Justice Lost

by Scott Pratt

“The lawyer? The guy everybody thinks has killed a few folks and gotten away with it?”

  “That’s him,” Morris said. “I think he just killed another one, but that’s not the big problem.”

  “What is the big problem?”

  “Can we have the room?” Morris said to Roby Penn.

  “Fuck you. This is my place. You want privacy? Go outside.”

  “How about I just have the sheriff here arrest you and send your sorry ass off to prison for running an illegal gambling operation?” Morris said.

  Corker quickly stepped between the two men. He knew Roby and Morris had met, but they’d had very little contact. Morris didn’t know how truly unpredictable Roby Penn could be. He didn’t know that something as simple as the empty threat he just made could send Roby off the deep end.

  “I got no intentions of arresting anyone,” Corker said. He smiled widely. “Especially my uncle Roby. He’s paid you ten times more money than the government has over the past four years. You’d be biting the hand that feeds you.”

  “He ought to learn some manners,” Morris said.

  “And maybe you ought to take your happy ass right back down those steps while you’re still able,” Penn said.

  “Did you just threaten me? Did you just threaten the district attorney general of Knox County?”

  Practically before the sheriff could blink, a nickel-plated Colt 1911 .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol appeared from nowhere and was in his uncle’s right hand. It was pointed at Morris’s forehead.

  “I’m not sure,” Penn said. “Let’s ask the sheriff. Did I just threaten the district attorney general of Knox County?”

  “Easy, Roby,” Corker said. “Go easy now. Me and the district attorney are going to walk down the stairs and have a little talk. When I come back, he won’t be with me.”

  Penn nodded his head slowly, not taking his eyes off Morris.

  “That sounds like a good idea,” he said.

  “We’re going now,” Corker said as he slowly took Morris by the arm and turned away. “Why don’t you just go ahead and put that hand cannon away?”

  Corker followed Morris down the steps and out a small door that led to a loading dock at the back of the warehouse. A rusted chain-link fence separated the property from a line of white oak trees a hundred feet away. Once they’d gotten outside, Morris spun. His face was pink with rage.

  “What the hell was that?” he yelled. “I mean, I know Roby’s crazy, but he just aimed a pistol at my forehead! You ought to arrest him.”

  “Calm down,” Corker said. “That man is my uncle and a big part of your paycheck every month, and you know it. He is not getting arrested, unless you want to go back up there and try it yourself. But if you do that, you and I both know you won’t come back. Besides, what would be your explanation for being out here at this warehouse in the middle of nowhere while cockfighting, dogfighting, and bare-knuckle fighting is going on—not to mention a shitload of illegal gambling? You’re working undercover? You’re looking for evidence in a case? Roby isn’t one to be trifled with. He takes things to heart. And doesn’t cotton to people coming onto his property and telling him what to do.”

  “I politely asked him to give us some privacy.”

  “Forget about it, all right? Water under the bridge. Just keep taking your money and let Roby be. So what did you want to talk about? What’s the problem with this Darren Street?”

  “He says he’s going to run against me in the election. I don’t know if he’s bluffing. He hasn’t picked up any qualifying papers, but he told four TBI agents who went to question him about a suspected kidnapping and murder that he was going to run against me.”

  Corker chuckled. “Be damned,” he said. “If he does it, he’s got some set of balls on him.”

  “It isn’t funny,” Morris said. “Street is smart and he’s determined, and he’s been a darling in the press because of all the bad shit that’s happened to him. He’ll get thousands of votes on sympathy alone.”

  “Hasn’t anybody made any progress on any of those murders he’s supposedly committed last year?”

  “None. Nobody’s even looking into them anymore. From what I’ve been able to find out, the files are closed. They’re cold cases.”

  “And the latest? You said he told four TBI agents who went to question him about a possible kidnapping and murder that he was going to run against you. Is this kidnapping and murder a new case?”

  “Yeah. The doctor who was supposed to be taking care of Street’s girlfriend and baby when they died has gone missing.”

  “What do you mean, ‘supposed to be’ taking care of them?”

