by Scott Pratt
Jalen Jordan was a creepy mixture of goth, cowboy, and metro. He was twenty-five, tall, and lanky with jet-black hair that was parted in the middle and crawled down over his shoulders to the middle of his back. His skin was pale and scaly, his eyes like flat, black stones. He had three small rings in his left eyebrow, another in his left nostril, and a goatee that oozed from his chin like dark sap. He was wearing glasses with black frames, brown leather pants, brown chaps, cowboy boots, and a white button-down shirt with an open collar that revealed a pentagram hanging from a beaded chain.
He and his mother, Marion Jordan, walked in, and we introduced ourselves and traded a little small talk before we got around to his case. I read the police report that Jalen handed me and initially thought the case consisted of misdemeanor traffic violations plus a felony resisting arrest and assault on a police officer, but I quickly found out it would involve much, much more.
“Run me through what happened,” I said to Jalen.
“The police stopped me for no reason,” he said with just a hint of a lisp and an unusual accent for East Tennessee. He sounded intelligent, almost highbrow British. It had to be something he had practiced for a long time. “I was just driving through town, minding my own business.”
“The report says you were driving around and around a public park in in a residential area,” I said. “It says you had a broken taillight.”
“That isn’t true. I wasn’t speeding, wasn’t swerving, wasn’t drinking or high, and there wasn’t a thing wrong with my taillight. It isn’t against the law to drive through residential neighborhoods, is it?”
“It was midnight,” I said. “What were you doing in that neighborhood?”
“I’m afraid that’s none of your business,” he said. “The last I heard this is still a free country. I can drive where I want when I want on a public road.”
“Don’t give me attitude,” I said. “I don’t need it. You’re more than welcome to walk on out of here and find yourself another lawyer.”
“I think not,” he said. “I’ve read about you, Mr. Street. I read about what you did to the district attorney a couple of years ago, getting that man off on the murder case after they’d locked him up for twenty years. Wasn’t he related to you? Your cousin or something?”
“Uncle,” I said.
“Ah, yes, uncle,” Jalen said. “And then you started that red bandana campaign and got the district attorney beaten in the next election. That was impressive. And besides that, I started asking around as soon as I got arrested. I don’t have many friends, but I was able to speak with some of the people who were in the holding cell with me. Everyone says you’re young and hungry and that you have good connections with the new district attorney.”
“It’s nice to know I’m so highly regarded in the criminal community,” I said, “but if I’m going to defend you, you’re going to answer the questions I ask you. If you don’t want to tell me the truth, then lie, but keep in mind there will be consequences if you lie to me and I find out about it later on. So what were you doing in that neighborhood at midnight?”
He blinked a couple of times, looked over at his mother, and said, “Give him the money.”
Marion, whose red hair color had to have come straight out of a box and who had the jowls of a bulldog, reached into a large handbag and started pulling out bundles of cash and setting them on top of my desk. Each bundle had a band around it that said it contained $10,000. By the time she was finished, she’d stacked five of them in front of me.
“That’s fifty thousand in cash,” Jalen said.
“A little steep for a couple of traffic violations and a low-grade felony, don’t you think?” I said.
“It’ll be worth it if you can get me out of this . . . situation,” he said.
“Where did you get that kind of money?”
“It’s my money,” Marion said, “but Jalen needs it, and I’m more than happy to help.”
I looked at her and smiled, but I was thinking she was pitiful, like so many other mothers I ran across in the past half-dozen years. It was probably all she had to her name, but anything for momma’s baby, even if momma had raised a piece of shit.
The cash was tempting. My wife, my six-year-old son, and I had recently moved into a house Katie desperately wanted but we couldn’t afford. Katie and I were married seven years earlier and things weren’t going well. We rarely saw each other, talked to each other only when necessary, and hadn’t touched each other in months. I hired a private investigator to follow her, and my suspicions had been confirmed. She was having an affair. I was probably on my way to a divorce, and $50,000 in cash—which Katie would know nothing about—could at least give me some breathing room, if only for a short while.
