by K. T. Tomb
Storm sighed and shook his head. “Just boring routine cases. That’s why I’m up here as well.”
Alex dropped her arms and leaned forward. “You know, defending that Bainbridge kid would probably be a very interesting case for you.”
Chapter Five
Storm thought about it most of the night and he finally decided Alex was right while he was walking along the beach to their house. He phoned his office and told his secretary she could put his name forward as defense attorney for John Bainbridge. He would be available after the weekend.
As he came up to the house, he saw the car pull into the driveway and Carmen getting out with a bag of groceries.
He told Alex and Carmen about his decision over brunch and they both smiled. Carmen sensibly remarked it was a positive step to finding his way again. Storm muttered something at that and continued eating.
They showed him around the house after they had eaten and Alex led him to the garage. She had already set up a workshop there. It seemed she was really determined to make all the furniture for the new house herself. She’d already planned to spend half days working at the harbor, and the other half making the custom pieces.
“Seems you’ve forsaken all others,” Storm said when Carmen had gone back to the kitchen. Alex said nothing. “Maybe I should have you make me some new furniture too.”
“Yeah?” She looked up and ran a hand over a carved post she had made. “What sort of thing do you want?”
Storm thought for a moment. “I could do with some new bookcases. But all in your own time.”
Alex nodded. “What made you take that case?” She asked, changing the topic.
Again Storm had to think for a moment. “I don’t quite know myself. I think I just liked the sound of a case that promised to be a bit complex and weird. It’s not something that would draw me normally, but you really brought it to my attention.”
“I only gave you the idea.”
“Thanks for doing that though.”
“Welcome.”
They sat down for coffee in the living room and Storm noticed a guitar sitting on a stand in the corner. He asked who played, and Carmen raised her hand. He offered to jam sometime. He would head into the city, and possibly to DC in the next few days and then come back there. If they needed anything, they just had to call. He almost forgot to give them his mobile number as he went out, but he remembered to just before he went back to his own place.
At home, he spent the night looking up everything he could on the robbery at the Federal Reserve. There was a lot of information out there, but nothing very useful. The one thing he kept looking for was information on the availability of the security camera footage. It seemed that everyone from the news anchors to the president had claimed to have seen it. They were all saying it proved it had been the Bainbridge brothers who drove the armored vehicle into the Smith Street Building, but it seemed he would have to wait for his copies of the case evidence to arrive in order to prove its existence for himself.
In the morning, Storm got into his car and drove into Manhattan. He stopped at home first to change into something less casual and then went to his office. The first thing his secretary gave him was a message from an FBI agent in Washington DC. He returned the call not five minutes later and that afternoon, he was on his way to Sing Sing.
He made it to the prison around one o’clock that day. It took another hour to get through security and to the isolation ward where John Bainbridge was being held. There was a single table in the small visitation room. Storm sat down on one of the two plastic seats by the table, put his tablet and his folder on the table top and waited.
Five minutes later the door opposite him opened. Two armed guards brought a young man in. He had long, dark curly hair that hung to his shoulders and contrasted with the neon orange of his jumpsuit. There was an obvious scar on his throat. Two big round marks on the side of his throat. There were lines across his throat where the surgeon had cut, making the openings needed to repair ruptured arteries. Storm reckoned a decent plastic surgeon would have been able to get rid of the scars in moments, but his new client had been denied that care.
He rose to his feet and nodded to the young man in greeting. He extended his hand. “Storm McCoy, attorney.” One of the guards came forward. “No touching the prisoner.”
Storm nodded and sat down. It was not uncommon for there to be such a rule. He waited for John to sit down and then looked at the guards. “Can you leave me and my client now?”
The guards looked at each other, and the one who had spoken earlier shook his head. “Okay, but just remember we’re watching you.” He pointed to the camera perched in the corner of the room. Its red light was blinking steadily as it recorded the proceedings.
Storm frowned. “You know you’re not supposed to listen in on confidential conversations, right?”
“What we do here is not really any of your business, Mr. McCoy.”
He glowered at them. “We are supposed to be able to talk in private. Attorney-client confidentiality.”
The guard shrugged. “No one’s stopping you. Besides, he can’t talk anyway.”
The guards stepped through the door and locked it behind them.
Storm looked at John. “You can’t talk? For real?”
The young man shook his head. Storm nodded and opened his folder. Then he kicked John under the table. The man opened his mouth in what was obviously the reflex of a scream, but no sound came out.
“Just checking.” Storm smiled at him. “Had to be sure.” He opened a word processor application on his tablet and pulled a small foldable keyboard from his pocket, which he hooked up. He pushed the device over to his client. “Can you give me your version of what happened?”
Before the young man could touch the tablet, a voice came over the P.A. system in the room. “Prisoners are not allowed to interact with technology.”
Storm sighed and took a pencil and a notepad from the inside pocket of his jacket. He looked at the camera in the corner before placing them on the table. He knew straight off that pencils were not an option either. “Right. So how am I supposed to get any information out of you?”
