Rod

by Nella Tyler

  “I’ve just learned that we might have a truce with the remainder of the members of the Deathdealers,” he informs them.

  The club’s members all look to each other in a fit of confusion. I look on to see that they can’t tell if this is good or bad news – or maybe even a setup.

  I stand up and the members in attendance quiet down once again. I raise my beer glass to my father and say, “This is great news for all of us!”

  “Yeah!” one man shouts from the back of the room.

  Others join in to praise the idea that we won’t have to battle the Deathdealers any longer.

  “All of those who helped in the kidnapping of my daughter are no longer involved in that club. Lester Samson, Seth Vinton, Boris Cardov and Ken Clayton are all going to prison for a very long time. The investigation has also shined a light on the criminal behaviors of some of the other members, so they won’t be a problem, either,” my father explains to weed out the confusion.

  The entire club erupts in a sea of glasses in the air as they all cheer and show respect for our accomplishments.

  My father clears his throat to disrupt them. “One other thing,” he says loudly as he ensures everyone is listening.

  “We could not have done any of this without Rodney Vinton here and my beautiful daughter Trish. Huzzah!”

  The cheers resume and we all drink.

  Dad finishes his beer with a giant gulp and reminds everyone that our next meeting is on Thursday. Everyone raises their glasses as a sign of respect and he darts out of the door.

  Days pass before Rodney’s phone rings with word from Red. His face lights up as we enjoy dinner.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “I got to call Red back, but I think it’s good news,” he tells me.

  He gets up from the table and dials the number on his phone. I overhear him as he sounds pleased with whatever he hears on the other end of the phone. He paces back and forth, but walks back over to me when he’s done.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “I just talked to Red. He said that he setup the account in Sasha’s name and everyone of their members chipped in – along with the money from Lester, my father, Boris and Ken.”

  “Really?!?” I ask with exasperation.

  “Yep, he just told me the news,” he says.

  “How much was it all?” I ask in anticipation.

  “A hundred and twenty grand total,” he tells me as he beams with pride.

  “And it’s all in an account at First Bank of Hinton under Sasha’s name?” I press him.

  “Yeah, he said that I could even call to verify the funds,” he tells me.

  “So, call and make sure before we tell any of this to my father,” I command him.

  He smiles and dials a number on his phone as I listen in.

  “Yeah, I’m calling to verify funds in an account that was opened yesterday,” he tells the person on the other end of the phone.

  He nods and rattles off an account number and my sister’s full name. A look of satisfaction creeps across his face as he listens to the other person talking.

  “Alright, thank you, that’s all I needed to know,” he says before disconnecting the call.

  He looks at me and says, “It’s all there. A hundred a twenty thousand dollars – all in your sister’s name.”

  “My dad’s gonna love hearing about that,” I assure him.

  “Do you want to tell him or should I?” he asks me.

  “You can,” I reply.

  “Alright, I’ll give him a call now.”

  He dials another number on his phone and happily informs my father of the situation with Sasha’s newly created bank account. Rodney nods a few times and says “you’re welcome” before hanging up the call.

  “What did he say?” I ask.

  “He sounded happy that everything worked out the way he wanted it to,” he tells me.

  “Is he gonna tell Sasha?” I press him.

  “Yeah, he said that it’ll be her college fund or for her to do with however she wants to.”

  “Fantastic. It doesn’t make up for what those goons did to her, but it certainly doesn’t hurt. I can’t wait to see their faces when they realize that the money is no longer there.”

  “That’d be a riot,” he tells me. “Oh yeah, your father told me to call Red and solidify the truce. He sounded a little bit surprised that they agreed to the bank account thing.”

  “Right on. Are ya gonna call him?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I’ll call him now and give him the news.”

  I sit idly by as Rodney makes the call to Red to inform him that everything is in place for a truce. The call takes a bit longer than I want, but Rodney deflects some other questions and I begin to get curious. I wear a question mark on my face as I look at him while he talks. He puts up a finger as if to tell me ‘one minute’ and I nod in response.

  After the call, he asks, “What’s up?”

  “I just thought you were telling him about the truce. You were on the phone for fifteen minutes,” I inform him.

  “Yeah, he asked again if I would be willing to take over for my father as President of the Deathdealers. Once again, I told him no, but he demanded that I at least think about it.”

  “Are you going to?” I ask him.

  “No, of course not, darlin’. I would never betray your father or your trust,” he tells me.

  “Good good. I know it’s probably tempting to be in charge, but you’ll get further ahead with our club. Besides, I can’t let you go.”

  “You’re so adorable. Did you think for one second that I could leave you and go join another motorcycle club? I couldn’t go where you don’t follow.”

  “You’re a sap, but you’re my sap and I love you Rodney Vinton,” I say in complete honesty.

  “I love you, too, darlin’,” he tells me as he draws closer to me. He leans in and smells my perfume, offering a nibble to my neck.

  He pulls my body closer and holds me tightly.