“It’s nonrefundable,” I said to Jalen. “Agreed?”
Jalen nodded while I buzzed Rachel, my secretary and paralegal.
“Bring me a fee contract,” I said. “Felony case, fifty thousand, nonrefundable. Jalen Jordan is the client.”
It took Rachel less than five minutes to print a contract and bring it to me. I signed it and handed it to Jalen, who also signed it. I picked up the contract and the money and handed them both to Rachel. She took them and walked quickly out of the room.
As soon as Rachel was gone, Jalen said, “You’re my lawyer now, correct?”
“I suppose so.”
“Everything I say to you is confidential?”
“Your mother’s in the room. The privilege is waived when a third party is present.”
Jalen looked at his mother, a woman who had just forked over $50,000 for his sorry ass, and said simply, “Get out.” Marion got up and padded slowly out the door.
“I was checking out a playground,” he said when the door closed.
“Why would you do that?”
“Because a friend told me to.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“Would you like me to tell you about this stop or not?”
I leaned back in my chair, folded my arms across my chest, and said, “Go ahead.”
“I was driving down Delaware Avenue, doing about five miles an hour below the speed limit. I admit it was the third time I’d been around that particular block, but I hadn’t had anything to drink in two days, hadn’t smoked any dope since the night before. I was straight, okay? Stone sober. I wasn’t speeding or swerving, and everything on the van was working. All the lights were fine. All of a sudden this cruiser rolled up on me from out of nowhere, the blue lights flashing, the siren blasting. So I pulled over. I looked in the side views and I saw there were two of them; a man got out of the driver’s side and a woman got out of the passenger side, and they both walked up on either side of my van. The man asked for my license and registration and insurance card, and I asked him why he’d stopped me. He said, ‘License, registration, and insurance card.’ I said, ‘This is outrageous. You don’t have a reason to stop me.’ So he walked to the back of my van and broke out the driver’s side taillight with this big flashlight he was carrying. Then he walked back up and said, ‘You’ve got a broken taillight. Step out of the car.’ I told him there was no way I was getting out of the car after what I just saw. The next thing I knew he had the door open and he had his forearm up under my chin and he was pushing my head backward. He unlatched my seat belt and jerked me out of the van. I managed to get loose for a second, and when he came in to grab me again, I took a wild swing at him and I caught him square in the mouth. Not five seconds after I hit him I saw this flash and I went down. The woman had hit me in the back of the head with her flashlight. The man dropped on my back and got me in a choke hold. He choked me until I lost consciousness, and when I came to, I was cuffed and they had those plastic wraps around my ankles.”
“There’s going to be video,” I said. “They all have video in their cruisers.”
Jalen shook his head. “Th
ere won’t be a video. I promise you there won’t be a video.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because of what I’m sure they found when they searched the van.”
“What did they find?”
“Two pairs of underwear in a bag in the glove compartment.”
“And this underwear belongs to . . . to you?”
“Not exactly. It’s too small for me.”
“Then how did it get into a bag in the glove compartment of your van?”
“I’m not sure how much I should say about that.”
I felt myself growing uneasy. Everything about this guy—the clothes, the hair, the dead eyes, the smug accent—all of it made me want to get away from him as quickly as possible. But I’d just taken $50,000 of his mother’s money.
“Are these two pairs of underwear that were in a bag in the glove compartment of your van significant to the police in some way?” I said.
“They could be,” Jalen said. “They might be. Yes, I suppose they are.”
“In what way might these pairs of underwear that were in a bag in the glove compartment of your van be significant to the police?”
“They could possibly be evidence in two murders. They might have found other evidence, too, maybe hairs or prints or something. They impounded my van.”
I unfolded my arms, leaned forward, and placed my arms on my desk. I laced my fingers and thumbs and closely looked at Jalen. He had just a hint of a smile on his lips, but his eyes were still as lifeless as cardboard. He wasn’t perspiring and his voice had remained steady, almost defiant. It was as though he was playing a game, and he was enjoying himself quite thoroughly.
