“Here’s the mansion, right at the end of a cul de sac. Place is walled, but it only looks to be about eight feet. I’ve seen you on our ropes course. Figure you can scale it. Some kind of wooded area is behind it. Once through the trees, you’re on a golf course.”
“Where’s the party?”
“In a ballroom, right about here.” Van Zandt pointed to the back of the house.
“Someone on the inside will supply you with a key to get in one of the patio doors. The governor is going to be there. So that means at least four members of his protective detail will be with him. As it gets closer, we’ll be given more intel on cops, security guards and so forth.”
Miriam nodded.
“And I almost forgot. This is going to be right before Halloween. Everyone is coming in costume, including you.”
Miriam pushed a hand through her hair. “Well, I expect that I’ll be attending as a cat burglar. I’ve got time to make my own costume. Now, tell me about the target.”
After she finished talking with her father, Miriam walked to a single-wide that was on the edge of the cluster of trailers. A solidly built man about her age with bushy brown hair and matching trimmed beard was sitting at a picnic table under an awning extending from the trailer. His name was Manford Donley, called Manny by everyone. He sipped on a beer as he watched her approach. She bent over and kissed him before sitting on the bench opposite.
“Well,” she said, “aren’t you going to get me a beer?”
He grunted and walked to his trailer, returning with one in his hand. He handed it to her and returned to his side of the table.
“I’ve got a job to do in Fort Worth around Halloween. It’s going to be my last. Pay’s a hundred thousand. I figure with what we have saved, that ought to be about enough to buy that land outside of Alpine, build a house on it, buy some cattle and start a family. We can take my trailer to live in while the house is under construction. Pretty country down there. Ought to be a good place to raise some kids. You ready for it?”
Donley smiled. “Ready as I’ll ever be. You told your pa?”
Miriam shook her head. “Not going to until we’re ready to leave. He’ll accuse me of abandoning him. He’ll be right, but that’s just how life is.” She walked around the table and pulled him to stand in front of her. She nuzzled her breasts into him and pulled his mouth down to hers. Her tongue flicked between his teeth. He wrapped his hands around her butt and squeezed her closer. “What say, we go inside and start working on that family?” Manny asked.
“You’re reading my mind, cowboy. Last one naked has to clean the kitchen tonight,” she grinned as she turned to race up the steps to his trailer.
3
Jack showered and dressed quietly so as not to disturb Colby. Today he put on one of his lawyer suits, a red tie, and black shoes that he had shined the night before. Looking in the mirror, he had transformed himself into a distinguished attorney, six feet or so in height, just past fifty years old with brown hair brushed back to reveal a widow’s peak. The Kirk Douglas cleft in his chin had been passed down for generations. He smiled when he thought that he had even passed it on to J. D., his son and potential All American tight end with TCU.
Jack leaned over the bed and lightly kissed Colby, still sleeping nude on her side of the bed. She stirred, pushed her auburn hair out of her face and pulled him to her as she blinked open her emerald green eyes. “My, you’re a handsome looking lawyer. I like your blue eyes. Did you tell me you were going to court this morning?”
“Yeah,” Jack smiled. “You just forgot. I’ve got a hearing for Ike Irasmus about that rapper that stole his songs. First encounter with those Los Angeles lawyers that represent T-Buck. I’ll call you afterwards to let you know how it went.”
Colby smiled as her eyes slowly closed. Today, he would leave the pickup in the garage. If he happened to be spotted by the Los Angeles lawyers, he wanted to be seen in the gray Bentley.
Jack had grown up in Fort Worth and became rich as a plaintiff lawyer in Beaumont. Once he had a hundred million in the bank, he moved back to his hometown of Fort Worth when his son completed a four year hitch in Marines, including two tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, and announced that he was going to walk on to the Horned Frog football team. Jack soon discovered that kicking back with nothing to do was not fitting his type-A personality. So, he moved his armor-plated RV to a vacant lot on North Main and put a sign in the window that read, “Lawyer-No Fee.” Before long, he was helping people as a pro bono lawyer, just like when he was representing folks who had been badly injured or lost a loved one because of the negligence of a corporation. The difference was he did it for free.
