Tattered Justice

by John Foxjohn

  She thought about Jimmy—all the time it took him to break in—the part time jobs he worked—long hours, so he could afford to write. She hoped his book gave him the success so he could stop working and concentrate on writing. In that way, he’d always been jealous of Loren.

  With their meal finished, she ordered a cup of coffee and Darren got another, too. They talked about each other, their lives, and when she mentioned her father, he said, “He must be proud of you.”

  She clasped her hands in her lap and looked down for a long moment, taking a deep breath to control her emotions. Her lip quivered. “My father and mother died in an accident two weeks after my sixteenth birthday. For some reason, my father drove in front of a train that hit them full speed.”

  He set his cup down, reached across the table and held her hand for several long minutes. “Uh, I don’t know what to say. That had to be tough on you.”

  “What would make you happy?” As soon as the question popped out, she regretted it. She’d intended to change the subject from her parent’s death, and not pry into his personal life.

  He took his napkin off the table and swiped at his mouth, took a drink of coffee as if stalling. “Actually, I’m divorced—a messy one, too. Have a ten-year-old son I adore more than anything in this world. I never get to see him. My ex always has things planned when it is time for my visitation, any excuse. Kevin doesn’t understand and the only way to get him to would be to talk bad about his mother. I’d love to do that, but it would do Kevin no good at all.”

  Kayla flipped her hair off her ear, frowning. His ex had placed him in a situation he couldn’t win. “Have you spoken to an attorney? Family law, and especially Illinois law isn’t my specialty, but there has to be a way to force her to give you the visitation rights.”

  He nodded and a pity smile formed. “See, that proves my point about money. It is easy to say go see an attorney and in your world, that is what people do. She has remarried, and to one of the people in your world. They would fight it. How could I pay for this high-priced attorney to help me out?”

  His eyes pooled while he talked—not crying, but deep hurt and emotion. She trembled inside for him. She couldn’t do anything for him, but wished she could. “Are you ready to go?”

  His gaze held hers for a long moment, his mouth forming dimples at the corners as he bit on his lower lip. He stood. “Uh-huh—it’s time.”

  They drove back to her condo in silence. Kayla believed she’d made him mad for some reason. She’d known her question would produce this, and wondered if she should apologize. When he pulled up, he killed the engine, opened his door, and hurried around to her side.

  She smiled when he opened her door. Been a long time since a man had opened a door for her, and he escorted her up her driveway. The last time that happened was high school, but that had been on a date—not a business meeting. He placed his hand on the small of her back. Shivers exploded up her spine.

  She paused with the key in hand. She’d ask him in and apologize. “Would you like to come in a moment?”

  He hesitated, then answered. “A moment, if you don’t mind.”

  She turned back to the door and unlocked it. The door swung open. He tensed at a sensation of something coming at Kayla out of the darkness.

  Darren leaped forward, grabbed her and forced her to the steps. Her screams rocketed in his ears.

  NINE

  Kayla fought to control her trembling. She sobbed, huddled on her sofa, knees up, arms wrapped around them. Her eyes burned and she laid her face on her arms. Why had they done that? Please God. Anything else.

  She didn’t look up as tears wet her jeans. Where had Darren gone? She got her answer when someone sat beside her. A comforting hand rested on her shoulder, but not enough, could never be enough to remove the pain in her heart.

  She wanted to scream. Strike out at someone—anyone—to hurt them.

  The hand left her shoulder. Even with the roaring in her head, she knew when he rose. The doorbell and voices penetrated her stupor, but she didn’t know whom they belonged to.

  Without raising her head, she banged her fists on the sofa. Soft at first, her blows increased as her rage did—faster and harder until she gasped for air. Then someone grabbed her hands. She tried to struggle, but they held fast.

  Her head, like a fish peeking out of water, rose. Darren, on his knees, seized her hands. Two cops with worried expressions stood nearby. “Should we call an ambulance?” one of them asked.

  Darren shrugged, and the one who asked the question leaned down. “Ms. Nugent. Do we need to call an ambulance?”