  “He was on call, but he was drunk at a bar, trying to pick up a woman. Street’s girlfriend had a rare medical condition. If the doctor had been there and been sober, he could have handled it, and she and the baby would have been fine. But he didn’t show up until it was too late, and even when he did show up, he was drunk.”

  “Sounds like a case you should use to make yourself look like a white knight,” Corker said. “Prosecute the doctor. What could you make? Reckless homicide? Criminally negligent homicide?”

  “Can’t do it,” Morris said.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Two reasons. First off, the doctor is a friend. We go way back. Besides, it’s a civil matter, not a criminal case. All Street has to do is sue him. I told him as much.”

  “He came to see you about it?”

  “Yeah. He came to the office. I turned him down. He pretty much threatened me. But that’s not the worst of it. The doctor has pulled a Ben Clancy. He’s disappeared into thin air. Vanished. No sign of him anywhere.”

  “Street?” Corker said.

  “It’s his modus operandi.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a problem, Counselor. So what do you want from me? What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to give you a heads-up on Street, first of all. If he runs, he needs to be stopped. We’ve got too much at stake if he somehow manages to win.”

  “That ain’t the way I see it,” Corker said.

  Morris’s mouth dropped open. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing really changes for me if you lose,” Corker said. “The worst thing I see happening is that there’s one less finger in the pie.”

  “And what if I decide to go to the feds and tell them about your operation?”

  “Then I’m afraid you and your wife and your children and your momma and daddy can expect a visit from Roby and some of his friends.”

  “Not even Roby would murder a district attorney general.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that. If Roby gets wind that you’re thinking of going to the feds, God knows what he’d do. Roby hates the federal government. His favorite nighttime reading is The Turner Diaries. Do you know The Turner Diaries?”

  “Vaguely. Some fictional account of a radical who thinks the government wants to take his guns and his religion so he decides to blow up some federal buildings.”

  “That book has inspired a lot of radical white folks, Mr. DA, and Roby is one of them. I wouldn’t mess with him if I were you, and I damned sure wouldn’t go threatening to rat anybody out to the feds if you lose the election.”

  “So this is how it’s going to go, then?” Morris said. “You’re going to leave me hanging out on my own, fighting my own fight?”

  “If I’m getting what you’re saying, you’re asking me to talk to my political base, maybe raise you some money, get some organizing done, that kind of thing. Maybe even come out publicly and endorse you. Is that what I’m hearing?”

  “That’s what you’re hearing.”

  “I don’t recall you helping me get elected,” Corker said. “I don’t recall you saying a word to help me or getting me a single vote. So I expect I’ll just sit back and see which way the wind is blowing in a month or so. I’ll probably have a sit-down with this Darren Street fella, though, see what’s on his mind, see if he’s willing to join the congregation
if you have to leave. And then I’ll decide what to do. Whatever my decision, you can bet it’ll be in my best interests.”

  “Thanks a lot, Sheriff,” Morris said. “It’s good to know loyalty doesn’t mean shit to you.”

  “A man who talks about loyalty in this line of work is a fool,” Corker said. “I believe in the good Lord above, but I also believe in evolution. Only the strong survive around here. Now I’m gonna go back inside and watch this fight. I don’t think it’d be a good idea for you to do the same.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Corker watched while Morris stomped away, his shoulders slumped, muttering to himself.

  “Some folks just don’t have what it takes to last at this kind of thing,” Corker said aloud as he turned and started climbing the back steps to Roby’s observation room.

  Up to that point, Corker knew of nobody who had announced they were running against Morris in the November election. It was a powerful job, but it was thankless. There were almost a hundred employees who brought all their personal baggage to work every day, and it paid less than a hundred and fifty grand a year without the illegal perks. If a murder was committed and went unsolved, the DA got the blame. If it was solved and the guilty party went to prison for life, barely anyone noticed.

  Morris was unopposed in the August primary, which pretty much made him a slam dunk in November. But now this Darren Street apparently wanted in. Corker thought it might be difficult, though. Street had missed the primary election, so he would have to run as a write-in candidate. Write-in candidates were rarely elected, although it had happened on occasion. As he climbed the last step, Corker decided to just watch it play out. It might even be entertaining.