Ike was waiting in front of the RV when Jack pulled up. He was in his sixties with white hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. This morning he wore a freshly starched white shirt, a black bowtie and spit-shined shoes. Jack lowered the passenger window.
“Morning, Ike. Hop in.”
“Nice wheels. I thought you just owned that red pickup.”
“That’s my favorite, but I’ve got a few others. I’ll show them to you sometime.”
“I heard you calling that old truck Lucille. How come you gave your truck a name?”
“I’ve had that truck a long time. Just figured she was part of the family.”
Ike nodded and buckled his seat belt. Jack pulled back out onto North Main to make the short drive to the courthouse complex on the bluff overlooking the Trinity River.
“Can I ask a question about your RV?”
“Fire away.”
“You put all that armor on it to set it up out here in the barrio?”
“Naw. I had a big case down in the valley a few years back. It was going to take several months to try. Rather than rent office space and stay in a motel, I bought the RV to be my office and home. I was worried about drug violence along the border; so, I had that retractable armor installed. Worked well then and certainly protects the RV in this neighborhood, too.”
“You ever charge folks for representing them?”
“Not any more. I made more money than I can ever spend. Call it payback or whatever you want. I like helping folks.”
Ike shook his head. “Then, all I can say is thank you.”
“That’s all I ask.” Jack smiled.
Jack and Ike were the first ones in the courtroom in the Tim Curry Criminal Justice Center. For some reason, Judge Jamison had temporarily moved there, something about asbestos in the old red courthouse. Jack didn’t like the courtrooms in the Center. They had about as much personality as a hospital room. Jack told his client to take a seat at the table while he opened his briefcase and removed the file. A few minutes later a lawyer with silver hair, carefully coifed, and a matching mustache, entered, trailed by two younger partners and a paralegal. He set his briefcase on the opposite table and stepped over to introduce himself.
“Nicholas Whatley,” he said, his hand extended.
“Jackson Bryant. Pleased to meet you. You figure you got enough fire power there?” Jack continued, motioning to the team behind Whatley. “I don’t expect to take more than half an hour.”
Whatley ignored the jab. “We came a long way. Just want to make sure we have all of our bases covered. I presume that this is Mr. Irasmus.”
Ike nodded at the mention of his name. What followed was a small flurry of activity as the court reporter took her seat and the bailiff confirmed that all persons necessary for the hearing were present. He picked up the phone on his desk and advised the judge that everyone was ready to go. Almost immediately, he announced, “All rise. The 452nd District Court, the honorable Gladys Jamison presiding, is now in session.”
A distinguished black woman, wearing a pearl necklace, a black robe and gold wire rimmed glasses took the bench. “Be seated.” She smiled. “Now would any lawyer who expects to say something in this hearing, state your name and who you represent.”
“Jackson Bryant, for the plaintiff, Ike Irasmus, Your Honor.”
&n
bsp; “Welcome back to my court, Mr. Bryant. I haven’t seen you in a few months.”
“My pleasure, Judge. And may I introduce Mr. Irasmus.”
Ike rose and nodded at the judge.
“Your Honor, I’m Nicholas Whatley from Los Angeles, representing the defendant.”
“And a welcome to you and your team, Mr. Whatley.” Judge Jamison turned to Jack. “I understand we have an injunction arising out of the rights to a song. Not very often I’ve had to deal with singing in my courtroom. Let’s move it along. Mr. Bryant, call your first witness.”
“My only witness is Mr. Irasmus. Ike, please approach the bench so that you can be sworn.” After he swore to tell the truth, Ike took the stand.
“You’re Ike Irasmus?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jack chose not to hold anything back. “Mr. Irasmus, how are you employed?”
Ike spoke softly. “I, I, uh, do some panhandling on North Main, me and my dog, Trousers. We live in a homeless shelter close by there. Not exactly what I expected to be doing in my old age.”
“At one time were you a jazz musician and song writer in New Orleans?”
Ike’s face lit up. “Yes, sir. After Vietnam, I moved to New Orleans and within a couple of years started my own band. Wrote most of the music we played.”
