Foreclosure: A Novel

by S. D. Thames

  I will change.

  David heard silence now. He still didn’t know exactly what was happening. He peeked out of one eye and saw Robbie lowering himself into the locker, gripping the gaff and aiming to spear David again. The floor of the locker was colored with David’s blood. It looked black under the light of the moon and stars.

  Robbie raised the spear again and started to thrust it down—when David rolled away and kicked Robbie’s chest. Robbie couldn’t keep his balance on the floor, slick with David’s blood, sweat, and tears, combined with leftover fish guts and effluvia from previous kills. Robbie slipped to his knees.

  David had no idea where the spear was now, but he started punching Robbie in the side, landing as many blows as he could. He felt weak and flimsy. The punches were probably hurting him more than Robbie, who seemed content to take all David had before he unleashed his wrath.

  Robbie slowly reached up to the lip of the locker to pull himself out. David stayed with him and landed a succession of blows to his head and neck while Robbie gripped the hatch.

  Robbie returned a few fierce kicks. One landed on David’s chin. His head slammed against the edge of the open door.

  Robbie was almost out of the locker now, so David gave up and tried to pull himself out at the same time.

  Robbie was the first one to escape; once out, he lowered the hatch door on David. It hit David’s head and jarred him, but didn’t knock him loose. David pulled back on the door, at the same time freeing himself enough to fly out underneath it. He somehow escaped, and the door slammed shut behind him.

  The fresh December breeze greeted David, as did Robbie’s pistol.

  A sliver of silver glimmered on the floorboard—the spear reflecting moonlight. David lunged for it. He flung it at Robbie as the pistol fired two quick shots.

  “Fuck!” Robbie shouted. His voice was a hoarse cry. He clasped his bloodied hands and muttered the words again, lower now. The gun had disappeared in the darkness.

  David lost himself for a second. Before he knew what was happening, Robbie had taken the spear in his bloodied hands. He rushed at David. David sidestepped a jab, but the spear retracted and fired, retracted and fired.

  Robbie landed the next stab right in David’s shoulder. He was driving the spear, but David held it, gritted his teeth, and took the pain. Robbie tried to twist it in farther, but David stopped it. You can take the pain, he told himself. You’ve had pain all your life. You can stop it, and stop letting it run your life. A bundle of nerves were screaming in his neck and sent agonizing flashes through his spine and body—seemingly everywhere but the shoulder where the spear was lodged.

  Just as they reached a stalemate, David eyed an empty outrigger swaying back and forth over the swells of the water. He leapt and grabbed it and rode it over the water and back onto the deck. Somewhere along the ride, the spear fell out and took a chunk of flesh with it. He regained his footing on the deck and found the gun where it had slid into a corner by the center console.

  Robbie saw it too and lunged for it.

  But it was already in David’s hands by the time Robbie finished his slide.

  David pointed the gun at Robbie. “Don’t move.”

  “It doesn’t have to be this way.” Robbie tested David with a step.

  David raised the gun and fired a shot over the boat. “Take another one and you’re dead.” He lowered the gun and aimed it at Robbie’s chest. He considered whether to shoot him and let the Coast Guard sort it out, or put him back in the locker. Both options had their downsides.

  Then he got another idea. He moved to a rail along the edge of the boat, keeping the gun locked tight on Robbie, and he grabbed a life vest.

  “Raise the anchor,” he said to Robbie.

  Robbie obeyed, easing his way to the console and pushing a lever. All the while, the gun stared at his heart.

  David waved Robbie away from the console. He pulled the ignition, one of the few controls he’d understood how to operate when he’d watched Frank and Robbie at the helm. Then he stepped away from the console and led Robbie to the side rail. David leaned over and threw the life vest into the swirling water.

  He nodded at Robbie and said, “Swim to it.”

  Robbie didn’t move.

  David raised the gun a few degrees. “Jump now, or I’ll finish this.”

  Robbie glanced at the dark waters. David gripped the trigger.