  She tried to say no, but nothing came out. She had no physical pain and a doctor couldn’t take away the other. She buried her face in her hands. “God, how could anyone do this?”

  Her hands pulled away from the ones holding her. A finger touched the bottom of her chin, lifting her head. “Kayla. Please listen. We need to know if we should call an ambulance.” Darren’s voice crept through.

  She tried to shake her head, but didn’t know if she made it. Nausea swept through her. She jerked her hands to cover her mouth, and leaped up, running bent over to the bathroom.

  As she flung the seat up, her stomach erupted from her nose and mouth. Head in the toilet bowl, wave after wave splattered inside and out of the bowl. Shock waves sped through her with every heave.

  She gripped the cold toilet with both hands, knees planted on the floor, and threw up until nothing remained. Dry heaving, she raised her head at last. With no energy, she flopped back on the tile.

  A cold cloth pressed against her face. She didn’t know who did it, but the cloth hid the mess that her face had to be. How long she remained there, she didn’t know, but an emergency radio squawked close, and she elevated her head. A female EMT squatted in front of her. The EMT pushed hair out of her face. “May I call you Kayla?”

  It took all her effort, but she had a sense of her head shifting up and down. She closed her eyes tight. “We’re going to help you up. Okay?”

  Kayla didn’t know if she acknowledged or not, but gentle hands on both sides lifted. Her head swam, but she stumbled forward with help on each side, now aware of everyone in her house—the cops, EMTS, and Darren.

  Sammie, her next-door neighbor, entered with a concerned expression. When Kayla slumped on the sofa, she rushed forward and engulfed Kayla in her arms. “Is there anything I can do?”

  No one could do anything, but Kayla asked, “Could you call Jimmy?”

  “Yes, dear. What’s his number?”

  She mumbled, “Number one on my speed dial.”

  “Kayla,” the female EMT said, “Are you injured? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

  She shook her head. The male EMT knelt beside her and placed a blood pressure cuff on her left arm. Pressure tightened as the female asked, “Can you talk?”

  Kayla nodded, but realized they wanted words. She forced out, “Yes.”

  With a sympathetic smile, the woman patted her arm. “Good. Keep talking to me.”

  Someone on the radio told them to get vitals and transport her to the hospital. Kayla’s head jerked up. “No. No, hospital.”

  In that sympathetic voice, the woman said, “You might be suffering from shock. We need to have you checked out.”

  Kayla shook her head. “No hospital.”

  “Okay, but we need you sign a release form saying you are refusing transport. Do you understand what that is?”

  Darren’s voice spoke from behind Kayla. “Actually, She’s a lawyer.”

  Kayla scribbled her name on the bottom of the form, not worrying about hospitals or release forms. Someone would pay for this. She’d never hurt a person in her life. Never wanted to put her hands on anyone, but she would this one. Gut him or her just like they had her cat.

  As the cops took her statement, Jimmy rushed in the open door. He stormed toward Kayla. “What the hell happened here?”

  One of the cops stepped in front of him. “Who are
you and what are you doing here?”

  With a red face, Jimmy stared at the cop’s restraining hand. “I’m Jimmy Randall. Kayla is my friend and called me.”

  The cop let him by when Kayla nodded.

  Jimmy plopped down next to her, but glared at the cop. “What happened?”

  “Sir, we’re trying to get all the facts now.”

  The other cop with a small notebook continued to ask questions. “When you left, did you lock your doors and windows?”

  Kayla thought a moment before answering. “The front door I’m sure. I didn’t check the others. I didn’t unlock them. When I left for work this morning they were all locked.” She glanced at the one who didn’t ask questions. “Do you know how they got in?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Through the kitchen door in the back. Flimsy lock there.

  Jimmy held his arms out to the side. “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Kayla laid her hand on his arm. “Darren and I went to dinner. We came back and I unlocked the door. Something hit me in the face.”