Storm sighed again. Frustrated, he stood up. “Our visit was very informative, John.” John got up, looking startled and panicked. Storm shrugged. “I’ll take the case. I’ll be defending you, but if I’m not allowed to have a conversation with you, I can’t really do anything. So we’ll have to sort that out first.” He bowed his head slightly to his client, not being allowed to shake his hand. “I’ll be back to talk to you when I can.” He saw a nod from his client, an almost imperceptible confirmation he had understood what Storm was saying. The door opened and the guards filed back inside as Storm walked out of the room. He looked back through the tiny window in the door and saw John Bainbridge being muscled back out of the room by the two guards.
Storm tried to get a hold of the prison’s director, but the man refused to see him. In a furious state, he started to make his way back through the prison’s security checkpoint. He collected all his belongings from the guard and as he was putting his coat on to head through the door, he spotted a correction officer watching him from inside the control booth.
“Buzz on the door,” the guard called out and the man turned away from Storm quickly to hit the automatic door opener.
Do I know him? His face seemed familiar.
Outside, the weather seemed to reflect his mood; ominous-looking, gray clouds burdened the horizon in front of him and then the rain started to fall just outside of the city limits.
It was late when he got home and he was tired, but he just couldn’t settle down. He ordered in some Chinese food, which he ate in a rush after it arrived. Then he spent the rest of the time, up until midnight, trying to find more information. He knew he needed to rest if he were to make enough progress on the case the next day, so he went upstairs to his bedroom, undressed and laid down. He couldn’t sleep. Something was wrong. He closed his eyes and tried
to think clearly. But all that was on his mind was the familiar face looking back at him from inside the prison control booth and the sound of the storm that was breaking outside.
***
Rain was still falling when he drove into the city the next morning.
It was falling so hard he could barely see more than ten yards in front of him. He drove carefully, not wanting to get into an accident, even though he really wanted to drive like a madman. His mood was as stormy as the weather. As he crossed the Brooklyn Bridge into lower Manhattan, Storm decided to pay the FBI a visit. Perhaps he would be able to move his evidence delivery along.
It took him four hours to drive to Baltimore, Maryland in that weather and the rain just did not let up. He drove onto Highway 895 and decided to drive on the outskirts of the city and stopped for gas outside Hanover. As he walked back to his car, he suddenly felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He shivered and looked around. Something told him he was being watched.
He drove on, now constantly looking in the rearview mirror when he noticed a black SUV behind him. It was driving closer to his bumper than he was comfortable with, and he did not like the sight of it. He sped up a bit, despite the limited vision ahead. The car behind him sped up too. He drove on, hoping he was wrong and the car would soon back off or turn away, but it did not.
He turned off the route he had chosen, taking the exit to Severn instead. The black SUV followed him. Then the car suddenly sped past him. It slowed down in front of him, forcing him to slow to a crawl, and then it swerved and began to drive next to him. He sped up again and looked to the side. The tinted windows did not allow him to see the face of the driver. The hairs on the back of his neck rose again.
Then he saw the move. The car came towards him. He slammed on his brakes, but the SUV still hit the front of his car. It slowed again and Storm wrenched the wheel sideways, pushing the gas pedal down. He sped past the SUV, but he felt the handling of his car had suffered from the hit. He reckoned one of the wheels had been knocked on its bearings; maybe the tire had come off the rim. But he could not stop. The SUV was on his tail within moments. It rammed him. He felt the car swerve, but he managed to correct it. They tried to pit him, pushing at the back end and braking to force him to steer off, but he managed to retrieve it. He sped on, not able to see in the twilight and the heavy rain. But as the SUV chased him down again and came up to his side. It steered sideways again and rammed him. This time he could not avoid them. He felt the car being forced sideways. It ran off the road and as the SUV backed off, he braked. An inch before a thick oak tree his car stopped. The SUV had driven on, but he saw the red brake lights flare up just ahead. He backed away from the tree and drove back onto the road. The SUV was reversing fast and it slammed into the side of his car. The driver’s door bulged inwards and he swore as the armrest came off the door and punched him in the elbow. The car was turned by the force of the impact, and by pure chance, the nose came to face the right direction. He pushed the pedal down and gunned it. It took only moments for the SUV to follow, but this time he had hope. Because up ahead were the lights of Severn. And as the city approached, the SUV dropped away and out of sight.
He was safe.
Chapter Six
Storm McCoy managed to drive the limping car into town.
At that late hour he could not find a mechanic, so he parked the car just off the train station. He went into the Transit Center, dragging his suitcase and his briefcase with him. He bought a bus ticket to Baltimore to catch the train and within a couple of hours, he’d made it to Penn Station. He wanted to go straight to his apartment, but his elbow felt stiff and he was not sure an ice pack and a stiff drink would solve the problem. Instead, he called his GP and dropped in on the man before going home.
