Sideswiped: Book One in the Matt Blake legal thriller series

by Russell Moran

  Sideswiped

  A Matt Blake Novel

  Russell F. Moran

  Coddington Press

  Copyright © 2015 by Russell F. Moran

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission from the publisher or the author, except where permitted by law. Contact the publisher for information on foreign rights.

  ISBN: 978-0-9963466-2-7

  Cover Design by Erin Kelly

  http://erinkelly.webs.com/

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue and plot are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  www.morancom.com

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the law enforcement community, including those in the FBI and state law enforcement. These are people who dedicate their lives to keeping us safe.

  Acknowledgements

  Writing is done alone in a room, but no work comes to daylight without the input from many people. As always, I thank my wife, Lynda, for her attentive reading and re-reading of my many drafts, and for laughing at my jokes. I also thank my eagle-eyed friend, John White, for his proofreading and editing, and James K. O’Sullivan, Esq., a friend and perceptive appellate attorney, for his comments on the law-related parts of the book.

  Author’s Note

  You will find a Cast of Characters after the last chapter of the book. It can be frustrating to come across a character on page 150, who you first met on page 20, especially if you’ve put the book down for a few days. I’ve seen this done in Russian novels, and I happily add a cast of characters to Sideswiped, as well as my other novels.

  Sideswiped

  Chapter 1

  “Maggie’s dead, Matt. Your beautiful Maggie is dead.”

  Maggie’s dead. Bill Randolph said it so simply, so easily, like, “I hear it may rain this afternoon.”

  I’ve been through my share of weird shit in my 31 years. In Iraq, during a fire fight outside of Fallujah, I turned to my first sergeant, who had also become a good friend. I opened my mouth to speak and watched his head get blown off before my eyes. Two months later a bomb exploded two feet away from me. I had just walked behind a brick wall. Had I not, I would be dead, not just wounded. The day my tour was up, I sat on the plane that would take me back to the States. As the pilot nosed up for altitude, a surface-to-air missile hit us in mid-fuselage. Four guys were killed, two of whom were close friends. A piece of shrapnel hit my left leg, fracturing it in two places. The pilot managed to wrestle the plane back to the airstrip in one piece.

  But whatever horror I’d seen suddenly became just bits of memory, a sort of stream of consciousness, just background noise to my life. What I just heard from Bill Randolph wrapped around me like a python. One thing about combat—you’re busy, you’ve got decisions to make, you’ve got a job to do. You can’t stop and mourn the loss of a friend, no matter how upset you are.

  But what do you do with, “Your beautiful Maggie is dead?”

  I lost it. I completely fucking lost it. I sat there and cried like a three-year-old throwing a tantrum.

  I had no training for what to do next, no experience to guide me.

  After a few minutes, my tears stopped flowing.

  This isn’t happening, I thought. Bill didn’t just say what he said. Is this some kind of nightmare that happens when you’re awake?

  But it was happening, and Bill did say what he said. Maggie is dead.

  Your mind tries to cope with shock. Your brain tries to piece all the shit together to try to make some kind of sense out of it. I’d noticed, in combat and any other kind of stressful situation, that you starts to ask questions, as if answers would help.

  “How did it happen?” I asked, of no one in particular.

  “A senseless fucking car accident,” Bill said, “the kind of thing we see parading through here every day. From what we know, Maggie was walking down Washington Street this morning on her way to the Daley Center when a car jumped the curb and mowed down four people on the sidewalk. Maggie was the only one killed. The others have serious injuries.”

  “Drunk driver?”

  “No,” said Bill. “According to the cop, who I know personally, the guy may have been texting on his cell phone. The cop also saw the accident happen. Another eyewitness said the same thing.”

  So some asshole, driving down a busy street in Chicago, had to take care of business on his cell phone instead of watching the road. As a result, Maggie’s dead. My beautiful Maggie is dead.

  Chapter 2

  The bomb exploded on the other side of the wall, a half a minute after I read my acceptance letter to the University of Chicago Law School. My mood changed quickly, as it often does in war. “Are you okay, lieutenant?” yelled the hospital corpsman as he ran to my side. I love hospital corpsman, especially if you’re wounded. But sometimes they ask dumb questions.

  I lay still, trying to cope with the pain, and at the same time happy to be alive. Fortunately, the bomb only sent a few of the bricks flying, one hitting me in the face, fracturing my cheek bone, another shattering my lower left leg. If the bomb exploded a few inches closer to the wall, I would have been standing in a wind of bricks. And, most likely, I would have been killed.

  After I graduated from Northwestern University, I signed up for the Marine Corps and was assigned to Officer Candidate School in Quantico, Virginia. My mother hated the idea, but dad was proud of me. He also served with the Marines. Our Marine officer history was a bond we’d share for life.

  I completed 10 weeks of intense training at the age of 22. I once heard someone say that the most important thing you learn from serving in the Marines is how to be uncomfortable. As civilians, we get used to changing our socks and underwear once a day, not to mention starting off with a hot shower. In the Marine Corps, things are different. Things are uncomfortable. Buggy, itchy, sweaty—uncomfortable. And sometimes scary.

