Foreclosure: A Novel

by S. D. Thames

  The instant David realized the gun was moving toward him, he leapt for it—just before it began firing. Bullets clanged against metal behind him. He wrestled for the gun. The guy was too strong and mean—he moved like a boar. David held his arm with everything he had. He lost count of the shots, but knew there couldn’t be many left in the chamber.

  Meanwhile, he sensed that Samson was now out of his car, on a knee, taking aim. David tried to keep the assailant in Samson’s line of fire. He was losing grip of the arm. Panicking, he sank his teeth into the guy’s bare forearm. He squeezed as hard as he could, and then there was the unmistakable taste of blood. The guy grunted and groaned as David spat and shuddered. A soft thump, like a gun hitting the gravel. David lunged but couldn’t find the gun.

  David heard more shots. He realized Samson was firing his gun and screaming something unintelligible. David looked up. The perpetrator was gone. He saw Samson storming in his direction with his gun drawn, screaming for David not to move. David charged into him, trying to knock the gun lose.

  But Samson felt like a wall. He rammed David with his shoulder, knocking him back a good five feet.

  “I said don’t move, you piece of shit.” Samson squeezed the gun with all his might, keeping it tight on David’s chest.

  David saw Samson screaming, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. Couldn’t make sense of anything. His head throbbed. His vision blurred. He could only concentrate on focusing. As he did, Samson’s yelling became clearer.

  “I said you’re under arrest.”

  David steadied his head. His vision focused enough to see the badge swinging like a pendulum from Samson’s neck.

  He moaned as he realized Samson was an agent for the FBI.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  David kept his fingers gripped behind his throbbing head. Eyes closed, he heard the door open again. He didn’t look to see who it was this time. He didn’t care.

  “Let’s try this again.” It was a voice he knew all too well now—that of Special Agent Samson Spikes.

  “You’re wasting your time,” David moaned.

  “No, David, you are.” It was another familiar voice.

  David opened his eyes and saw that Beth had followed Samson into the interrogation room. “And you are working with very dangerous men.”

  “The only guy who tried to kill me tonight is sitting right over there.” David nodded at Samson.

  “You’d be dead if I hadn’t shown up,” Samson said. “Think about it. You visit Nick Ruiz in prison today. Tonight, one of their gunmen tries to kill you.”

  “Why do you think that is?” Beth asked.

  “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” David said. “He was probably someone after this lunatic.” He nodded at Samson again.

  She shook her head. “You’re in denial.”

  “This has nothing to do with anyone I work for.”

  Samson crossed his arm and flexed his pecs. “I should have let him jump your ass.”

  “You’re the one who let him go,” David said. “Just get me out of here. I have a trial starting in the morning.”

  “A trial?” Beth whacked the table, anger burning in her eyes. “Are you out of your mind?”

  David nodded. “Actually, now that you mention it.”

  She turned her frustrated glare to Samson. “I need a minute with him. Alone.”

  “Be my guest.” Samson slammed the door behind him.

  David moaned. “Beth, spare me another lecture, please.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you think you’re going to accomplish with this case?”

  “What the hell do you think I’m trying to accomplish? I’m going to win this damn trial. And then I’m going to make partner. Get married. Have a kid or two. Bank seven figures. See the world. And then die.” He smiled. “Interested?”

  She snatched his hand and tugged as though she were trying to pull him awake. “You remember our first semester of law school? Remember what you wanted to do after you graduated?”

  David pulled his hand back. “I didn’t know what I wanted.”

  “You sure did at the time. You wanted to fight for justice. You remember that? You wanted to represent the little guy, do the right thing. And moonlight in a blues bar, for crying out loud.”

  “All right, Beth. Good for you. I was wrong. I didn’t know what I wanted. You were right. You had your life all mapped out correctly. Me, it’s taken me time to figure things out.”

  “And what do you want now?”

  “I want to kick Victor Vasquez’s ass.”

  “At what cost, David? You know your client or someone working for him burned down the south tower.”

  “No, Beth, I don’t know that. Show me proof of that.”

  “What more proof do you need? Your client is the most crooked developer in Florida. Do you know how many investigations we’ve had on him? How many crooks he’s tied to, every which way you can imagine?”

  He rolled his eyes “If he’s so bad, why don’t you just arrest him already?”

  “I wish it were that easy.”

  “It’s because you don’t have shit on him.”

  She smacked the table again. “Actually, we were this close,” she said, gesturing an inch with her thumb and finger. “This damn close. And you know what happened?”

  He stared at the table, his lips tight.

  “The tower and office went up in flames. Along with all our evidence.” She leaned closer. “Including our informant.”

  He met her glare. “What’d you say?”

  “That’s right. Katherine Hawkins was feeding us what we needed to get him, and we were this damn close.”

  “You turned the guy’s own daughter against him? That’s pretty messed up, even for the feds.”

  “She contacted us, David. You’re saying that was just a coincidence too? That she was in the building that night?”

  “He wasn’t behind that. He would never do anything to hurt her.”