  Her breath caught and tears streamed down her cheeks. Her voice quivered as she continued. “Someone broke in, killed and gutted Princess, and hung her up on a stick above the front door.”

  “My God, Kayla. Why would a sick bastard do that?”

  She buried her face on his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  Jimmy’s gaze jerked toward Darren. “I don’t know who you are, but you should’ve protected her from this. I outta kick your ass.”

  Darren, leaning against the wall, straightened. “You probably should do a lot of things. I don’t think trying to kick my ass would be your wisest course of action.”

  The cop looked at Jimmy’s skinny frame then to Darren’s muscular bulk. “Naw, that wouldn’t be a wise decision, but anyone who attempts that—” He glanced at Kayla then continued, “—will spend the night as a guest of the city.”

  Kayla raised her head and squeezed Jimmy’s arm. “This isn’t Darren’s fault.”

  Jimmy pointed. “Who the heck is Tarzan, anyway?’

  “Actually, my name is Darren Duval, not Tarzan. I’m a private investigator from Chicago working with Kayla.”

  Jimmy turned back to Kayla. “Do you know why someone would do this?”

  She shook her head, but one of the cops said, “We do. He, she, or they left a note.” He extended the plain white sheet of paper to Kayla.

  She took it in shaking hands.

  I called and warned you, but you wouldn’t listen. If this doesn’t work, it’ll get a lot worse. Loren Estes isn’t worth this. You drop that bitch’s case or the next time this happens to you.

  The cop who had taken notes asked, “You’re Loren Estes’ attorney?”

  Kayla snapped her head up. “Yes, I am.”

  He held his hand up. “That’s your business. We’re through here for the moment. Do you want us to keep a watch on your place tonight?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Darren said. “I’m not about to leave her alone tonight.”

  Jimmy jumped up. “Me, either.”

  The cop nodded. “Looks like you’ll have protection, then.” He turned to Darren. “You licensed to tote in Chicago?”

  “Yes, but before you ask, no, not in Texas. I don’t have a gun with me.”

  The cop turned to leave, but stopped. “You might want to think about getting one.”

  Silence engulfed the room when the cops left. Kayla balled up on the sofa, Jimmy glared at Darren, and the object of those stares leaned against the wall with a bored expression, ignoring the stare.

  Kayla glanced from one to the other and rose, hands on hips. “Please no more arguing or fighting. If that is all you’re going to do, would you please leave.”

  Darren straightened from the wall. “You’re right. Been enough hell around here already.” He strode forward with his hand extended to shake.

  Jimmy didn’t make a move to return the shake until Kayla spun to face him. “Jimmy.”

  “Okay. Okay.” He stood, and extended his hand, but with a scowl.

  “Kayla, I locked the kitchen door and put a chair under the knob,” Darren said. “That Houston cop is right. You need a better lock on it.”

  Kayla glanced at him and forced a smile. “Thank you. Would you two excuse me? I need to take a shower.”

  When they agreed, she headed for her bedroom, but stopped. “Make yourself at home, Darren. Jimmy can show you where everything is.”

  She spun the hot water full blast and eased in. She hadn’t wanted to turn it down, but in moments, she couldn’t stand the heat and added a little cold water. She closed her eyes as heat and steam blasted her in the face, cascading down her chest and stomach.

  She sank to the tile floor. Water pelted below her short hair on her neck and shoulders. At last, she stood with lobster-colored skin and turned the water off. Putrid vomit odors assaulted her when she opened the shower door.

  She almost gagged—her stomach revolting. But she didn’t have anything left to heave. Stumbling to the small bathroom window, she opened it, wrapped a towel around herself, and rushed into her bedroom.

  After dressing in her PJs, she put on an old robe and stood outside the closed bathroom door. She didn’t want to go back in, but had to. Steeling her courage, she opened the door, turned on the overhead fan, grabbed the clothes she’d taken off, and huried out.

  Her clothes stank, too, but not as bad as the bathroom. She threw them in a hamper with other dirty clothes and headed to the basement utility room.

