John Stone Law

by Dave Derin

  “Wait,” I said and shook my head with a laugh. “Skip has a social media account?”

  “Well yes,” she said with a quick nod. “So should you, to be honest, Mr. Stone. There are lots of free marketing opportunities available on social media.”

  “Alright, well I might have to let you be in charge of that for me,” I chuckled. “And yes, actually, I believe I do know where he’s talking about. Sully mentioned he likes to hang out at the Lone Star Park race track, so at least now I know where to start if I have to track him down.”

  “I love social media management,” the brunette’s eyes lit up behind her black, sparkly glasses. “It’s super fun. I’ll get started on building your social media presence today.”

  “Oh, well I was kind of kidding,” I grinned at her. “But hey, have at it. It would be great if you want to take that project on for me.”

  “Absolutely,” she said with a nod, then started to type away on her keyboard.

  We ended up getting a pizza delivered for lunch, and held the cheesy, thick-crust slices in cheap paper towels as we chowed down. We spent the rest of the afternoon going through the few unsealed depositions of domestic terrorism cases from the past five years and were discouraged by the scarce resources we found. I decided to close up a bit early that warm, sunny Friday afternoon, so we locked the doors to John Stone Law at 4:00 p.m. and each headed our separate ways home. I called Skip’s number again on the drive home and sighed when I got his voicemail again.

  I laid in bed that night and mentally prepared the speech I planned to give Skip when I tried him again the next morning and fell asleep as I rehearsed best-and-worst-case scenarios of his reaction in my head. The next morning I yawned as I rolled over, checked my phone, and saw that it was 6:23 a.m. I went ahead and set my alarm back from 6:30 to 7:00 a.m., then rolled over and snoozed for a little while longer.

  When my alarm sounded at 7:00 a.m., I pulled myself out of bed and made my way toward the kitchen. I grabbed a white mug from the cabinet, selected a Colombian coffee pod, and started the black Keurig machine. I lifted myself to sit on top of my smooth, concrete countertop as the coffee brewed and scrolled through my emails on my phone. After I found nothing interesting there, I pulled up the website for the Lone Star Park race track and discovered it didn’t open until 10:00 a.m. on Saturdays, and the headline race didn’t start until 2:35 p.m. I could guarantee that if Skip was betting on the race, he’d definitely be there in the afternoon. I decided to wait until two o’clock before I made the short twenty-minute trek over to Grand Prairie, which gave me almost seven hours of free time.

  I decided to make a trip down to the gym, so I finished my coffee, changed into an old gray Yale t-shirt and black athletic shorts, then I grabbed my keys, phone, earbuds, and gym membership card and headed out the front door. I pressed the call button on the elevator and stretched out my arms while I waited for the metal box to creep up to floor fourteen. The silver doors slowly slid open, and I stepped in and pressed the ground floor button. I scrolled through the stations on my music app absent-mindedly as the elevator lurched downward unhurriedly then came to a halt at the lobby level.

  I headed around the corner and scanned my ID to get into the fitness center, then put in my earbuds, started some heavy rock music, and began to jog on the treadmill. Not fifteen minutes after I’d began to work out and started to sweat, a scantily clad Russian beauty strutted in the door and locked eyes with me from across the room. Katerina had changed into a black sports bra that revealed her flat, sculpted abdomen, and gray and pink yoga pants that hugged her every curve. She sauntered to the front desk, grabbed a towel, and then made her way to the elliptical machine directly in front of me.

  “Long time, no see,” I said after I’d removed one of my earbuds but kept up my fast-paced jog.

  “Indeed,” she said with a grin, then laid the small blue towel over her elliptical’s display and hopped on the exercise machine. Her round, tight ass bounced up and down in those skin-tight spandex pants as she pumped the machine faster and faster. I jogged on the treadmill for a few more minutes and enjoyed the view, then decided to lift some free weights to build my arms. I made my way around the gym to the weight area, then selected two fifteen-pound dumbbells and began to work my biceps to the beat of my metal music. After a few sets I called it quits and strode over to the stretching mats. I took my time and released the tension from my muscles as I reached both hands high above my head, then brought them down to touch the floor and stretched the backs of my legs.