  “Then who would? Don’t underestimate this guy.” She slid two photographs across the table. “Recognize these guys?”

  He skimmed the pictures and shook his head.

  “Stefan Matthews. A sixty-year-old retired gas contractor. Went missing late last year. Believed to be working with this guy.” She flipped to the next photograph: a twenty-year-old with a blond ponytail. “Tommy Blanks. One of the last people to see Matthews alive, he was found with a bullet in his head the night of the fire, an apparent suicide.”

  “And your point?” he asked.

  “It all points to O’Reilly.”

  “Except you don’t have anything to connect it to him, Beth. I’m telling you, it’s not O’Reilly.”

  “Then who the hell is it?”

  David didn’t want to answer, but at this point he had nothing to lose—and only information to gain. “Ever hear of Xerxes Capital?”

  “You mean the boogeyman? More like a sham escrow agent O’Reilly set up to hide fraudulent transfers of escrow monies.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Katherine told us. She said she could get the documents to prove it. That was right before she was killed.”

  David thought about the note and message Katherine had left before she died and the trail of fake documents he’d been leaving for Frank in the courts of Gaspar County. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Neither did he.

  “You have to admit, that was a pretty convenient fire. Eliminated all incriminating evidence of mortgage fraud. And now, if you win this trial, Frank O’Reilly will get paid in full as if the housing bubble never burst.”

  “His investors will,” David corrected her.

  “There are no investors, David. The buck stops with him.”

  David recalled Ruiz saying the same thing about Frank. The buck stops with him. Beth was glaring at him, and he knew there was nothing he could say or do to change her mind or make her happy, short of quitting the case—which would mean quitting h
is job, if not quitting himself. “Am I free to go?”

  “You’re free to go get yourself killed. And God help you if you don’t.”

  “I’ve got an opening statement to give.”

  He stood, sensing she was on the verge of breaking down or hitting him at any moment. He made for the door, anxious to get out of there, but also hoping that maybe she’d stop him. But she didn’t move. She didn’t say a word.

  He pulled the door open and closed it behind him. He hoped he wasn’t closing it forever, but he was almost certain he was.

  David raced downtown. He still had time to practice his opening again before he had to pick up Frank. His phone rang as he slowed behind a bus unloading passengers. It was a Miami number.

  “You ready to be schooled?” Vasquez said.

  “Something tells me you didn’t call me to talk shit. Feeling anxious, Victor?”

  “Not me. But I thought you and your client might be desperate. So I got a settlement offer for you.”

  “Just like an insurance company to try and settle the morning of trial.”

  “You want to hear it or not?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I assume you told him to go to hell?” Frank said as he fell into the passenger seat and slammed the door to the Saab.

  “That’s almost half the policy limits, Frank.” David accelerated to catch up with the morning traffic.

  “Exactly. Half the policy limits. Not a chance.”

  “You’re not thinking this through. That’s a lot of money.”

  “I know it’s a lot of money for you. You’ll get your nice payout. But it won’t make my investor happy. My hands are tied.”

  “The investor,” David murmured as he pulled up to a red light.

  Frank leaned over, grabbed David’s chin and squeezed it like an angry nun. “You think I’m lying about this? Who do you think was sending you a message last night, you moron? Sniffing around the night before trial.”

  David cleared his throat. “I don’t think you’re lying.”

  “And they want paid in full. They’re rolling the dice. Nothing to lose.”

  “That’s unreasonable.”

  “That’s the deal.”

  The light turned green. David floored it and rubbed his chin, still feeling the lingering pain from Frank’s grip. “Who the hell are these people, Frank?”

  “They pay my bills, and they pay yours. That’s all I care about. And all you should too.”

  “Actually, no one’s been paying my bills lately.”

  “Win this and that will change.”

  They rode in silence for five minutes. Then David pulled into the parking garage behind the courthouse. Frank was staring at him when he parked.

  “And don’t forget, David. You and me, we’re the only people with something to lose in this case.”

  David left Frank in the garage to smoke and rushed through security with a box of trial exhibits.

  Vasquez was already seated in the courtroom with his exhibits lined up meticulously behind his table. He smiled at David, hopeful for some good news.

  “They want the policy limits,” David said as he set his box down. “We’ll waive bad-faith damages.”

  Vasquez hopped up and clasped his hands. “You want to play hardball? We can play hardball. You never know what a jury’s going to make of these facts. The only thing people in Florida hate more than insurance companies these days is a developer who’s foreclosed on half of Gaspar County.”

  “They’re willing to roll the dice.”

  Vasquez shrugged. “Let them roll.”

  Less than five hours later, after selecting a jury that morning and listening to Frank talk nonsense over lunch about the pressure he was getting from his investors, David sat at counsel’s table, the notes to his opening statement wide open in front of him, waiting for the jurors to return from their date with Chinese food. Vasquez would go first because his scum-sucking insurance company client filed suit first, basically for this very reason—to go first. To be the plaintiff, the aggrieved party. And to get the last word. The same reasons David had sued Meridian Bank first.