  Weeks pass and the trial is upon us. I look down to my little sister, but she remains stoic in her resolve to have justice reign supreme. She is adamant that her story will cause the jury to see her side and convict the criminals of their wrongdoings.

  We all walk into the giant courtroom and I feel a little daunted by the enormity of it all. Everything is shiny and wooden with the exception of the American flag and the court reporter’s machine.

  We walk down the long aisle and sit to the right behind Sasha, my father and her lawyer. On the left, we look over and see Lester Samson looking pitiful, an angry Seth Vinton, Boris Cardov and Ken Clayton, both looking remorseful. Boris and Lester won’t make eye contact with us, but Sasha gives all four of them a death stare.

  The judge comes in and everyone rises. The bailiff tells us to sit and the judge begins reading a packet of papers in front of him. He looks completely appalled by the charges and gives the defendants a look of disgust.

  Opening arguments begin and each lawyer pleads their case. Opposing counsel claims that Sasha was a lost little girl who couldn’t communicate her family’s information to the men who tried helping her. They seek to have all of the charges dropped and want their attorney’s fees paid in full.

  Our lawyer presents our side of the story, which paints Lester, Seth, Boris, and Ken to be the predators they clearly are. Sasha looks to me and our father for guidance, but we quell her fears by telling her that the lawyer on the other side is merely doing what he’s being paid to do.

  “But it’s a lie,” she insists, trying to keep her voice to a dull whisper. “That man is lying!”

  “Of course he’s lying, he’s trying to keep his clients out of prison for decades,” I whisper to her, taking notice of the judge’s glaring stare.

  Our attorney calls me to the stand. I stand up at the witness stand with my hand on the bible and swear to tell the whole truth, so help me God.

  “Ms. Fitzgerald, how did you know that your sister was k
idnapped?” Our lawyer asks me.

  “Missy came into the club’s back room and announced that Sasha was gone,” I tell him.

  “Did you verify that information with the school?” he asks, pacing between a five-foot area back and forth.

  “I didn’t, no. At that point, I wasn’t part of the investigation into her disappearance.”

  “Then who verified that information with the school?”

  “Rodney Vinton took a few of the club members with him and checked at her school. According to the attendance office, Sasha never showed up for school that day,” I say, looking directly at Sasha as I notice a tear form in her eye.

  “Objection, your honor! That’s hearsay,” the opposing lawyer shouts. The judge pounds his gavel onto the bench and says, “Sustained.”

  “Alright. Do you know Lester Samson?” he asks me pointedly.

  “Yes, we’ve met,” I tell him giving Lester a well-deserved snarl.

  “How did you meet Lester Samson?”

  “We met at a bar in Hayleysville,” I tell him.

  “Can you give us the circumstances surrounding your meeting?” he asks.

  “Yes. I went into the bar to get out of town and collect my thoughts. My father claimed at the time that I wasn’t allowed to be part of their investigation, so I rode my bike until I happened upon this one dive bar by accident.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “I overheard Lester talking about a twelve-year-old girl with blonde hair,” I reply.

  “Who did you think he was talking about?”

  “I thought he was talking about my sister Sasha, so I got an address out of him,” I relay to the court.

  At this time, Lester gives me an evil look that says he wishes I would die. I pay him no attention now.

  “And how did you get his address?”

  “I walked over to him, acted like I was drunk, and hit on him and his friend,” I tell the court.

  Our lawyer looks amused at the statement, but continues. “He gave you his address?”

  “Yes, he said to come over and have some fun,” I tell them as I try hard to stifle a chuckle.

  The jurors’ faces appear full of interest in my every word.

  “Did you go to his place?”

  “Well, I followed him and his friend there, but they didn’t know I was anywhere around.”

  “Why did you follow them?” he presses.

  “Because I thought he was hiding my baby sister in that squalid rat hole he calls a house,” I tell them all.

  “Did you find your sister there?”

  “No, but I didn’t get to go inside.”

  He readjusts his tie and asks, “If you were to have gone in, do you think that you would’ve found your sister inside?”

  “I really do think I would have,” I answer, but the opposing counsel springs to his feet once again.

  “Objection!” he yammers.

  “Grounds?” the judge asks him.

  “That calls for speculation,” the lawyer says.

  “Sustained. Please strike the witness’ response as well as the question from the record,” he commands the court reporter. She nods in response.

  “Let’s move on,” our attorney voices, pacing his small area again. “Did you tell anyone about how you felt about Lester Samson?”

  “Yes, I told Rodney and my father.”

  “What did they tell you?” He asks.

  “Rodney told me that Lester was a life-long family friend and that he was harmless,” I tell the court.

  “And your father, Ronan Fitzgerald? What did he have to say?”

  “He said that I should listen to Rod-“

  “Objection!” the other lawyer shouts, before he realizes what I was in the middle of saying. “Withdrawn,” he comments as he sits back in his chair.

  “He said that I should listen to Rodney,” I tell everyone.

  “Did you listen to Rodney?” He asks.

  “No, I couldn’t.”

  “And why is that?” he muses.

  “Because I felt that there was something shady about the old man.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Yes, I did,” I tell him directly.