He heard the questions and gave meaningless answers; not wanting to explain how he had injured himself, even if the doctor needed to know. Storm knew he would not tell anyone, but he simply didn’t feel like going into any details. He’d not yet even figured out for himself what had actually happened. It seemed like a bad dream; like it came straight out of a Hollywood movie. And he didn’t even know why it had happened.
After the doctor’s visit was over, he went to his office. He wrote a memo for his secretary to find someone to pick up the car and to see whether it was salvageable. Then he sat himself down behind his desk, turned on his PC and started to dig again. He wanted to know—he needed to know—who had been giving the orders he had run into at the jail. He found a few names of people he could contact about it, and he had his own contacts at the FBI and DHS who might be able to shed some light on the matter, but he knew he could not call them in the dead of night. He thought for a minute, picked up the phone and dialed a number.
“Storm?” Alex breathed into the phone. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes, I know, Alex,” he replied apologetically. “I hate to call you and Carmen at this hour but you remember when Carmen and I were discussing conspiracies over brunch?”
“Yeah…” Alex suddenly sounded wide awake.
“Well, I think she might not have been too far off the mark. I need you two to check out a few things for me. I can’t be seen to be looking into them, someone’s already tried to run me off the road for what I’m doing on this case.’
“What the hell!?”
‘What… what’s the matter?” Carmen’s voice came over the phone from the background. Alex’s shouting must have woken her up.
“Someone tried to run Storm off the road.”
“Oh my god! Is he alright?”
Storm heard the question and replied immediately. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just some bumps and bruises.”
“What do you need us to do?”
“Get a pen and paper… I need you to find out as much as you can about a man I knew a very long time ago.”
***
An hour later, Storm shut his PC down and closed the office again. When he finally got to his apartment, he was dead on his feet. He poured himself a whiskey and sat down on the couch. He fell straight asleep, his drink untouched.
Storm woke up when his phone rang. Dazed, he reached into his pocket and took it out thinking it was Alex and Carmen calling. He looked at the screen for the Caller I.D.; it was Albert, his old FBI partner.
“What did you do with your car?” Albert asked.
“What?”
“What did you do with your car?” Albert repeated. “Your secretary asked me to have a look at it in Severn. She knew I would be nearby.”
Storm was still waking up, but his mind registered that. “How did she know that?”
There was no immediate answer. “H...” Albert began.
“Jesus, Al,” Storm swore at him. “Seriously?”
“I... um.”
“Fuck sake.”
Al recovered his tongue then. “So what was that with your car? What happened?”
“Some idiot in a black SUV tried to kill me,” Storm sighed.
“And you didn’t report it?”
“I had a feeling it would not have made much of a difference. Those feelings are usually right.”
“Fuck, Storm.” It was Albert’s turn to audibly sigh. “What did you get yourself into this time?”
“You know the new case I took?”
“You mean have I heard about you being the only lawyer crazy enough to defend the Fed Robber? Yes, I did hear.”
“They wouldn’t let me talk to him, and the day after someone tries to kill me. Think it might be related?”
Albert said nothing for a while. “Maybe,” he mumbled eventually. “Shit, man. I don’t know. Why did you take that case, anyway?”
“Because I’m bored and need something fun to do. This seemed like it would be a challenge and fun, until I almost got killed.”
“Just your idea of fun. Why can’t you just be happy to find your friends and get drunk?”
“Because my friends don’t challenge me in the same way.” Storm ran his hand
through his hair. “Do you know anything about this, or not?”
Albert sighed again. “Look, Storm, I think something is up with this case, and you’re not going to be allowed to find out. That conviction needs to happen, no matter what. If you had been thinking with even half your brain, you’d have realized that.”
“Why does it have to happen? You mean to say he might be innocent and he will be found guilty, no matter what I do?”
“Stop looking, Don. Just do your job, let things take place as they should, and let it go.”
“Yeah, right. Okay, Albert. And thanks for picking up the car.” Storm hung up on his friend. He shook his head, ran a hand through his hair again and looked down. He saw the whiskey, picked up the glass and threw back a shot of the liquid.
Still tired, he pulled off his clothes and found his bed. He lay down between the cool sheets and felt himself drifting straight back to sleep.
It was midday when he woke again. This time he dressed, made himself some breakfast and went back to the office. He called everyone on the list of people he had compiled during the night. Nobody had a thing to say. Nobody wanted to say anything about why he was not allowed to talk to John Bainbridge. He even called the office of a Supreme Court judge, who was an old family friend, but he received no answer. His secretary did bring him the full police files, but there was nothing in there that did him any good. He needed John Bainbridge’s version of the events to start with.
He decided then he would head back to the prison in a few days to see whether he could talk to John anyway. It had to be done.
Storm rented a car and drove down to the prison in Virginia two days later. Bainbridge had been transferred to Red Onion; apparently, the Feds didn’t think he was close enough being held all the way out in Sing Sing. He was lead to a similar room as the one he’d been in at Sing Sing, and again, two guards brought the prisoner in to him. This time, the guard pushed the young man down into the chair, and Storm heard him grunt. He was not sure he had heard it correctly. Maybe it had just been an exhalation.