  “You get rid of him?” Roby Penn growled as the sheriff stepped up to the window. The large crowd had circled two men below. Both were bare-chested and heavily tattooed, wearing only blue jeans and athletic shoes.

  “You know, it probably isn’t a good idea to stick a Colt .45 in the face of the district attorney general,” Corker said.

  “He’s a pussy,” Penn said. “I don’t trust him.”

  “You don’t trust anybody. I assume the marine is the one with the buzz cut?” Corker said.

  “That’s him.”

  “How much you got riding on him?”

  “A couple grand.”

  “Who you betting with? Yourself?”

  “I’m betting with Harley Shaker. Harley’s got some money. Ain’t afraid to bet on himself.”

  “Any man that wouldn’t bet on himself has got no business down there,” the sheriff said.

  “How about you?” Penn said. “Care to make a wager?”

  “I’m not much of a gambling man, Roby, you know that. I just like to pick up my cash at the end of the day.”

  Sheriff Corker knew the rules of bare-knuckle boxing were simple. No biting, no gouging, no head butting, no kicking, and no hitting a man when he was down. There were no time limits to the rounds. Once the referee said, “Fight,” they fought until one man either quit or was knocked unconscious. The sheriff had heard people say that bare-knuckle boxing was actually safer—in terms of head injury—than gloved boxing because if the fighters hit each other in the head with as much force as they did with gloves, they’d break their hands. The two men downstairs were fairly evenly matched from a physical standpoint. Harley Shaker was a couple of inches taller than the marine, but the marine was thicker through the chest and shoulders. Harley’s hair was long, black, and pulled into a ponytail. The marine’s hair was sandy blond and less than a quarter inch long.

  The vocal crescendo built as the betting intensified and money changed hands. The two men met with the referee in the center of the dirt floor, and he gave them last-second instructions. They touched fists, backed a few feet away from each other, and the referee said, “Fight!”

  Shaker began circling to his left, and both men began throwing short, exploratory jabs. More punches were aimed at the bodies than at the heads. Shaker landed a solid right hook to the marine’s ribs, and the crowd became even more excited. The marine backed away, gathered himself, and went back at Shaker with his fists close to his face. His left fist struck like a cobra and caught Shaker square in the temple. Shaker’s knees buckled, and he nearly went down. As he gathered his balance, the marine swarmed him, striking him five times in succession. One of the blows was solid to the solar plexus and took Shaker’s breath. He fell to the floor in a heap. The marine backed off as the men whooped.

  “He’s finished,” Roby Penn said to the sheriff.

  “I’ve seen Shaker take worse. Give him a minute.”

  The marine stood over Shaker and spit on him.

  “Fucking cracker,” he said. “Pussy-boy cracker.”

  It turned out to be a mistake. Shaker was on the ground for only a short time before he stood, staggered briefly before righting himself, shook his head, and let out a guttural yell.

  “Looks like the marine shouldn’t have spit on Harley,” the sheriff said. “I don’t think he’s taking it well.”

  “Bring it, soldier boy!” Shaker yelled.

  The marine waged back in on light feet, taking short steps, maintaining his balance. He tried to sneak an uppercut in, but Harley blocked it with an elbow and countered with a hard right that caught the marine flush across the bridge of the nose. Blood starting pouring from the marine’s nostrils, and he fell backward. Now it was Harley’s turn to pounce. He began pummeling the marine with body shots and knocked him senseless with a precision blow to the chin. The marine went straight over on his back as half the crowd roared and the other half booed.

  Shaker stood over the marine for a second, but then he suddenly jumped on him, straddled him, and began beating him with his fists, elbows, and forearms. The referee pulled him off, but Shaker knocked the referee out cold with a punch to the temple. He turned back to the motionless marine. Harley looked around, saw a piece of concrete the size of a brick on the ground a couple of feet away, picked it up, and bashed the marine’s skull several times with the concrete. He finally stood, dropped the concrete, and raised his arms in victory.