  My first tour of duty was in the Fallujah Province in Iraq, a hell hole. I arrived in November, 2004, just in time for the Second Battle of Fallujah, also known as Operation Phantom Fury. History recorded that the fight was the most intense urban combat since the Battle of Huế City in Vietnam in 1968, a long time before I was born.

  I won’t go into a lot of details about my combat experience because I don’t like to talk about it. If you’re a combat veteran I’ll talk to you about it, but it’s a subject I avoid when talking to people who haven’t experienced battle. Unless you’ve been there, you just don’t get it. You don’t get the horror, you don’t get the confusion, you don’t get the noise and the shit flying every which way. You don’t get the fear. So I’ll just give you an outline of my wartime experiences.

  As a second lieutenant in the 3d Battalion 1st Marines, the “Thundering Third,” I commanded a platoon of 30 men. They were good guys, hard chargers, and well trained as Marines always are. The battle of Fallujah was over just before Christmas on December 23. Our battalion lost 96 guys and 560 were wounded. In my platoon I lost five men and 12 were wounded, including me. People call me a hero. I don’t know. I did receive a lot of decorations, including the Silver Star, the Bronze Star, the Purple Heart, and a few others. But as any grunt who’s felt the heat of battle will tell you, distinguishing yourself in combat means relying on your
training. Yes, you have to think fast, but the best road to victory, not to mention staying alive, is to do what you were trained to do. That’s what I did.

  I left active service with the rank of captain in August 2012. While in Iraq, during a non-combat period, I took the Law School Admissions Test (LSAT). A lot of people opt for law school when they’re not sure what they want to do in life, which pretty well described me. My score on the test, along with good grades at Northwestern, got me into the University of Chicago Law School. The fact that my father was a UC grad and a heavy contributor helped. Dad is a well-known trial lawyer in Chicago.

  When I read my acceptance letter, I was happy as hell to get into to such a great school. I wondered if I’d live long enough to start classes. Then the bomb exploded.

  When my dad’s law partner, Bill Randolph, told me that Maggie had died, I couldn’t help but think back to that time when the bomb exploded. I found myself wishing that it had killed me.It would have spared me from hearing the words, “Maggie is dead.”

  Chapter 3

  “Hi, my name’s Maggie Pierce. Mind if I share the room?” she said.

  Three years after mustering out of the Marines, I was in my senior year of law school. It was mid-September. I sat in an empty classroom preparing for my next class, Conflicts of Law, a difficult course.

  A tall blond woman walked into the class. Recently I had started to think of adult females as women, not girls. Is that a good thing? I don’t know. All I know is that I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  Maggie was tall, about 5’9,” with a wide toothy smile, and a friendly voice. She was also ridiculously gorgeous. Her denim skirt was cut about two inches over her knees, nothing racy or even seductive, but with her shapely suntanned legs it was difficult not to stare. Her long blond hair touched the collar of her pink blouse. Her perfume, applied sparingly, was Chanel No. 5. For some reason I remembered the name of the scent. She sat two desks away from me, not too close, but close enough for me to breathe in the Chanel. I suddenly lost all interest in my casebook.

  “Please don’t let me bother you,” she said. “What are you preparing for?” negating her statement that she didn’t want to bother me.

  “Conflicts of Law,” I said, “my next class. I’m sorry, pardon me for not introducing myself. My name is Matt Blake. What are you studying?”

  “Torts. I guess that pegs me as a freshman. I hear that Conflicts is a real bitch. Are you a senior?”

  She seemed to want to talk, not study, and that was fine by me.

  “Yes, I’m a senior,” I said as I swung myself to face her. I‘m pretty focused when I study, but there was something about Maggie that demanded my total attention.

  “You look more, I don’t know, more mature than the average law student,” she said.

  “After college I spent eight years in the Marines. I’m still a captain in the reserves. That makes me the ripe old age of 31. How about you, did you start law school right after college?”

  “I spent three years in medical school, but I hated every minute of it. I figured law was a better career choice. I’m 25. So you were a Marine? My dad was too, and to this day he’s still proud of it. I bet you look handsome as hell in uniform.”

  Holy shit, I thought. She was flirting with me. I figured I’d return the serve.

  “It’s a good thing you dropped medicine. It would be a shame to cover that pretty figure of yours with a medical smock.”

  She smiled.

  “Do you have another class after torts?”

  “No,” she said, “it’s my last class of the day.”

  “Then let’s have lunch, if your husband or boyfriend wouldn’t mind. There’s a nice place right on the Chicago River.”

  She laughed.

  “I love the way you just interrogated me. You’ll make a good litigator. No, I don’t have a husband or a boyfriend. How about you? Married? Seeing somebody?”

  The bell rang at 10:50 a.m. signaling the upcoming 11a.m. class.

  “No, I’m unattached, just like you. I’ll meet you by the main entrance after class.”