“Okay, Jalen,” I said. “We seem to be getting into a dangerous area. If you sit here and tell me you committed a couple of murders and you wind up getting charged with them, I can’t put you on a witness stand later during a trial and knowingly let you sit up there and lie in front of a jury. So be careful what you say from this point forward.”
“I have this friend,” he said without the least bit of hesitation. “I’m with him all the time, constantly, as a matter of fact. This friend, as he’s gotten older, has started having some pretty lurid fantasies. They’re of a sexual nature, I guess you would say. He’s told me all about them. They involve little boys around six, seven years old. My friend knows he isn’t supposed to indulge these fantasies, but he can’t help it. He thinks about these boys all the time, thinks about all the things he’d like to do to them. It has become an obsession that probably runs to psychosis. He realizes there’s something wrong with him, but these urges, these impulses, are so powerful that he can’t resist them. What this friend told me was that about eleven months ago he got so caught up in these fantasies that he went ahead and kidnapped a little boy. My friend’s very intelligent—you might even describe him as cunning—so he was able to capture this little boy in such a way that nobody really saw him do it and he took the boy up into the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and acted out some of his fantasies. Then about six months later—”
“Hang on,” I said, holding up my hand. Images of newspaper headlines were running through my mind, flashbacks about murdered boys. I noticed my hand was trembling so I lowered it quickly, but Jalen had noticed it, too. “Are you about to tell me this friend of yours is the person who kidnapped, sexually assaulted, strangled, and tossed two boys into the river out near Gatlinburg?”
“Sometimes it’s difficult to be friends with him,” Jalen said. “He does some pretty terrible things; he really does. But like I said, he simply can’t help it. So anyway, back to this underwear. My friend might have moved out of his mother’s place into his own place recently so he could have more privacy to do these things he wants and needs to do, and the last two things he was moving were these two pairs of underwear that he had kept as a sort of memento, and he had perhaps forgotten they were in the glove compartment. Or maybe he found some unusual sense of satisfaction in carrying them around with him. I don’t know. What I do know is that if the police test these two pairs of underwear for DNA, then they’re probably going to try to lock my friend up forever or maybe even send him to death row. So I need you to do what lawyers do and beat this.”
I reached for the phone and buzzed Rachel again. This time I didn’t care about my hands shaking. I could barely control my voice. “Bring that contract and the money back in here,” I said to Rachel. “And do it in a hurry. I won’t be representing Mr. Jordan after all.”
Jalen Jordan and I had a tense staring contest for the next few minutes while Rachel retrieved the money and the contract from the office safe. After she’d gone back out, I ripped the contract in half in front of him and tossed it into the trash can.
“Take your money and go,” I said. “Our conversation is privileged. I won’t say a word to anyone.”
He looked over my shoulder to an old filing cabinet that sat just behind me.
“That’s your son, isn’t it?” he said, pointing to the top of the cabinet. “That’s your little Sean?”
My throat tightened and I felt my heart speed up.
“How do you know his name?” I said.
“You’d be surprised how much you can learn about somebody in a short time on the Internet,” he said. “I probably know his age, his address, where he goes to school. Probably know quite a bit about his mother, too. Katie, isn’t it?”
“Get out,” I said, standing. “Take the money.”
Jalen got up and started walking toward the door.
“You keep that money, Counselor,” he said over his shoulder, “and you do the right thing by me. It’d be a terrible shame if my friend was to throw little Sean off a cliff.”
At that moment, I decided Jalen Jordan would have to die. I just wasn’t sure when or how.
CHAPTER TWO
I probably should have killed Jalen Jordan right then and there. I had a pistol in my desk drawer because I dealt with scumbags on a daily basis. I should have pulled the gun out, run out into the street after him, and just started shooting. I could have pleaded temporary insanity or extreme provocation and maybe gotten away with it. But I didn’t kill him. Instead, I called my wife. She worked part-time as a personal trainer and part-time at a women’s designer clothing boutique. She was at the boutique that day.
