” he warns.
“Next on the docket, attorneys?” Judge Miranda Prince, a younger woman with a soft voice and stylishly-curled brown hair, questions from her bench. Normally Yance does hearings, but for today, Prince deals with our cases, something that has me uneasy. I don’t dislike her, but she’s far less of a stone wall than Yance is, particularly in the face of gangbangers, gangbangers with a tendency to holler and make a show of anything that passes through our halls.
“Preliminary hearing in the case of The People vs. Leo Dale Hayes, your honor,” I respond, standing straight, file folder clasped against my chest. I know Leo Dale Hayes by another name, one a lot more sinister than any court document would afford him. Butcher. A fitting name, for all the meat and muscle he carries on his body, muscle he enjoys showing off. Given his love of knives, though… I can only guess what sort of grisly acts have given him his nickname.
“What’s the charge again?” Judge Prince pushes through her papers in search of the casefile.
“Possession with intent to distribute, your honor,” I answer, not a second look given to my paperwork. I memorize the charges against every single Wardog we’ve managed to drag in. I don’t want to be caught scared, on the defensive, the next time someone tries to push me away from this case. I can’t afford to.
“Right,” Judge Prince nods, “bailiffs, I understand Mr. Hayes was released on bail, is he present in the courthouse today?”
“He and his attorneys are here, yes,” Bart booms from the corner, the mountain of a man standing stiff in front of the door to the side chambers.
“Ms. Lewis, Mr. Stone, are you ready?” Judge Prince asks. Pushing away the sour memory of that intimidating glare from Lefty Pete, I take a deep breath.
“Very ready, your honor,” I answer for the both of us. Scott stays in his chair, sipping his coffee, paying my nerves no mind. I don’t need his concern anyway.
“Bailiff,” Prince nods. Bart responds with the same, pulling open the doors to the side chamber and murmuring to the inhabitants of the cramped room, the three of them huddled around the table. A moment later they parade into the courtroom; Dolph Jackson leads the charge, and I just should have known it’d be him today. Lisa Marino, his favorite sleazebag partner, follows him in; something of a pretty young protege for the aging Jackson, she and I went to law school together, where she spent most of her time antagonizing those of us who wanted to go into criminal prosecution. Round o-shaped spectacles on her eyes, an expensive black pantsuit and heels on her body, and her hair cut bobbed and dyed a bleach-blond, she smirks at me as she passes. Behind the both of them, tailored into a suit far too tight for the cut muscles bulging beneath the fabric, “Butcher” marches in, wearing a glare almost the same as Lefty Pete’s last week. My chest tightens; my stomach knots loosely in fear, but the stern look on my face wavers none. The three of them take their seats, whispering to one another through hands cupped close to ears, discussing whatever bogus strategy they plan to run on Prince in the course of the hearing.
“Okay, so we have before us the case of The People of the State of New Jersey vs. Leo Dale Hayes, charged with possession of controlled substance, amount exceeding two ounces, with intent to distribute, a criminal charge with potential for jail sentence,” Prince recites mechanically, “…I see here, Mr. Hayes, you’ve assembled a team for your defense, good, so no concern there, and so in this hearing the question comes to the bench of probable cause for this charge and, if sufficient cause is found, for the entry of a plea. Do you understand the purpose of this hearing, Mr. Hayes?” Prince murmurs. Another round of hushed talk. I know Jackson’s game. He wants me to think he has some killer defense, even if he doesn’t.
“Yeah,” Butcher responds, his voice as chilling as his name would imply; deadly and unmoved. Hands set on the table, I see the waves of faded grey tattoo ink etched into his arms, spilling out of the cuffs of his shirt, the tendrils of skull and fire designs also creeping up along his exposed neck, its veins thick and bulging beneath hard muscle. “Your honor.”