  Judge Cox returned to the courtroom and told the bailiff to bring in the jury, those eight Joes and Janes off the street whose only qualifications to fulfill their civic duty were that they had a driver’s license or some form of identification, were of the age of majority, and had never been convicted of a felony.

  David took a deep breath. He didn’t feel a drip of adrenaline. Maybe it would come when the jury returned. Or maybe when Vasquez finally began his opening. Or maybe he had adrenal fatigue, and this was it—the juice had run out.

  “All rise!” the bailiff shouted as the jurors returned to the courtroom and slid into their seats, their bellies full with whatever lunch the taxpayers’ dollars had bought them.

  “Is the plaintiff ready to proceed?” Judge Cox asked.

  Vasquez said he was, so Cox explained to the jurors what an opening statement was and reminded them that what the lawyers said was not evidence—one of many meaningless instructions he would give them over the course of the trial.

  Vasquez grabbed the lectern. The overpriced gray wool of his suit shone under the light of the courtroom. He threw the jury a million-dollar smile. A few of the jurors smiled back; an equal number made no expression. A few already looked distrustful. David liked his odds.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” Vasquez introduced himself. His delivery wasn’t quite as polished as David had expected. David just sat back and studied the jurors’ demeanors as Vasquez got going.

  “I want to remind you: looks can be deceiving. We’ve all heard that saying before. But I assure you, by the time this trial is over, you’ll have a new appreciation for that old saying.”

  As David listened to Vasquez’s rhetoric and watched him gesticulating with his nicotine-stained fingers, he realized what a fraud Victor Vasquez really was. Not only that, but most every lawyer David had ever worked with or against were frauds as well. He had long suspected this, and maybe had been reluctant to admit it. But watching this man—who David knew was neurotic and probably took psychotropic medication and could really care less about the outcome of this trial, but somehow pulled the wool over his clients’ eyes and kept them coming back enough to support a multi-million-dollar book of business—David felt like he was watching the Wizard of Oz in action. This was just a sad and sorry excuse for a lawyer who, by some cruel stroke of fate, had somehow convinced people, or at least insurance companies, that he was competent and had won enough cases to support that façade. It was time to pull back the curtain. Looks could be deceiving indeed.

  Vasquez smacked his lips in transition. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be the first to tell you something. You’re not going to hear any testimony that Frank O’Reilly or anyone else from his company took a match to Gaspar Towers. You’re not going to see any video of him or anyone else setting the fire. But at the end of the trial, you’ll learn why that doesn’t matter.”

  Vasquez was trying to downplay the weakness of his case. David may have been biased, but he thought it rang hollow.

  Vasquez tilted his head and presented his widest and brightest smile. “So, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll get a chance to talk to you again at the end of the trial. And at that point, I’ll ask you to enter a verdict in favor of my client. Until then, I ask that you remember that looks—looks can be deceiving.” He nodded. “Thank you.”

  Vasquez returned to his table.

  As David stood and made his way to the lectern, Terry gave him a quick nod of encouragement from the gallery.

  Judge Cox asked if David was ready to proceed.

  David laid down his notes and cleared his throat. “Yes, Judge, thank you.” He tried smiling at the jury before he started, but his lips wouldn’t seem to move. “Good morning.” As he introduced himself, he was already wondering whether he was getting more smiles or snarls than Vasquez. Every face looked blank now, like a teac
her had come by and, with a swipe of an eraser, left eight faceless circles on the blackboard. “Pinnacle Homes & Investments, at one time, employed hundreds of workers in Gaspar County.”

  The more he listened to the mundane things he was saying, the smaller the faces were shrinking.

  A moment later, he glanced at his notes but had no idea where he was in his outline. He paused, and felt that the silence had grown awkward. At least the jurors had faces again. A few looked bored. Did juror number seven look angry? He turned the page, but still had no idea what he’d just said or where to resume. Worse, his mouth was growing dry. He bit his tongue to try to conjure up some moisture in his mouth.

  “Now, you heard Mr. Vasquez reference this intentional and criminal act exclusion in the insurance policy. Well, I want you to take a look at my client sitting right there.” He pointed to Frank, who nodded stoically. “Take a good look at him. Because he’s here in court today. And he’s not wearing a prison jumper. He’s wearing a civilian suit. And that should tell you something.”

  Vasquez quickly stood. “Objection.”

  “Get up here now,” Judge Cox barked.

  David followed Vasquez to the sidebar. Regardless of the ass-chewing that lay ahead, he was glad just to get away from the podium for a break.

  Vasquez didn’t wait to be heard. “Judge, in my twenty years of practice, I’ve never objected during an opening. But I know where this is going.”

  “And so do I,” the judge said. “Mr. Friedman, my ruling was quite clear, wasn’t it? No reference to criminal prosecution or lack thereof.”

  “But Your Honor—”

  “But nothing. You know better. Do it again and I’m declaring a mistrial, and I will hold your ass in contempt. You hear me, sir?”

  David nodded.

  “I thought you might have learned something since our last trial together. But what do they say about teaching an old dog new tricks?”