“Is something wrong?” Katie said when she answered the phone.
“I need you to pick Sean up from school right now,” I said, “and I need you to take him to Mom’s and wait there until I call.”
“What? Why? I’m working.”
“I know you’re working, but this is important. There was a guy in the office just a few minutes ago. I think he’s the guy who killed those two little boys they found out in the national park. He wanted me to represent him, and when I refused, he threatened Sean.”
“Killed who? Threatened Sean? What did he say?”
“He recognized the picture of Sean on the filing cabinet in my office. He knew Sean’s name and said he knows how old he is and our address and where he goes to school, and he said he knows some things about you, too. Just go pick him up, please Katie? Do it now. Take him to Mom’s and hang out until I get there. I’m going to the police station. I have to find a couple of officers and talk to them. I’ll call you as soon as I’m finished, and we’ll figure out what to do from there. Okay?”
“I can’t just leave, Darren. I’m working the floor.”
“Katie,” I said as I felt my blood pressure surge, “I swear to God if you don’t walk out the door right now and go pick up Sean, I’m going to come down there and strangle you with my bare hands.”
“Don’t threaten me, Darren.”
“Did you hear what I told you?” My voice was full force now. “The guy threatened Sean! I think he’s already killed two little boys and he threatened Sean! He said, and I quote, ‘It’d be a terrible shame if my
friend was to throw little Sean off a cliff!’ Now please, for once in your life, think about someone besides yourself and do what I ask.”
“Stop yelling at me, Darren. You know I hate it when you yell at me.”
“Are you going to pick up Sean?”
“I already told you, I’m working the floor. We’re having a sale. I can’t just leave. Besides, I think you’re overreacting.”
She hung up on me. I swore under my breath and dialed my mother’s number. I explained the situation to her, and she agreed immediately to leave the beauty salon she’d owned and managed for twenty-five years and to go pick up Sean. I got up, walked into the reception area, and told Rachel to cancel the rest of my appointments for the day. I walked back through my office and went into the bathroom. I ran some cold water into my cupped hands and splashed it onto my face. I took a deep breath and looked at myself in the mirror. At thirty-two, I still had a bit of a boyish face. I suppose I was handsome enough—I had smooth, dark skin, a full head of black hair, green eyes, and dimples in both cheeks. My nose was crooked because it had been broken a couple of times during wrestling matches and mixed martial arts fights, but it wasn’t too bad. I wasn’t tall—five feet nine inches—and I wasn’t a bruiser, but I ran six miles five days a week, could do a hundred pushups in less than three minutes and could do twenty pull-ups without breaking a sweat.
“Calm down,” I said to myself in the mirror. “Breathe. Think.”
I walked back out of the bathroom. Rachel was standing in the doorway between my office and the reception area.
“Did you hear what he said?” I asked her.
She nodded and said, “What are you going to do?”
“Before or after I kill him?”
“I’m serious,” Rachel said. “What are you going to do?”
“I have no idea. I’ll talk to you later.”
I picked up the $50,000 Jalen left sitting on my desk, stuffed it in my briefcase, and headed out to my car. Police headquarters was on Howard Baker Jr. Avenue, less than ten minutes from my office on West Hill Avenue. As I walked toward the parking garage, I dialed Bob Ridge’s number. Bob was my age and was one of the members of the Knoxville Police Department I knew best. We’d both graduated from Farragut High School and had played football together. We’d also both attended the University of Tennessee, where Bob, who was six feet six and weighed nearly three hundred pounds as a freshman, played four years of football. We’d remained pretty close over the years—we drank a beer together every couple of months and played golf on the same team in a charity event every year. Our families had had dinner together twice, but my wife and Bob’s wife didn’t seem to like each other very much, so we kept the friendship between him and me. I kept up with his daughter and his son, though, and he always asked about Sean. Bob had joined the Knoxville Police Department right out of college, had been with them for ten years, and was already a captain in the patrol division.