  “Well, I certainly can’t complain about the view from here,” a sultry voice purred behind me, and I stood up and turned around to see that Katerina looked me up and down with a seductive smile.

  “Glad I could be of assistance,” I said with a sly grin. “Speaking of a nice view, I know this lovely rooftop lounge that has an incredible view of the downtown skyline at night. You should let me show you sometime. Maybe even before our scheduled date a year from now?”

  “Hm,” she said, then stepped close to me before she slipped past me and began to walk away, then turned back and looked at me with pursed lips. “Next Saturday night. Eight o’clock. Meet me in the lobby.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I winked at her and ran my hand through my thick, sweaty hair. “I’ll see you then.”

  She smiled and raised an eyebrow at me, then turned and sashayed out of the fitness center. Her hips swayed to the rhythm of the music that pumped from the gym’s speakers and hypnotized me as she walked away.

  I grabbed a sip of water from the fountain near the front door, then headed back upstairs to shower. After I’d cleaned up and dressed in a pair of dark wash relaxed fit jeans and a burgundy polo shirt, I strolled into the living room, sat down on the couch, and turned on the television to the local news. It was almost 10:00 a.m., and I still had time to spare before I had to leave for Grand Prairie. I scrolled through my phone for any email or text updates, and after I found nothing interesting, I sent Claire a text.

  Hope you’re having a good time. As soon as you’re back we have a lot to discuss about this craziness.

  Claire’s boss’s text messages had really got this ball rolling, and the implications were staggering. If they meant what she and I believed they did, the fallout would be a corporate scandal unlike anything in American history. Exhausted by the thought, I laid back against the black leather couch cushion and focused in on the TV.

  “A preliminary discovery hearing date has been scheduled in the CUSA bombing case for defendant Susanna Jenkins,” a somber, black-haired newscaster read from a page in front of him. “John Stone, her new defense attorney, represented her during the arraignment earlier this week, where Jenkins entered a plea of not guilty to charges of carrying an explosive device on an airplane, endangering the lives of hundreds of people.”

  I leaned forward when I heard my name on the news, then rolled my eyes at their dramatization of the charges.

  “Defense attorney John Stone secured her release from prison until her hearing date on the first of August, provided that she wear an ankle monitor at all times and not leave Dallas County,” the dark featured man continued.

  When I heard my name and the case details on the news, it reminded me of the stressful reality of the situation. I still needed to get a warrant for Claire’s boss’ text messages now that we knew they existed and could prove Susanna’s innocence. I began to pace my living room as the television droned on in the background and made a mental list of everything I needed to get done the next week. Before I knew it, it was already almost two in the afternoon and time for me to get ready to visit the infamous Skip Gallant. I quickly made my way out the front door and locked it behind me.

  When I reached my black BMW, I took a deep breath before I clicked the key fob to unlock the vehicle. “Here we go,” I said quietly under my breath. “Time to bring my A game.”

  I slid into the smooth, black leather driver’s seat to begin the adventure to locate the brilliant
litigator Skip Gallant and persuade him to join John Stone Law on my legal journey.

  Chapter 12

  I pulled out of the parking garage beneath my apartment building and was greeted by brilliant streaks of sunlight and a clear, blue Texas sky. I rolled down my window and smiled as the warm air flowed through my car and tousled my dark, wavy hair. Ia cruised along Interstate 30 until I reached the Belt Line Road exit and headed north until I reached Lone Star Parkway. Then I turned onto the parkway to enter Gate 5 for valet parking and pulled up to the black and cream-colored valet kiosk.

  A skinny young man in a beige uniform ran out to my car, and I tossed him my keys as I stepped out of the beemer.

  “Here you go, sir. We’ll have her ready whenever you are, just give us a call or text five minutes before you head down,” he squeaked and handed me a yellow valet slip with the company’s information and my car’s number in bold, black type.