  “You don’t know how many bullets are left,” Robbie said.

  “It only takes one.”

  Robbie nodded in defeat, jumped overboard, and swam toward the life vest as it drifted away from the boat. David watched him swim about twenty yards to reach the vest. Once Robbie was a safe distance from the boat, David checked the sky and saw a faint glow where the sun was starting to rise in the east. He turned the wheel and accelerated.

  Then he grabbed the radio, flipped a switch, and figured out how to give the Coast Guard the coordinates where they could find a murderer floating in the Gulf of Mexico.

  David arrived at the double doors to Judge Cox’s courtroom a few minutes after nine o’clock. There had been no time to shower; a semi-clean suit covered most of his wounds and bandages. He pulled the doors open, and there was Judge Cox addressing the ladies and gentlemen of the jury.

  “It is not uncommon for cases to settle in the middle of a trial,” Judge Cox was explaining. “The good news is, we finished before Christm—” He stopped when he realized that all the jurors were staring at the lectern, and there was David, waiting to address the court. The judge squinted in David’s direction. “Mr. Friedman, I was about to dismiss the jury.”

  “I need to address the court, Your Honor, before you go any further.”

  “Mr. Jenkins has already explained your situation.”

  “I bet he did.” David glanced at the defendant’s table, where Terry was glaring at him, shaking his head and mouthing something fierce. Frank leaned over and whispered to Terry. His eyes were covered in gauze. “But not about this, Your Honor.”

  Judge Cox looked to Terry too, but Terry’s eyes were still trying to burn a hole through David.

  David cleared his raspy throat. “I am moving to withdraw from representing Pinnacle Homes & Investments.”

  Terry stood. “This is absurd, Judge. The case has settled.”

  “I’ve given my client notice that I am withdrawing.”

  “On what grounds, Mr. Friedman?”

  David glanced at the jury. “I’ve been used to perpetrate a fraud on the court. I must withdraw.”

  Judge Cox covered his face and rubbed his eyes. “Bailiff, please remove the jury.”

  The jurors wouldn’t budge. After three waves from the bailiff, they reluctantly stood and followed him out of the courtroom.

  Once they were gone, Judge Cox turned to David and released his wrath. “Mr. Friedman, in all my years on the bench, I’ve never seen such shenanigans. I am going to investigate this and make the proper recommendations to the Florida Bar.”

  David stood still. “Judge, I request permission to withdraw as counsel for Pinnacle Homes.”

  “What do the parties have to say about this?” the judge asked.

  Terry leaned over and whispered something to Frank, and then he stood. “No objection, Judge. Mr. Friedman is suffering from mental illness and should be removed from this case and the practice of law immediately.”

  “Mr. Vasquez?” asked the judge.

  Vasquez stumbled to his feet. “No objection to the withdrawal. Of course, in light of these circumstances, we are requesting that the court not dismiss the case pending our chance to review …” He shook his head, as though a better idea had struck. “Upon further consideration, we move to vacate the dismissal and request a mistrial.”

  Judge Cox raised his hands and covered his face. “We’ll address that later. For now, the record will reflect that I am granting the motion to withdraw made by Mr. David Friedman. Mr. Friedman is relieved of all further responsibility to Pinnacle
Homes & Investments in this matter.” He stared at David through his thick glasses. “Mr. Friedman, the court will retain jurisdiction over you with respect to your conduct in this case.”

  David nodded. “I understand.” He turned and started his exit. He slowed as he passed Terry’s table. He tried making eye contact, but Terry wouldn’t oblige. His face was red and his eyes looked ready to explode.

  All Terry would say was: “Get out of here before I kill you with my own hands.”

  Frank could sense David’s passing, and shook his head. “David? I can’t see you.”

  Outside, his tired eyes adjusted to the morning sunlight. He glided down the courthouse steps. On the adjacent corner, Beth Conner’s Camry sat idling, Beth waiting inside.