  When she had the washer going, she found a mop, filled a bucket with water and Lysol, picked up other cleaning supplies, and trudged back to the bathroom.

  The odors had dissipated some, but she spent forty-five minutes cleaning up the mess, and when she had it done, sprayed a hefty dose of Lysol deodorizer and shut the door.

  In the living room, Darren and Jimmy slumped around, not speaking. “I’m making some hot tea. Anyone want any?”

  Jimmy shook his head, but Darren turned. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind some, but I’ll make it if you want me to.”

  The corner of Kayla’s mouth turned up in an aborted smile. “I’ll do it. Want anything in it?”

  “Just tea.”

  She placed two large cups in the microwave and pushed the timer to four minutes. While the water heated, she took out the tea, sugar canister, and a small porcelain pitcher of cream.

  Steeping the bags in the hot water, she poured a small amount of cream and a teaspoon of sugar in hers and stirred. She placed it back in the microwave for thirty seconds.

  Waiting, she tilted her head back with her eyes closed, wondering why someone didn’t want her defending Loren. That didn’t make sense at all. The microwave buzzing interrupted her thought. She took a deep whiff of the hot tea, then another. It smelled good, but total fatigue washed through her. On watery legs, she muddled back to the living room. Over the steaming cup she handed him, Darren frowned. “You okay?”

  She nodded and closed her eyes. “Exhausted is all. I hope you don’t mind, I’m taking my tea to bed.”

  “Best thing for you. Get a good night’s sleep.”

  In her room, she pulled back the covers but didn’t get in. She opened her briefcase and brought out the file she had accumulated for Loren, but didn’t look at it. She shuddered when she remembered Princess and what that sick creep did to her.

  Over and over she asked what it mattered if she defended Loren Estes. She wasn’t the best attorney in town—not even the best in her own law firm. With little chance of her winning a jury trial against Proctor, whoever wanted her off couldn’t be afraid of her winning.

  She rose and paced the room. As far as she could tell, Estes himself had voiced the dissension to her defending Loren, but he had other ways—better ways of getting her off than threatening her. He wouldn’t do it himself—he’d hire it—

  “Oh my God.” Her hands flew to
her mouth. Too weak to stand, she fell back on the bed, trembling. Her stomach heaved as she sobbed.

  She curled in a ball on the bed. Now, it all made sense. Why hadn’t she seen it before? This wasn’t an attempt to get her to quit because someone thought she’d win—they didn’t want her on it because she’d lose. That someone had to be Estes. He didn’t even need to go out and hire someone, he already had him here.

  She banged her fists on the bed. That sorry bastard. No wonder he insisted on staying and protecting her.

  TEN

  After a sleepless night, Kayla stumbled to the bathroom at five. The scent of the deodorizer flashed back memories of what happened.

  It took all her willpower not to storm into the living room and bash his brains out. For the longest time, she stood at her door, a sterling silver candleholder in her trembling hand.

  At last, she dropped it to the floor. What if she killed him and later found out someone else killed Princess? She shook her head. He did it—she knew it. He’d pay for it, too.

  She gripped the sink with both hands to stop their trembling. He’d pay, but not quickly. He’d pay like the slow, agonizing way Princess did.

  When she dressed, she left, easing past her sleeping guards in the living room. At least now, she didn’t need to worry about danger. He slept on her sofa. She recalled something she’d read years ago about keeping an eye on your enemies. She needed to keep him close. That way she knew when to be afraid.

  Although she arrived at her office at six-fifteen, many others had beaten her to work. This occurred often. Over the years, she spent an enormous amount of time leaving late and coming in early, but had never arrived first or left last. She believed that some of the attorneys had to sleep in the building. With the exception of the litigation department, the others had their value judged by the number of hours they billed clients each month.

  Litigation also had to bill, but they didn’t have enormous amounts expected of them because the partners hadn’t figured out a way for them to bill clients while they conducted trials. She half smiled thinking about an attorney sitting in the courtroom as a trial progressed, on the cell phone talking to clients while the prosecutor led a witness on the stand.