by Mark Nolan
DEAD LAWYERS DON’T LIE
MARK NOLAN
CONTENTS
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2016 by Mark Nolan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, incidents and dialogue are all products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The passage regarding the over 50 million citizens murdered by the previous government in the Soviet Union is quoted from Death by Government, by R. J. Rummel, Copyright © 1994 by Transaction Publishers. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.
In Memory of Josh
Chapter 1
“Some men are alive simply because
it is against the law to kill them.”
~E. W. Howe
San Francisco Superior Court building,
Criminal Courtroom Number 8.
On the morning before attorney Richard Caxton was shot, he spent an hour in court doing what he did best—lying to the jury.
Caxton’s client was the wealthy son of a mortgage banker. Brice Riabraun had “allegedly” been driving under the influence of alcohol when he’d crashed his luxury SUV into the Tate family’s economy car. In court, Caxton claimed that the police had mishandled the case.
In Caxton’s successful cases he often found a loophole in the law, or a small procedural error by the police, or a semi-believable alibi that would hold up just long enough to bamboozle a jury. Caxton exploited these opportunities with the smooth talking technique of a used car salesman. Other attorneys in the city marveled at the creatively dishonest con man. He was a natural born liar. They were envious of him.
After arguing relentlessly for his version of the truth, Caxton now listened to the Honorable Judge Emerson pronounce his client not guilty.
Judge Emerson frowned after he read the verdict. Caxton had to make an effort not to laugh.
Brian Tate stood up and raised his voice as he spoke to the jury. “How could you find that criminal innocent when the police report said he was driving with a .15 blood alcohol concentration? Witnesses said he drank seven beers before he crashed into our car and almost killed my wife and kids!”
Tate’s wife Judy sat next to him with her arm in a plaster cast. The twelve jurors seated in the jury box didn’t reply to Tate, or meet his eyes. Tate turned and stared at Caxton and his client with the fury of someone who has been cheated out of justice.
Judge Emerson slammed his gavel down hard. “Order! Sit down Mister Tate.”
Caxton and his client just sat there and sneered at Tate, the working man in his department store suit and tie.
Tate saw their scorn. He ignored Judge Emerson’s warning and he pointed his finger at Caxton. “Anyone else would be going to prison now, but your guilty client hired the best lying lawyer that money can buy. Somebody ought to teach you two a lesson—the hard way.”
“Mr. Tate that is enough!” Judge Emerson said, as he banged his gavel down again. “Do not test my patience, or you will find yourself held in contempt of court.”
Tate took a deep breath and let it out. “Yes your honor.” He sat down but he continued to glare at Caxton.
Caxton shrugged and maintained his cool and professional appearance. He had perfect teeth, a year-round tan, manicured fingernails, and the latest hairstyle. His suits, shirts, and ties were all custom made by the finest tailors in the Financial District.
Caxton was used to this familiar, angry scene by now. He couldn’t have cared less about it. He’d earned a reputation in San Francisco as the lawyer you loved to hate. But as he often said, being hated sure did pay well.
Caxton’s favorite story was about a client who had asked him if he could seek justice. He’d answered, “Yes, and how much justice can you afford to buy today?”
“You are now free to go, Mr. Riabraun,” Judge Eme
rson announced.
Riabraun grinned and shook hands with Caxton. He exited through a side door and got into a waiting limousine.
Emerson dismissed the jury, and they filed out through a private exit.
Caxton headed toward the front entrance of the court building with his head held high. He went outside to face the news reporters and the cameras, and he gave a brief but well-rehearsed speech. “Today justice was served. My client was found innocent by a Judge and a jury in a court of law. Thank goodness we live in a country where lawyers can protect honest, hardworking people like my client from false accusations.”
Reporters began yelling questions at Caxton, but he walked away, looking pious. His publicist would issue a statement to the press any minute now. As Caxton strolled toward the parking area and his brand new BMW, he didn’t notice that someone was sitting in a car and watching him.