  “I told you I wouldn’t be long,” he said, closing the passenger door.

  Beth smiled cautiously, as though unsure whether to smile or cry. “The hospital or the police?”

  He retrieved his attaché from the floor. “Actually, I had somewhere else in mind.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Ten minutes later, Beth pulled into the driveway of a massive Mediterranean home a few blocks from Terry’s. David was surprised to see the For Sale sign on the front lawn. As he opened the car door, a Gulf breeze blew it wide open.

  He looked to Beth. “Will you wait?”

  “It depends.” She eyed the attaché in his grip. “What’s in the bag?”

  He shook his head. She checked the clock on the dash. “I can wait a few minutes.”

  A moment later, he took a breath and knocked on the front door. Wanda Savage opened it. She looked him up and down. “Is something wrong, David? You look lost.”

  David glanced at Beth’s car and then back to Wanda. “Actually, I was hoping to speak to Ed.”

  She stared at him a moment longer with a look of sadness and indecision. Then, she told him to follow her. She led him through the foyer, into the kitchen of the home that he and Ed Savage had fought over for nearly two years. They arrived at a kitchen table of sturdy faded wood that David imagined had been in Wanda’s family for generations.

  David set his bag on the tabletop and declined an offer of coffee. “Is Ed home?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, David—”

  He felt a lump in his throat. “Don’t tell me he—”

  “He’s driving north to look at homes. We decided to downsize.”

  He relaxed with relief as he unzipped the bag and pulled out a manila folder. “Do you think I could leave something for him?”

  She looked at the bag with curiosity.

  “This has been in my files for over a year now. It’s supposedly the last copy in existence.”

  She only had to glance at the email—the email Blake Hubert had asked David to hold onto for safekeeping—before it was clear she knew what it was. “I guess I don’t need to tell you how many nights of sleep we lost over this email?”

  David nodded. “I know.”

  She seemed entranced by the email.

  “I wanted you to know he was right.”

  Wanda sighed. “I knew he was right about this. But he was wrong, too. And I told him that as many times as he swore this email existed.”

  “I don’t know if it would have made a difference at trial. But I should have produced this. Or quit.”

  She smiled softly. “I can appreciate that.” Then she turned to a buffet lined with candles and serving ware. She picked up a match and lit it. Then, she set the flame to the email. Once it had caught fire, she set it inside a silver basin. “I told you before, I forgave you.”

  David watched a puff of smoke rise from the basin, and smelled sulfur and the Gulf.

  “Will you tell Ed about this?” David said.

  She shook her head. “It’s over, David. I appreciate what you did today, but this is over. I have forgiven you. I’m not sure my husband could. Regardless, I do not want to upset him.”

  David nodded that he understood.

  She made sure the fire was out and turned, telling him it was time to go.

  As she opened the front door again, a warm breeze pulled the door out of her hands and knocked it against the stucco wall. Wanda shielded her face from the wind. “The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going.”

  “What’s that?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve been praying for you.”

  He didn’t know what to say.

  “In fact, I awoke early this morning, before the sun rose, and for some reason you were on my mind.”

  A chill tingled up his spine and struck a nerve, something deep inside him he’d never known he had. “Thank you.”

  Wanda’s eyes wandered and she took a breath. “I’m honestly not very good at this.”

  “At what?”

  She shrugged. “This.”

  “I don’t know what this is, but you seem to be doing fine. Much better than me.”

  “Good.” She smiled again, kissed his cheek lightly, and pulled the door closed against the wind.

  A moment later, Beth started the car and asked, “Who was that?”

  “Just someone I had a case against.” He reclined in the passenger seat.

  “Did you win?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  She looked down at him, her blue eyes glistening in the soft December sun. “So now, the hospital or the police?”

  He didn’t answer. He felt the car back out of the driveway and shift into drive. “You think the US Attorney’s hiring?” he asked.

  She chuckled. “I highly doubt that—especially for someone who finished second in his class.”