  “Spit on me, would you?” Shaker yelled. “Fuck you! I done killed me a soldier boy.”

  The crowd immediately began to disperse.

  “Shit,” Sheriff Corker said. “This ain’t good.”

  “Get on down there,” Roby said. “See if he’s really dead.”

  “If he’s really dead, I ain’t here.”

  “Do you think I’m here? Do you think anybody was here? Dead or alive, we gotta deal with him. All I’m asking you to do is go down there and check it out while I deal with my boys and the money. I’ll be along directly.”

  Sheriff Corker descended the two flights of steps to the fighting area. Harley Shaker was standing ten feet from the marine, a wild look in his eyes. Everyone else, including the referee, had left.

  “What the hell, Harley?” Corker said. “You know the rules!”

  “He spit on me! You seen it! He spit on me! Nobody spits on Harley Shaker and lives to tell about it.”

  The sheriff knelt and felt for a carotid pulse. Nothing. The marine’s eyes were bloody, open, and lifeless.

  “You killed him,” Corker said, struggling to stand back up.

  “Shouldn’ta spit on me.”

  “Do you know what kind of heat this could bring down on us?”

  “I don’t care. Bring the heat. He shouldn’ta spit on me. You gonna try to arrest me? ’Cause that won’t go too good for you.”

  “No. Get on out of here.”

  “Not without my money. I want my money.”

  “Fine, you want your money? You can just hang around and collect from Roby. I don’t know if he’ll feel much like paying you, though, after what you’ve done.”

  A few minutes passed. Shaker paced in a circle, and the sheriff smoked a cigarette.

  “Is he really dead?” a rough voice said. It was Roby Penn. He walked through a back door and sauntered into the ab
andoned warehouse space a few minutes later.

  “Deader than four in the morning,” Sheriff Corker said. Corker looked back down at the marine, who had somehow chosen to come to this place for a bare-knuckle-boxing match and wound up dead.

  “Harley, you crazy son of a bitch. What’d you have to go and kill him for?”

  “He spit on me, Roby. You seen it.”

  “And now we got a body on our hands that we have to get rid of. And this ain’t just some redneck who lives with his granny, Harley. This boy’s family has a bunch of money. They’re gonna make sure people come looking for him.”

  “So? We make sure they don’t find him,” Shaker said.

  “What do you think we ought to do with him, Tree?” Penn said to the sheriff.

  “Shit, I don’t know. We only got about three hundred people running around out there who know what happened here today.”

  “Yeah, and every one of them knows the code and the price for breaking it. They’ll keep their mouths shut,” Penn said.

  “Bull. They drink and they flap their gums,” the sheriff said. “Word’ll get around.”

  “So what do you want to do with him?”

  “Get a truck, a tarp, and some shovels.”

  “So you’re gonna bury him?” Penn said. “Where?”

  “I figure it’s your place and your problem,” the sheriff said. “Besides, you make the most money, you take on the worst problems when something goes bad.”

  “You want me to bury him? You don’t give me orders, fat man.”

  “I’m not touching this, Roby. Make Harley help you. Maybe he’ll think twice before he goes off on somebody again. And make sure y’all do it right. This guy needs to go away.”

  CHAPTER 14

  A gleaming black Cadillac cruised slowly into the parking lot of a popular restaurant not far from Neyland Stadium and backed into a spot about twenty feet from where I was sitting. It was a new car, a sleek CT-6 sedan. It looked like it should be carrying a mob boss. The windows were tinted, so I couldn’t see who was driving.

  After receiving a phone call from Granny Tipton, I’d jogged from my apartment to a public park a couple of miles away, cutting through strip malls, doubling back, heading into and out of residential areas briefly, and then down Neyland Drive toward the restaurant. I had to make sure the cops weren’t following me. After Dr. Nicolas Fraturra, I’d gone back into full paranoid mode. It was an exhausting way to live, but I was already becoming used to it. I got up off the bench I was sitting on and walked toward the car. I went to the passenger side, opened the door, and peered in.