  Fortunately the professor didn’t call on me during my Conflicts of Laws class, because I was definitely not ready. But I was more than ready for lunch with Maggie Pierce.

  ***

  I’d never thought of the Chicago River as a romantic spot, especially during the day. It’s a beautiful waterway that meanders through some of the greatest architectural treasures in the country. It’s just not romantic. Until my lunch with Maggie Pierce.

  We sat at a table next to the water. The drawbridge over the river on Michigan Avenue was in the down position to let road traffic cross. A trio of large sailboats tied up to the bulkhead to wait for the bridge to rise. The high noon sun sparkled on the green waters of the river. The scene was lovely, but my attention focused on Maggie, her blond hair and her big smile.

  “You look really cute with the water reflecting off your face, Matt.”

  I remembered the first time a girl flirted with me. I think her name was Samantha. We were in the eighth grade at the time. She looked at me as we sat down for our first class and said that my hair looked “nice.” It was a strange feeling. My young heart pounded and I smiled. But all I could muster in response was, “Thanks.”

  Well, I’m a big boy now, so when Maggie commented on the reflection of the water on my face I said, “You look cute, too.” I guess I’ve made some progress since the eighth grade. But my heart still pounded like it did when I was a kid.

  We had a wonderful lunch, but I have no idea what I ate.

  ***

  About a month after Maggie and I met, the country was hit with the worst day of terrorist attacks in history, even bigger than 9/11.

  October 15, 2015, changed the world. The date would simply be remembered as 10/15. On that day the forces of radical Islam declared war on America and the West, not by a formal decree, but by action. On 10/15, seven commuter trains and five commercial buildings were bombed, along with the people in them. Within a couple of weeks, two luxury cruise ships were blown up and sunk. The country was suddenly in fucking chaos. My growing relationship with Maggie helped the world look saner to me.

  Just going to class became a security nightmare, with checkpoints, metal detectors, and armed guards. The thought crossed my mind that I should volunteer to go back to active duty with the

  Marines. Maggie made the thought go away.

  But now she’s dead.

  Chapter 4

  My senior year, and Maggie’s freshman year, went by like a flash, except, of course, for the unforgettable terrorist attacks of 10/15. After that first lunch we saw each other regularly, more like constantly. When I was in college I hated the hook-up culture, just sex uncoupled from affection. I had my share of dates and I was never a prude, but I was put off by the idea of two people just using each other for pleasure. Maybe I’m old-fashioned. With Maggie and me it was different.

  ***

  On a Saturday in early October, just a week before the terrorist attacks, I took Maggie up to our family lake house in Wisconsin. It’s a great place, one that always brings back memories of my childhood. The house was two stories high with decks on both levels overlooking a large lake. A beautiful antique mahogany Chris-Craft was tied next to the dock. The boat was named “Misty” after our late cat. My father always hated the bullshit names that trial lawyers often gave their boats, names like “Verdict,” or “Judgment” or “The Settlement.” No, Misty worked just fine.

  Maggie and I had been seeing each other for about three weeks.

  The Indian summer temperature was extremely warm for October, hovering close to 80 degrees. Maggie took her overnight bag and went inside to change. I sat and stared at the water, looking forward to getting law school over with so we could enjoy more scenes like this. Maggie came back out, wearing a tiny red bikini. I lost all interest in the lake. She lay down next to me on the large deck chair. If she wore that bikini to arouse me, it was working.


  “Just for you, honey. I’ve never worn anything this small before.”

  I couldn’t believe she was blushing. We wrapped our arms around each other and embraced. Then we kissed, a long, slow, wet kiss. I untied the strings of her top, and her beautiful breasts sprang free.

  “My goodness, what can you be thinking, Matt?” she said as she reached under my shorts.

  “Well, what are you thinking?”

  “I think you want to play around,” she said, her voice husky and her breaths short.

  “Close, but not exactly. I want to make love.”

  And we did. And then we did again, and again. I added another memory to my times at the lake house.

  ***

  Although we didn’t take any of the same courses, we would often study together. Just being with her helped me to get over the normal anxiety of law school. I had fallen in love, and Maggie said the same. Our stay at the lake house in Wisconsin sealed the deal.

  Two weeks before I graduated in June, Maggie and I went to dinner at a great French restaurant on Michigan Avenue. If I was scripting a movie I couldn’t have come up with a better scene. We were seated toward the back, in a dim part of the room. Candlelight flickered on Maggie’s pretty face as we held hands. A Frank Sinatra song played softly in the background. To this day I don’t remember what the song was, but it set the mood. I reached into my pocket and came out with a small box. I opened it and held it so she could see.

  “Marry me. Make me the happiest man in the world.”

  Maggie, never one to be shy, stood up and walked around the table. She sat on my lap, put her arms around my neck, and said, “yes.” Simple as that, she said ‘yes.”

  ***

  My sister Katie attended my graduation ceremony, along with Maggie and my folks. As we stood chatting after the ceremony, my mother said to Maggie, “Why do you have your hand in your pocket? Are you cold?”