  “Something I always wanted to tell you about that.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I let you be first.”

  She smacked his shoulder, right where the gaff had pierced him and torn off flesh. “I call bullshit on that.”

  He cringed from the pain, but he knew he deserved it. And he wouldn’t admit it, at least not yet, but he knew she was right too. So he listened to her laugh, the sweetest laugh in the world; it was music to his ears. “You mind if I turn on the radio?” he asked.

  She turned it on for him. Another chill as he recognized the song: Stevie Ray Vaughan singing the chorus to “Pride and Joy.”

  “Is this your CD?” he asked.

  She shrugged and laughed. “For some reason, I’ve listened to this CD since law school.” She sang along.

  Yeah I love my baby, my heart and soul.

  Love like ours won’t never grow old.

  He sang the next line with her:

  She’s my sweet little thing, she’s my pride and joy.

  She’s my sweet little baby, I’m her little lover boy.

  She turned the volume down a notch. “What do you say we go back to your place?”

  He turned it all the way down. “And?”

  She bit her lip. “And—” she drew it out, just to make him wait. “You play your guitar for me. I haven’t heard that in a while.”

  He gripped her hand. He knew exactly what he’d play.

  Acknowledgments

  I dedicated this book to my parents and my wife, and I’d be remiss not to mention them here again. Mom and dad, you were saints to raise me, especially during my teen years. Thanks for giving me the leeway to both fail and succeed, and to learn from the experience one way or the other.

  My wife and daughter have shown me so much love and understanding, even when our often-sparse time together was cut even shorter due to my reading and writing. I’m sorry for all the times it seemed I wasn’t paying attention. Please know that you’re always at the center of my world, and please forgive me when I don’t express that adequately.

  I’m fortunate to have a younger brother who in many ways has long been like an older brother to me. Hey Brother! Thanks for the countless hours of listening to my ideas and reading my drafts and always providing honest and direct feedbac
k.

  I’m very grateful that I had the opportunity to work with Jen Blood on this project. She went far beyond what I would have expected from a beta reader and copy editor. In so many instances, she pointed out character inconsistencies I’d missed, showed me how to articulate better what I was trying to say, and truly helped me to write the book I wanted to write. Thanks also to Diana Cox for her proofreading service, and Catherine Skinner for her professional beta reading service.

  I owe a tremendous thanks to the Estate of Stevie Ray Vaughan for granting permission to quote lyrics from “Cold Shot” and “Pride and Joy” in this novel. This story would be lacking without those lines from the late genius. He will forever be missed.

  Thanks to Jason C for his helpful comments on an early draft of this novel that guided my revisions and helped me to develop my protagonist. Thanks, too, for introducing me to Ian Rankin.

  I’ve had numerous teachers and friends over the years who’ve provided comments on this book or otherwise encouraged and inspired my writing, including Dr. R. Downing, Dr. B. Kershner, Cheryl L, Christy S, Sean C, Lindsay G, Mike R, Matt F, J-Kirb, Zac F, James N, Kate L, Stephanie K, Stephanie C, Lauren R, Freddy F, Kevin and Shawn N, Doug and Suzi H, Laura W, Heather and Jerel T, Brad C, Caroline and Cris C, Debi H, Stephen G, and Paul P. I’m sure that I’m forgetting others here who deserve recognition. If you are one of them, feel free to call me out on it, and I promise to buy you a beer and do better next time.

  I also wish to thank the judges and lawyers who exemplify honesty and integrity in a profession that far too often lacks both.

  Finally, I’d like to offer a shoutout to all the David Friedmans I’ve encountered over the years. Never stop fighting the good fight.

  About the Author

  S.D. Thames lives in Tampa, Florida, where he practices law under his legal name. Sign up for his newsletter here to learn about his new releases. He hates spam as much as you do, and he’ll never share your email address with anyone. You can learn more about him and his work at www.sdthames.com, and feel free to drop him a line at sd@sdthames.com. He’d love to hear from you.