Chapter 2
Photojournalist Jake Wolfe sat in his Jeep Grand Cherokee and he watched Caxton walk toward the parking area. The television news station where Jake worked had assigned him to get photos or video of Caxton doing something scandalous. He’d been following the lawyer for days.
Jake glared at Caxton in anger, as he thought about the previous weekend. It was all he could think about lately. His boss had told him to follow Caxton to a strip club, and record him with a hidden camera. The pounding music at the club had been so loud that Jake had missed a call from Stuart, one of his best friends from when he’d served in the Marines. Later that night, Stuart had been found dead from a heroin overdose. Jake blamed himself for not answering Stuart’s call in his time of need. And he felt resentment toward his employer, and Caxton, for causing him to go on the assignment.
He took a deep breath and let it out. His hangover today was not as bad as the one he’d had yesterday, or the day before. He took a drink from a bottle of water, and made a promise to himself that he would stop using whiskey to numb the pain. Last night his fiancée, Gwen, had told him he needed to get over Stuart and move on. She might be right, but when she talked that way, Jake felt like he might get over Gwen and move on.
For a moment Jake thought that maybe he should quit his job, cancel the wedding, borrow a friend’s powerboat and spend a few weeks alone at sea. He shook his head at that reckless idea, and reminded himself to take life one day at a time. He was going to Stuart’s funeral tomorrow. Maybe that would bring some closure and peace. Maybe then he could forgive himself, and stop thinking about hunting down the drug dealers who deserved to die.
As Jake watched and waited for Caxton to drive out of the lot, he observed individuals who were walking past. He noticed an attractive, well-dressed woman who wore her gray hair in an up-do style. She reminded him of his own grandmother, so full of life and love and wisdom. As she was getting into her car, a man grabbed her purse and tore it from her hand. The purse snatcher shoved her to the ground and he took off running toward Jake’s vehicle. Jake opened his car door into the path of the running man. He shoved the door fast and hard, and he straight-armed it like a football player.
The door and the purse snatcher collided, and the door won. The thief’s face smacked into the window, and his knees banged against the metal. He bounced off and landed flat on his back on the pavement, dropping the purse as he fell. Jake got out of his vehicle, closed the door and stood there looking down at the thief. A bruise was forming on the man’s forehead. He struggled to his knees, and he glanced at the purse on the ground near Jake’s feet. Jake shook his head at him. “Leave it.”
The man’s drug-ravaged face indicated that he might be a meth addict. He looked Jake up and down and saw his worst case scenario, a vigilante who still believed in chivalry.
Jake took a step forward and raised his eyebrows. “I’m going to give you to the count of three. One…two…”
The man reacted in a fight-or-flight response that came from deep within the recesses of his chemically-cooked lizard brain. He got up and ran across the street with surprising speed, went around a corner and vanished into a crowd of pedestrians.
Jake picked up the purse, and walked past several parked cars to where the woman was standing and watching him. He handed the purse to her and said, “Are you alright, ma’am?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for stopping that thief.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Are you an undercover police officer, or a man who believes in doing the right thing?”
“Actually, I just lost my temper there for a minute.”
Her eyes opened wide. Jake held the car door as she got into her vehicle. He stood there and waited until her door was closed and locked, and the engine was running. She waved at him as she drove off. Jake nodded at her, and he walked back to his Jeep.
As he walked, he stood out from the people in business suits. Several women stared at him, and observed the controlled, deliberate and dangerous way his animal-like body moved. He was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes. He wore jeans and boots, with a black t-shirt and a black leather jacket. He had a serious look on his face, and his muscular body and confident walk gave the impression that he could handle himself in just about any situation.
In the parking lot, Richard Caxton got into his BMW 7-Series car. He ran his hand over the soft leather seats and sighed in contentment. His phone buzzed with a call from his son who he rarely saw or talked to after the divorce. He ignored the call and let it go to voicemail.
Caxton pulled out into the street, and he gave just a little goose to the gas pedal. The wheels squealed as the 12-cylinder engine purred like a big cat. He didn’t notice the black Jeep following behind his car from a discreet distance.