  “What did you find?” he inquires.

  “I found out that he had a child endangerment charge against him,” I say looking directly at Lester. “Later, I found that the charge was a cover up for other charges of kidnapping and driving drunk.”

  “Interesting; so did you learn anything else about this man?” he asks.

  “Yeah, two things,” I state.

  “What two things, Ms. Fitzgerald?” he asks me.

  “I found out that Lester Samson was part of the Deathdealers. And two, I also found out that he was coming into a large sum of money.”

  “How did you find out about the money?” he quizzes me.

  “It was actually because of Ken Clayton who was running his mouth about this large sum of cash that he was getting. Everybody and their mother knew this guy was on the verge of bankruptcy and had no rich relatives on death’s door, so I got to wondering where this money was coming from.”

  “Did you find out where the money originated?” he asks with a knowing smile. He turns to the jury for their response as I tell him what I know.

  “I found out that Lester Samson, along with Boris Cardov and Ken Clayton, all received a total of a hundred thousand dollars from the Deathdealers’ president, Seth Vinton.”

  The jury collectively looks at me in horror and our lawyer figures that their fates are doomed by the looks on their faces.

  “So was it a payoff then?” he asks solemnly.

  “Yes, it was. It was a payoff from Seth Vinton to get our club members distracted so they could come in and take over our club and territory.”

  “How do you know that for sure?” he turns once again to look at the jury box.

  “Rodney Vinton is Seth’s son and he said that his father sent him over here for a possible takeover. He called his father an opportunist and a dirtbag and said that he would risk his neck to get whatever he wants, no matter the cost.”

  “Objection, your honor!” the attorney yells over me.

  “Sustained. To the jury, please disregard the witness’ last testimony and please strike the question and answer from the record.”

  The court reporter nods again and removes the entry from the record.

  “No further questions, your honor,” our lawyer says.

  The opposing lawyer stands up and makes his way to me as he adjusts his tie.

  “Ms. Fitzgerald, you mean to tell the court that you based your feelings on Mr. Samson merely on a hunch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know Seth Vinton?” he asks smugly.

  “No.”

  “Do you know Boris Cardov or Ken Clayton?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I reply concisely.

  “Where do you know Mr. Cardov and Mr. Clayton from?”

  “They were part of the Green Dragons,” I inform him.

  “Were?” he says, throwing an accent on my use of the past tense.

  “Yes, ‘were,’” I say, mocking his tone. “You can’t go around kidnapping someone’s kid and expect a man to keep you around, now can ya?”

  “No further questions, your honor,” he tells the judge in a fit of tamed anger.

  “The witness is excused,” the judge says looking to our attorney as I step down. “You may call your next witness.”

  “I call Sasha Fitzgerald to the stand,” he says politely. She gets up and bravely makes her way to the witness stand. She stands and gets sworn in before our attorney addresses her.

  “Please state your name and age for the record,” he tells her.

  “My name is Sasha Fitzgerald and I’m twelve-years-old,” she says sweetly. Her curly blonde hair glistens, but she has the same tone in her voice the night that we found her filthy and starving. I grow angry at the men who did this to her all over again. If looks could kill,
they would all four be dead.

  “Thank you. Can you tell the court what happened on the day that you were kidnapped?” he asks her gently.

  “I was walking to school and I turned the corner like I usually do. I walked some more and then this van came up to me. The old man in the van said he was my grandpa. He told me that my mother hates him so I could never see him. He said he was lonely and just wanted to spend some time with me. I told him that I had to go to school, but he said it was just one day and that when he was done, he’d call my father to come pick me up.”

  “What happened next?” he asks her.

  “I felt really bad for him,” she says as she begins crying. “I didn’t know that he was lying.”

  “So you went with him?” he questions her, offering her a handkerchief to sop up her tears.

  “Yes, he looked okay. So I went with him. He said he had candy and a bunch of games to play.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “He took me back to his house and it was a pig sty. It stunk there, too.”

  “Did you think anything was wrong?”

  “No, not yet. It had only been an hour or two, so I thought we were hanging out.”

  “Okay, so tell us what happened after that,” he dictates.

  “A long while later, it got dark and I wanted to call my dad to come get me, but he wouldn’t let me. He barely gave me any food and I missed my mom and dad. It was all weird. I asked him over and over to call my dad, but he didn’t. He said that my dad was in the hospital after he wrecked his motorcycle and that my mother would beat me if she found me with him.”

  Flabbergasted by her admission, our lawyer says, “Go on.”

  “I asked again and again to call my dad, so he told me he would. He called someone and the other two men showed up. They covered my eyes and mouth with something and took me somewhere else.”

  “And what happened next?”

  “The new place smelled better, but I heard a lot of voices in that place. It stunk like skunk a lot there, too. There were men talking in another room and sometimes all they did was laugh,” she tells us all.

  Our lawyer looks to the jury and makes a motion with his fingers like he’s smoking a joint. The jurors laugh at the notion.

  “How long did you stay at this new place?” he asks her.