  “Thank you, sir,” I replied with a smile and handed him a five-dollar bill before I strode through the east entrance of the white-columned, enormous brown stone complex that looked more like a university building than an amusement arena. Lone Star Park was more than just a horse racing track. It had a bar and restaurant where they did karaoke seven nights a week, large corporate dining halls, elegant dining terraces, and exquisite box suites with room for up to one hundred guests with a personal chef, unlimited bar services, and a private balcony that overlooked the race track. Destinee had researched Mr. Gallant’s social media posts the previous afternoon, and deduced that he had posted pictures from a suite the last time he attended a race, so it would make sense for me to find him there. At least I hoped I would find him there.

  I paid for my ticket at the gate, then made my way toward the four-story grandstand. The roar of thousands of active participants as they yelled and called out to the mounted television screens that streamed a preliminary race inside deafened me temporarily. I suddenly felt quite out of place as I looked around the massive grandstand lobby area at the sea of cowboy hats, blue jeans, and tall leather boots. The Bar & Book, the park’s bar and seating area with individual screens at each seat that streamed live races and had twelve varieties of beer on draft, so if I couldn’t find Skip in the suites in the grandstand, I’d check there next.

  I made my way across the gray checkerboard carpet, pressed the elevator call button on one of the three brass elevators on the left side of the lobby, and the shiny doors slid open silently. I knew the box suites were on the top two levels, and Destinee had figured out from the angle of Skip’s pictures that he was probably in a fourth-floor suite on the right side of the enormous structure. My new paralegal really was something special, and I was thankful to have such strong support at the office.

  I hit the button for the fourth floor, the doors smoothly closed, and the elevator began to rise. The doors slid open to reveal a tall, burly man in a solid black suit with a bald head and a tiny, black earpiece in his left ear. He stood with his back against the wall directly in front of the elevator with his beefy arms crossed over his massive chest. When he saw me in the elevator, he dropped his arms and took a few menacing steps forward.

  “Can I help you, sir?” He asked in a deep tone and eyed me suspiciously.

  “Oh, I-I, maybe you can,” I stuttered and was surprised that security here was tighter than some courthouses I’d been in. “I’m looking for a friend, a gentleman by the name of Skip Gallant,” I continued and struggled to find the words to convince this mean-mugging security guard to let me pass.

  “Oh, thank god,” the guard’s scowl disappeared and was replaced with a relieved smile. “You’re here to get him out of here?”

  “I, uh, yeah. Yep. I sure am,” I said slowly then nodded my head in agreement.

  “He’s in suite four over this way. Follow me please,” the muscular guard motioned for me to follow him down the carpeted hallway to the right. He led me to the very end of the hall where a wooden door stood propped open with a black doorstop. I heard loud, obnoxious shouting from within the suite as the guard turned to me and rolled his eyes at the annoying noise.

  “He’s in there,” he said and motioned with his bald head. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” I said under my breath as he disappeared down the hall. After a brief pause, I took a deep breath, adjusted my linen suit jacket, and then knocked on the propped-open wooden door three times loudly.

  “What now?” an angry voice yelled from the other side of the door. “Come on in, ya’ wanna-be doughnut eater.”

  What the hell had I just gotten myself into? I opened the door and entered the private box suite rented by Skip Gallant. The dark wood floors gleamed under the streaks of sunlight that streamed through the wall of windows that overlooked the race track.

  A tall, thin man wearing black jeans, faded black cowboy boots, an untucked black button-down shirt, and a worn black cowboy hat stood with his back to me and watched the horses that galloped around the oval track. A short, clear plastic cup filled with ice cubes and brown liquid, I assumed whiskey, was grasped in his left hand.

  Who did this guy think he was, Johnny Cash?

  “Go, go, go, go,” he shouted and slapped his right hand against the glass window with each word. I could see why the guard had seemed so frustrated with him now.

  “Skip Gallant?” I asked as I stepped across the wood floors toward the inebriated man.

  “Who’s askin’?” The man slurred and spun around to face me. His stringy gray and white hair fell over his ears and was shaggy against the back of his neck beneath the black hat, and he clearly hadn’t shaved his scruffy face for days, if not weeks. As I got closer, I realized he may not have showered for that long either. The stench of stale cigarettes, booze, and body odor clung to him like a dark cloud.