“Okay, then,” Prince makes no note of the tone, though I have no choice but to. He looks at me. I notice his look from the corner of my eye. I won’t show him any fear. “Ms. Lewis, Mr. Stone, on what grounds does the state have probable cause for the charges against Mr. Hayes?” I stand, the chair squeaking along the ground behind me. I clear my throat. A look at Scott shows his disinterest. He toils in his chair, reading over the charging sheet. He won’t help me. Fine.
“Your honor,” I open, nervous; I pace the edge of the courtroom, along the wooden barrier between the front and the gallery. “You’ll find in your paperwork the arrest report from the night in question, in which officer on duty Valence observed Mr. Hayes near the corner of Algonquin and Frears streets, on his motorcycle, with two other men on motorcycles…” I hear a rustling from behind me; the squeal of door hinges, a low murmur from the halls outside. Feet shuffling through the doorway, my nerves freeze like ice. My argument stops dead as a crashing car; I resist the desire, but finally give in, looking past my shoulder to courtroom entrance. The Wardogs enter quietly, single-file; careful not to give the judge nor bailiff cause to throw them out. Rail-thin Pete Lanza lances me with his evil smile, but he’s only the first. Bones; Sleazy Jay. Rough-House, Wardogs tattoos showing through his ripped denim. Decked in their leather and their colors with tattoos and boot-spurs showing, the Wardogs stick together.
“Ms. Lewis? Your argument?” I hear Prince order me back on track, but the sound of the shuffle and the sea of eyes glaring at me, memorizing my every feature with perverse and twisted intent, has me shaken. I know that’s what they hoped for. I glimpse Jackson and Marino observing the entrance with a distant amusement. I swallow and still the fearful throb of my heart.
“Apologies, your honor,” I continue, “but as you’ll see on the charging sheet, officers Valence and Bruno remained out of sight on the evening in question, observing Mr. Hayes engaging with passersby, showing them something flashed from
his pocket. Given the nature of the area the officers observed Mr. Hayes in, and his activity, the officers suspected Mr. Hayes to be engaging in attempted sale of contraband of some sort. The officers—”
“Your honor, I’d really like to make it known to the court in its consideration of these charges that there seems to be a recurring theme, here, about which officers are doing the arresting in cases against people like Mr. Hayes and the motorcycle afficianados with whom he associates,” Lisa’s shrewish voice pips up. “Officers Valence and Bruno have a habit of profiling motorcycle enthusiasts, don’t they, Ms. Lewis?” A round of cheers erupts from the gallery.
“Quiet in my courtroom, please,” Prince requests. Yance would’ve had the lot of them thrown out. Ugh. “Ms. Marino, I’ll remind you this is an evidentiary hearing regarding existence of probable cause against your client, not a time to make arguments to a jury. If you have an argument as to the lack of evidence for the arrest, or for the possession charge—”
“It’s bullshit!” A voice calls out from the gallery, bringing from the bikers a slow, discontented growl of agreement.
“Wardogs MC want to ride the roads, but you call us criminals,” Butcher speaks up, hands crossed, his voice eerily calm. “Quentin Hill, rest him brother, mighta done some bad shit in his life. We like to ride with our brothers. That’s a crime?” Jackson whispers furiously into Butcher’s ear, but Marino eats up the mess she’s stirred.
“Gentlemen in the gallery, this isn’t a town hall meeting, it is an evidentiary hearing,” Prince repeats.
“They’re turning it into a media circus,” Scott murmurs angrily at me from his chair. “I told you this would happen again, Lewis. Stick to the argument.”
“Your honor,” I interject, “I wasn’t aware this was a public hearing. I simply wish to present the state’s argument as to probable cause against Mr. Hayes, and—”
“And there’s the ringleader, of this whole corrupt system,” Butcher asserts, pointing across the aisle to me. “She’s got it in for us. Always has. And we’re going to show her what the Wardogs MC is really about,” he threatens. For a man as thick and hard as he, Butcher is icily well-spoken. It terrifies me. That statement brings a whole flurry of concerned whispering from both attorneys, and a cheer from the Wardogs assembled in the gallery.
