Because Nevada was a community property state and because Thaddeus was married but the casino was what was known as separate property, the proceeds of the sale were taken solely in Thaddeus’ name, except for 10 percent, which went into Katy’s name and which was memorialized in writing as her share of the community increase in asset value that accrued post-marriage to Thaddeus.
Which meant, bottom line, that he had made a gift to Katy of $75 million, from the gross proceeds of the sale of $750 million. Minus the $250 million he still owed, his bank account was suddenly on FULL. It now contained $435 million, he no longer owned a casino, and he was looking for office space for the law practice he planned for downtown Las Vegas.
He said goodbye to the office he had never had time to refurnish.
He held a staff meeting and said goodbye to the staff. He gave all employees a thank-you bonus of 2 percent. Then he left. In his own car, no driver. The black Mercedes and driver stayed with the casino. The BAG agents were portable, however, and they went with him. Thanks to the Chicago mob, he was thinking he would always need to have BAG covering his back. Even, sometimes, his front.
He was always the optimist. On the day he went shopping for office space, his new practice boasted all of two Nevada clients, one of whom was his sister and unable to pay, the other of whom was Bat, also unable to pay, except for a small amount every two weeks.
Nevertheless, Thaddeus was encouraged.
More than once he had been enormously successful in helping people overcome their legal difficulties by the mere act of taking them by the hand and walking with them through the problem until it was resolved. He had no doubt that would once again be the case.
Yet there was a serious problem overlaying his new direction, a problem he’d never faced before. These two clients—his sister and Bat—were people he cared deeply about. The one he loved because she was his sister and because, well, he just found her adorable. For the other, he—he wouldn’t call it love (or would he?)—felt genuine caring. A great compassion. Like Bat, Thaddeus had been way down before and no one had extended him a hand. When he really needed a hand up, there wasn’t one. He’d had to fight every step to get to where he was. In fact, he’d even had to kill—not once but twice. He had loathed himself both times for days after pulling the trigger. But he had also learned something in the process: there would be times when he would find himself pushed in a corner not of his own making and the only way out would be past some very strong, even evil, people. At those moments, he had learned, you did whatever it took to get out of that corner. In other words, you did whatever it took to keep breathing, heart beating, to stay alive.
Now he knew his sister was at that point. She was in a corner, put there by a system she didn’t understand, and he was going to have go in there after her. Already the State of Nevada had told him that it planned on killing her.
Taking her life.
For what she did. Rather, for what they were claiming she did.
And he knew how Bat had lived before—on the street, feeding out of Dumpsters on good days, going without on the bad days, with no hand, no help, and so he had sold marijuana to an undercover officer, a narc, all because he was hungry and wanted money to buy a meal. That was the sum total of what they had on him, and for that they were going to send him to prison, which meant that ultimately he would be released and would find himself exactly where he had started out, on the street.
Thaddeus wanted nothing more than to save his sister and save Bat from the system.
With these strong feelings pumping adrenaline through his body, he left home one Monday morning to find office space where he could begin. Nothing extravagant, nothing so flashy it would exclude people. Rather, it had to be simple yet attractive enough to include people. He wanted them to come there and know they were among professionals. And he wanted them to know when they walked in that they were among people who actually cared. He was setting the bar high for new employees. They would have to care, to work there. Care more about other people than about themselves. There was always a risk in such caring, and it took strong people to plunge ahead in spite of that risk.
As he pulled away—driving his own American car—he realized how completely he had downgraded his life. He no longer lived in a castle. Katy had been adamant. She didn’t want Sarai growing up privileged. She wanted “adequate” for their child, not “perfect.” Katy had grown up knowing need and she had grown up to learn that the best way to get her needs met was to meet them herself.
Which was exactly what she wanted for their daughter.
So they didn’t live in a sixteen-room home on twenty beautiful acres looking down on Las Vegas. Their home was secure, first of all, because Thaddeus still required BAG protection from the old Chicago crowd. Hence, there was a guest cottage out back. Men with guns lived there. And there was a small barn and tack room where the family could house and care for their several horses, along with a corral for working them. But the million-dollar horse barn Thaddeus had enjoyed in Illinois—that was a thing in the past.
Their home looked like any other of the three-acre tracts where they bought. There was a street out front where the kids could ride their bikes. There was a school two blocks away where Sarai would attend first grade. There was a park four blocks away. And there were children Sarai’s age in the neighborhood. Some of those would stay around and they would grow up together. Thaddeus had grown up in a neighborhood full of kids and this same community of possible playmates was something he wanted for Sarai.
So they hadn’t gone isolationist, which was a dangerous place where great wealth could have misled them. They had decided they were a family and they were going to live as much like their neighbors lived as possible. “There’s even a mailbox out front,” he had wryly observed to Katy. “For the first time in my adult life I have my own street with my own mailbox out front. Welcome home, Thad. Welcome home, Katy. Welcome home, Sarai.”
38
Lincoln “Mask” Mascari was in a rage. He had read in the Chicago Tribune that Thaddeus Murfee of Chicago had sold the Desert Riviera Casino and Hotel for $750 million. To a group of Dot-Commers out of Silicon Valley. Cash. No carryback, no installment, no down payment + pay later. None of that. He had the bucks and he was rolling in them.