He pushed a button to open the power sunroof and then tuned the radio to a local news station. The current top news story was about his court victory. Hearing his name mentioned on the news made him smile. He then turned on some music, and he drove to his favorite place to be on a beautiful day by the San Francisco Bay—the exclusive and expensive Paradise Golf Club.
Caxton started thinking about the rest of his afternoon and evening. He was in the mood to enjoy a celebratory round of golf with some attorney friends, drink a few craft beers, and smoke a fine cigar. Later tonight he and his buddies would enjoy a lavish dinner at a fancy restaurant, and then go drinking at their favorite dance club. The young ladies there always gravitated toward his table. They weren’t doing it simply because he bought top-shelf liquor they could drink for free. No way, they were genuinely attracted to him because he was so handsome, witty, and charming.
This was going to be another typical fun Friday afternoon and evening for Caxton and his friends. However, there was someone else racing ahead of Caxton to the golf course—someone who was armed with a weapon. He had a very different, and far less pleasant plan for the lawyer you loved to hate.
Chapter 3
Jake Wolfe arrived at the private country club. He parked his Jeep and sat in it while taking video of Caxton and his golf foursome near the first tee. He switched from the dash-cam to a professional high-definition camcorder. And he pointed the zoom lens and long-range shotgun microphone out of his open window.
The lawyers never even glanced in Jake’s direction. If one of them ever did happen to look, he wouldn’t have seen much. The Jeep was parked among many other cars. The black camcorder and black window tray blended in with the black paint of the Jeep, and its black leather interior.
Once Jake had everything zeroed-in, he set the video camera on a window tray that was designed for that purpose. He then started shooting photographs with a DLSR camera and a telephoto lens.
The four lawyers were sitting at one of the picnic tables underneath a large wooden pavilion shade cover. They were drinking beers and smoking cigars. Caxton’s friends congratulated him for getting his guilty client off the hook and extracting a huge fee from Riabraun’s wealthy father. Caxton opened a bottle of beer and lit a cigar, and he laughed at a friend’s joke.
Jake knew there were a number
of honest, hardworking lawyers in the city, but these four were not among that group. While he’d been working on the investigative news story about Caxton and his friends, he’d discovered that they didn’t produce any useful products or services. They didn’t contribute to the economy at all. They just sucked the money out of other individuals and businesses, like bloodthirsty leeches and parasites. A background check on Caxton had revealed that he’d been bullied in school. Jake thought that maybe he’d become a lawyer so that nobody could ever push him around again.
Meanwhile, someone else was also secretly watching Caxton from a further distance away, stalking him through binoculars. The watcher smiled, set down the binoculars and picked up a rifle with a scope.
It was tee time, and the golf group prepared to tee off. Caxton stood and puffed on his Cuban Montecristo cigar while he waited his turn.
Two of the men were divorce lawyers, and they used the private meeting to compare notes on a divorcing couple.
“The Hopkins divorce case is going well. I’ve got the wife mad at her husband. She wants to make him suffer.”
“Same here. The husband is so angry he can’t see straight. He won’t be settling anytime soon.”
“Great, we can keep the hostilities going for at least another month or two.”
Caxton’s phone buzzed, and he read a text message from his long-suffering legal secretary. He sent a text in reply and then grinned at his friends. “My telemarketer client is in hot water again with the Attorney General. I told my secretary to send out the standard boilerplate letter. That text only took me a minute to respond to, but my client doesn’t need to know that. Especially when I’m billing him at five hundred dollars an hour.”
His attorney friends all laughed. One of them raised his beer bottle and said, “I propose a toast. Here’s to people who get involved in lawsuits.”
As Jake observed the lawyers, he felt a weird sense of impending danger. There was a tingling at the back of his neck. It was something he’d felt a few times when he had been deployed in the Marines. He checked his car mirrors and looked around at the greens and the woods, but he didn’t see anything unusual. He turned his attention back to Caxton.
The lawyers were drinking their beers when suddenly there was a strange sound, like somebody had been punched hard in the chest by a fist.