“You do well?”
“Probably too well. I got involved in drugs, got hooked on heroin.” The witness hesitated.
“Go on.”
“Killed a man in a fight over a woman. We were both high. I did it and pled guilty. Did twenty-five hard at Angola. Make no excuses for what I did. It was wrong and I apologized to everyone involved. Did my time. When I got out, I learned that my sister had gotten my trunk from my old apartment. Found all my old music and was starting over when Katrina hit. I was told to get on a bus and ended up here in Fort Worth. My sister said my trunk was washed away in the flooding. I was too old and too tired to start over again. So, I’ve been living in homeless shelters ever since.”
“Did you write a song called We Was Doing All Right?”
“Yes, sir. Thirty-five, forty years ago.”
“How did you learn that T-Buck had recorded it as a rap song, and it hit number one on the hip hop charts.”
“Saw him on Jimmy Fallon. He was singing my song.”
Jack flipped through a pile of papers and pulled two sheets from them. “T-Buck claims he wrote it, not you. Do you have a way to prove you’re right?”
Ike smiled. “I could sing the entire song right now, if the judge would let me.”
Judge Jackson looked over her glasses. “Let’s not do that. Do you have some other way to prove you wrote it?”
Jack rose. “Judge, if I can approach, I’d like to hand the witness Plaintiff’s Exhibit One. Can you identify that, Mr. Irasmus?”
Exhibit One was a faded and water stained copy of the song. Ike looked at the exhibit and turned to the second page. “This is one of the original copies of the sheet music. After you agreed to represent me, I got on the phone and started chasing down my old band members. Finally got hold of one who had this from forty years ago. It’s in my writing, every word and every note. I signed and dated the bottom of both pages.”
“Did you ever authorize T-Buck to record your song?”
“No, sir. He never even asked me.”
Jack thought a moment and said, “Pass the witness.”
Whatley rose. “Mr. Irasmus, just to make it clear, you’re a convicted felon, pled guilty to murder, correct, sir?”
Ike glared at the lawyer. “I done told you that already. I did it and I’m sorry for it. I’ll go to my grave with that weight on my shoulders.”
“You expect the judge here to believe a murderer?”
“I’m telling the truth. That’s long in my past. I, I wish I could change what happened, but I can’t.”
“So, you’re telling the judge that you wrote one song and now you’re trying to get rich off of what T-Buck has done.”
“No, sir. In fact, I wrote all of the songs on that album your client made. My lawyer said that we should just take this a step at a time.”
Whatley glanced back at his team who had blank expressions, knowing that there would be more to come.
Whatley looked the judge. “Your Honor, if the plaintiff has nothing more, I would like to offer an affidavit from my client. In it he swears that he wrote the lyrics and the music to We Was Doing All Right.”
“I’ll accept it as an exhibit, Mr. Whatley. Do you have anything else?”
“No, Judge. Defense rests.”
Jack stood. “Judge, I have one more thing. It’s a pauper’s oath, confirming that Mr. Irasmus cannot put up a bond for the injunction we seek.”
“I understand, Mr. Bryant. I heard his testimony about living in homeless shelters. You seek an injunction, requiring any future funds from this song be placed in the hands of a trustee until we can have a jury hear evidence. Am I correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Mr. Whatley, I must say that it’s a little disappointing that you show up here with two other lawyers and a paralegal; yet, your client apparently thought that this was not important enough for him to attend.”
Whatley leaped to his feet. “Not so, Your Honor. He’s on tour in Australia at the moment. I presumed that his affidavit would be sufficient.”
The judge looked sternly at the lawyer. “Maybe in Los Angeles, but not in Fort Worth. I’m granting the motion. I’ll appoint a trustee by tomorrow, probably a local bank. And, Mr. Whatley, when we go to trial, I suggest that your client should be present.”
Jack thanked the judge and asked to be excused. He knew it was best to get out quickly when he had just won a major motion. He dropped his client off at the shelter and decided to call it a day. Driving back home, his cell chimed.