Why was Mask’s blood pressure up ten points? Why had the runs returned, committing larger parts of his waking hours to the bathroom?
Because half that money was his. He and Bang Bang had owned the Desert Riviera together. And Murfee had ripped it out of their hands with his bogus lawsuit. The deck had been stacked against him, he believed. The judge had been in bed with Murfee. That’s why he got the amount of money he got. Because the judge got his on the back end. Mask was certain of it.
He wanted revenge, to be sure. But more than that, he wanted his money back. He wanted his money plus Bang Bang’s share. After all, he was married to Bang Bang’s daughter, the one who hadn’t gone into Witness Protection, and she should have inherited Bang Bang’s share. All he was looking for was what was rightfully his. And what was rightfully hers.
The time to move was now, while Murfee had the cash in the States, before it went overseas. He put in a call to Johnnie Getti in New York.
Tell Ragman the time is now.
* * *
The office building contained the one feature for his new firm that was a must-have. Within the underground parking garage there were twelve charging stations for electric cars. His Tesla would never be without juice.
The building’s features read like a list from a law firm’s episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous: electric-car charging stations in a 75,000-square-foot parking space; a full gym with showers; four conference rooms on each floor; and a mock courtroom on the third floor “built for students at William S. Boyd School of Law to practice and host mock trials.”
Thaddeus was impressed and he signed a five-year lease for 15,000 square feet. The per-foot charge was mid/high-range, but that was all r
ight.
The building was within a stone’s throw of the George Federal Building and that was perfect.
Black and white marble floors and original paintings distinguished the interior, with the reception area having the feel of a foyer in Louis XIV’s Versailles Palace.
A young lawyer whose star was in its ascendancy owned the building, and Thaddeus took to him immediately. At the end of the day, Thaddeus was impressed with his new surroundings and he was also comfortable—a major requirement.
By the end of the week the office was furnished, phones were installed, the main number was listed with directory service, high-speed Internet was serving web pages, and the kitchen was fully stocked.
Within two more days he had hired a receptionist for the phones and a paralegal to help with the legal research and writing, as well as brainstorming. The receptionist was Terey Hatcher and she had a history in the District Attorney’s office and was on the cutting edge of criminal law and procedure in Nevada. She would do double duty at first, answering the phones and drafting pleadings. So far his two clients were both criminal defendants, and Thaddeus had a feeling that the thrust of his new firm was headed in that direction.
* * *
Monday he had his first two clients appear in the office.
Kiki Murphy walked in at 10:00 a.m., right on schedule. After a brief tour they settled in Thaddeus’ new office and Kiki sat there blinking, astonished how quickly Thaddeus had created his new firm.
“It’s the third time I’ve opened an office,” he said with a smile. “I’m very experienced at this part of it. But now we need to focus on you.”
She brushed a wisp of blond hair from her face. “Things are good at work, but that’s about it. Every night I have dreams about shooting that guy. I wake up all sweaty and cannot go back to sleep. So I get up, make some tea, and listen to rap on my iPod. Rap is the only thing that stops the images of the gun going off and a man crumbling to the ground.”
“Are you getting any help for that? Seeing a professional?”
“Dr. Gouda, you told me about her. I’ve seen her five times now.”
“Is that helping?”
“I cry every time we talk about it. It’s still too fresh. I would do anything to change that night, Thad. Anything.”
“That’s how it is. I’ve been in very similar circumstances and had to do violent things. Want to know the truth?”
“What?”
“It never goes away. Your job now is to learn to live with what you’ve done.”
She groaned. “That’s going to be extremely difficult.”
“But not impossible. It will happen—you’ll see. Now let’s talk about your case.”
“Let’s do. That’s another reason I can’t sleep.”
“Well, the indictment charges you with first-degree murder. There are allegations of malice and premeditation. I dispute both of those, of course. Not only that, there’s the question of self-defense. If you pulled the trigger on purpose, it was because you were in reasonable apprehension of immediate great bodily harm or death. If you didn’t pull it on purpose, but if the gun just went off, then there’s the element of negligence. Either way, I don’t believe they can convict you of first-degree murder.”
“What can they convict me of?”
He smiled grimly. “That’s the problem. Maybe negligent homicide.”
“Oh, God.”
“Wait, pump the brakes. I have a report from Dr. Gunnar Andersen, an armorer out of Seattle. The report helps you immensely.”
“What does he say?”
“Well, PX got your purse and found a gun just like you had in the purse that night. She sent the purse and the gun to Dr. Andersen. He spent a month performing tests. Last Friday we received his written report. It is his opinion that the gun was discharged accidentally, and that the mechanism that caused the firing pin to come down and cause a bullet to be expelled from the muzzle was the lipstick you were carrying in your purse.”
“What?”
“I know. It’s very simple, according to Dr. Andersen. The lipstick became wedged inside the trigger guard, you went to remove the gun from your purse, the lipstick pulled against the trigger and caused the pistol to fire. The firing was purely accidental. He will testify to that in front of a jury.”