  “My name is John Stone,” I said firmly and held out my right hand. “I believe you knew my father, Paul Stone.”

  “Ah, good ol’ Pauly,” Skip swayed on his feet as he smiled sloppily, then attempted to shake my hand, missed, then opened his thin arms wide and wrapped me in a boozy bear hug. I ignored the few drops of dark liquor that splashed out of his plastic cup and ran down the arm of my light-colored suit.

  “Oh, okay then,” I was startled by his unwarranted affection and was glad the embrace was short lived.

  “Man, I miss that guy,” the white-haired man took another large gulp of his whiskey, then walked over to a brown leather chair and flopped down into it.

  “We all do,” I agreed, then sat down on the long brown leather couch that faced Skip.

  “So, why is Paul Stone’s son stalking me?” The intoxicated man inquired then took another sip of his nearly empty cup as the ice clinked loudly against the plastic.

  “Well, Sully Ames actually suggested that I reach out to you,” I leaned back against the soft cushion and studied the sloppy drunk. He had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, and his wrinkled face was weathered. I trusted Sully, but I didn’t know if this was what I’d signed up for.

  “Sully did, huh?” Skip chuckled and sipped his whiskey again. “What’s that old fart up to these days, anyway?”

  “Honestly?” I asked and debated on telling Skip the truth, then decided that it would be better if Sully told him personally, if he even wanted to. “He and Maria are loving retired life. They’re actually renting an R.V. and going on some big cross-country road trip.”

  “Well that’s just too cool. They always did talk about doing that,” Skip responded, then slouched down lower in his chair and crossed one skinny leg over the other. “So, what can I do ya for, kid?”

  “Have you been watching the news lately?” I inquired.

  Skip gave me a blank look, leaned his head back, and placed his black cowboy hat over his eyes. “Not really,” he responded flatly.

  “Do you know anything about the CUSA bombings?” I asked as I grew more irritated. This guy didn’t seem interested in anything other than the liquor in his glass.

  “
Heard of it,” he responded in the same deadpan tone.

  “The girl is innocent,” I said confidently.

  “Of course she is, kid,” he let out a whooping laugh. “Pretty little redhead thing like that? She’s as innocent as a young baby bird, I’ll bet she is.” He continued to laugh obnoxiously as he sat up straight, put his hat back on top of his head, and looked at me with watery pale blue eyes.

  “I can prove it,” I said and narrowed my eyes at his laughing face.

  “Oh, you can prove it, can you?” he roared with laughter again, then stood up shakily, walked over to the bar, and poured himself some more whiskey from a Johnnie Walker Green Label bottle that he’d pulled from beneath the counter.

  “Listen, Skip. Come sit down,” I said calmly. “Actually, why don’t you let me give you a ride home, and we can discuss the case on the ride.”

  “Whaddaya’ mean, discuss the case?” he slurred as he leaned against the bar.

  “I represent Susanna Jenkins, the innocent baby bird you so kindly referenced, and I want to talk to you about assisting me with the case,” I stated and studied his slow reaction.

  “You do, do you?” he mumbled as his eyes closed, then his head jerked back and they flew open again.

  “Alright, that’s it. Time to go, Skip,” I said firmly, stood up from the couch, and reached for the small plastic cup in his hand.

  “Nah, I got it,” he slurred, then gripped the cup too tightly, and it cracked in his hand and leaked the whiskey out all over the floor.

  “Nope, you definitely don’t got it, Skip,” I shook my head as I took the broken plastic cup, set it on the bar counter, then put my arm around the drunk attorney’s rail-thin back and helped him stand up straight. “You ready?” I watched him steady himself and was ready to catch him if he started to go down.

  Skip nodded and mumbled something unintelligible, which I took as a yes as I half-carried, half-walked the intoxicated man out of the suite and back toward the elevator. The broad-shouldered security guard saw us walk around the corner and went ahead and pressed the elevator call button as he flashed me thankful eyes.