“Jack, Walt here. It’s worse than I could have imagined. I drove over here to do a final advance check. Someone has put black crepe around the doors to the patio. Same crap is hanging from the ceiling. Streamers come down to about six feet from the floor. And on top of that, they put out cocktail tables, the four foot ones that people can stand around. I knew those were coming. But, they have black helium filled balloons attached to them. One of them popped while I was checking under the stage. Sounded just like a gunshot. I can already see drunks popping some of those balloons. Shit. This just doesn’t feel right.”
Jack turned into his driveway. He detected an unexpected note of alarm in his friend’s voice. “Calm down. What do you want me to do?”
“I know you don’t like Republicans, only I need you over here this evening.”
“Why me?”
“I feel like we’re understaffed. I could get Hale to bring in some more security guards, but you don’t know what you’re getting with one of those services. Can’t get more off-duty cops on short notice. I trust you. Besides, you’re a Tarrant County reserve deputy. No one can give me any flack for involving a deputy sheriff.”
Jack shook his head as he turned into his driveway. “Okay. Since it’s you, I’ll be there. Just don’t tell my Democrat friends.”
“And, Jack, come armed.”
Jack clicked off the phone and opened the automatic gate with his remote. He drove around the house and parked the Bentley in its usual slot in the garage. As he exited and lowered the garage door, he saw Colby, dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and running shoes, weeding her fall garden on the second level of the back lawn below the house. She rose and smiled.
“How’d the hearing go?” she asked as she raised her head for a kiss.
“Judge is requiring all future revenues from Ike’s song to be placed in trust in a bank she will name by tomorrow. Good as we could get. Once that’s done, I’m going to amend our petition to add the rest of the songs on that album. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to invite Ike to a TCU football game before the season is over. He’s heard me talking about J.D. He’s really a decent man. I’d like to get him out of that worl
d that revolves around the homeless shelter and his street corner. You’d like him.”
Colby smiled her agreement. “Now, Fort Worth’s best pro bono lawyer, what can I fix you for dinner?”
“Why would you limit it to Fort Worth? How about Texas or the whole country?”
“Then, maybe the best pro bono lawyer in the world, but answer my question.”
“Actually, I’m going to have to grab something early and help out Walt Frazier over at this fundraiser in Westover Hills.”
“I thought you said you wouldn’t be caught dead among all of those Republicans.”
“You heard correctly, but Walt is nervous about the event with costumes and revelers with guns. There’s an edge in his voice that has me worried.”
Colby stepped back. “Didn’t you tell me that he has PTSD?”
“Had would be the operative word. He says it’s been gone for years. After he returned to the states, he drank too much and stayed in his room at his parents’ house. Hardly ever went out. He finally saw a psychiatrist who put him on anti-depressants and anxiety medications. That helped some. When he married, his wife had to put up with his nightmares. He told me he used to wake up, drenched in sweat, shouting, “Incoming.” For a while he wished that he had died in that barracks. Walt gives Mary the credit for getting him through the PTSD. He claims he hasn’t had a panic attack in years. He must be doing okay. He got a job as a cop in Wharton while he worked his way through college. And the DPS would have given him a battery of psychological tests to be working on the governor’s detail.
Colby nodded her understanding. “Did you say guns at this party?”
“You heard me right. Governor’s a right to carry man. If someone has an invite and a concealed handgun license, he can walk right in with his sidearm.”
“Walt saved your life. Go help your friend. It’s the least you can do. And make sure you have your own gun.”
4
Every afternoon when she got back to the compound, Miriam took her Glock 26 and several boxes of ammo to the range. Since most of the men now had found steady jobs in the oil patch, she usually had it to herself during the week. She was already a superior marksman, but still worked to improve her skills before each contract. Perfection was her goal. She started at ten yards and within a couple of days could put all eleven rounds in a cluster no more than three inches in diameter. Then she started moving back five yards each day. At twenty-five yards the cluster grew to twelve inches with a couple of rounds beyond that. After two weeks, she had moved to fifty yards and was hitting the mark, but there were no guarantees that any one shot could do anything more than wound a man. Still, she was satisfied since she did not expect to be more than fifteen or twenty feet or so from her target.
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