“Does that mean I didn’t do it on purpose?”
“That’s exactly what it means. It was purely an accident.”
“Oh, Thad!” She tossed her head back and tears of joy rolled down her cheeks. “I can’t tell you how that makes me feel. It was an accident!”
“Not so fast. There’s more, and this is even better.”
“Okay.”
“Dr. Andersen goes on to say that the interior of the purse contains power burns where the muzzle was against the purse when it fired. The power burns, the pattern, and the hole in the purse all prove that the gun couldn’t have been aimed. Which brings us to intent. If there was no aiming of the gun, there was no intent to shoot anyone. If there was no intent, there was no first-degree murder, there was no second-degree murder, and there was no homicide by intent. Which leaves manslaughter. Either intentional—heat of the moment, or unintentional—accidental. It’s my opinion that yours is the negligent type. You were carrying a gun, you attempted to seize it, and you were negligent in how you tried to seize it. Because of that the gun went off, killing your attacker. That is an offense for which the court is required to sentence you to one year, in Nevada. Which I’m not willing to see you do. So we’re looking for something less.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I’m meeting with Doctor Andersen. He says you’re not guilty of anything.”
“Doctor Andersen said that?”
“He did.”
“Does this mean I can stop having bad dreams?”
“You got it, Kiki. You can stop now.”
They went on to talk for another thirty minutes. They discussed her job at the casino. Thaddeus, in the sale of the casino, had secured a one-year employment contract for her. If they fired her within that first year they owed her $50,000. No ifs, ands, or buts. He got the same deal for Bat. You can only control things so far, he told her. He had done for her and Bat what he could. Now he wanted to give them back their freedom. For once and for all.
Bat arrived at one o’clock. He looked healthy and happy, and was seeing Thaddeus on his own day off. He told Thaddeus he had a car, $7,000 saved toward a down payment on his own place, and a girlfriend he was seeing every night, with a four-year-old son who evidently idolized Bat and was intrigued that Bat’s eye actually came out. “He laughs like a hyena when I take it out and scare him with it. That’s just too cool!”
“Let me ask you a couple questions, just for my file,” Thaddeus said. “I need to know a little more about you on the day you sold the dope.”
“Fair enough. That’s what I’m here for.”
“First, you weren’t working then and you had no income, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Where were you living?”
“In the winter I was at the library all day, usually sleeping in the reading area. Staying warm and dozing off where it was safe. The library makes for great temporary lodging when you’re on the street. Nights I stayed in mission. If there was a bed. If no bed, I hit the cardboard.”
“Cardboard?”
“Find a box, flatten it out. It puts a layer of air between you and the sidewalk. A little warmer.”
“So there were nights you were sleeping outside on the sidewalk?”
“Oh, plenty. Usually.”
“How did you put food in your mouth?”
“Hung in the alleys.”
“Meaning?”
“I’d hang out around loading docks downtown. Truck pulls in, the driver’s tired and worn out, coming in from Phoenix or LA, he sees me hanging around. Before you know it I’m helping him unload and he’s paying me twenty bucks. That’s enough for me to eat on for three days.”
> “Serious?”
“I’ve got one of those Swiss Army knives. Can opener. I take my twenty dollars, hit the Quik Stop. Get me a can of hash, pop the lid, nuke it, and I’m getting full in three minutes. Knock it down with a thirty-two-ounce soda, and I’m good to go. Total cost under three bucks.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“It’s the way of the street, brother. You pick up here and there, you hustle. Sometimes you shoplift. You gotta eat, man. Everybody gotta eat.”
“I get that. So what happened with the dope? Where’d it come from?”
“Two white kids head into a club late at night. Leave their ride parked on the street. I know they’re holding. So I jimmy the window, pry open the glove box, and there’s my zip. Probably eight ounces of weed. And I’m gone, down the alley, around the block, dope in my shorts. Cops say they look in your shorts, but they don’t. Not if they know you’re from the streets.”
“Why not?”
“Smell too bad. They don’t even like to touch you, much less look inside your shorts.”
“So what happened next?”
“Guy takes me down an alley. Wants to buy some of my weed. I say okay. We no sooner get down there but he stabs me. Cuts my arm. I can’t get the blood to stop, so cops call the EMTs. Long story short, I get a ride to the ER, stitches, they do tests. My eyes look wrong. So I go back in three days. Guess what? I’m HIV. Got it from all those needles before I got dried out at the Sallie.”
“Sallie?”
“Salvation Army. They took me in, dried me out, three hots and a cot. I get off the needle but I’m still holding, still got that weed. Doc says I need to go on this drug regimen. So I don’t come down with AIDS. Fine, but it costs money. So I decide to sell my weed. That’s when I sold to the narc. Guy drives up in a black car. Can I get him something? It smelled wrong, felt wrong. Yes, I hop in, money and weed hand-to-hand. Next thing I know I’m riding down to jail. That’s when I met you. Best night of my life, that was.”
“So let me understand. You sold the marijuana because you needed money to buy your HIV drugs?”
Attorney at Large (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 3) Page 18
