Bikini Baristas: Ted Higuera Series Book 4

by Pendelton Wallace

  At six two, with blond hair and blue eyes, Chris seemed like the perfect example of an all-American boy, something Ted could never hope to be. No matter how much he wanted to be mainstream American, his swarthy skin, dark hair and stocky build shouted “Hispanic.” He couldn’t escape who he was.

  But in Seattle it didn’t matter that much. Growing up in East LA there hadn’t been a day gone by that some white kid hadn’t called him a wet back or beaner or some other derogatory name. In the northwest that kind of language was practically unheard of. Except for his run in with some skin-head neo-Nazis that put him in the hospital once, he didn’t feel any different from anyone else when he was here.

  “Hey, amigo,” Chris said as he entered the bar, “you want to get a table in the dining room?”

  “Sure.” Ted picked up his Dos Equis and followed Chris to the hostess stand.

  “Well, well.” Hope’s smile nearly broke her face open. “Mr. Hardwick. Table for two?”

  “You could make it a table for three if you like,” Chris said.

  Ted wanted to throw up. Couldn’t they save the flirting for when they were alone?

  “Can I get you something to drink?” the pretty server asked as Hope seated them.

  “I’ll take a Margarita, on the rocks,” Chris said.

  “I’m good.” Ted waved his bottle of beer at her.

  “Bring me an iced tea, Mari, please.” Hope seated herself next to Chris.

  The smells of Hope’s restaurant brought back memories of home. Ted could picture Mama roasting chiles on her comal in the kitchen. He smelled the frijoles cooking. Her carnitas were his favorite. Hope had really captured the feel of a Mexican kitchen in her new restaurant.

  “So, how’s the job going?” Ted reached for a tortilla chip and dipped it in the green salsa that Mari brought along with the drinks.

  “I got my first ‘real’ case today,” Chris said. He sipped at his drink. “Man, that’s good. Reminds me of our summer in Mexico.”

  “A time I’d just as soon forget,” Hope said.

  “So,” Ted said, “what’s your new case?”

  “Oh, I got some asshole kid, a distant relative of Ben Johnson, one of our senior partners. He dumped this on me because I’m the most junior attorney in the firm.”

  “Sounds like fun.” Ted waved his empty beer bottle at Mari. She smiled and nodded.

  “Is Maria going to join us?” Hope asked.

  “No. She’s got some kind of faculty dinner tonight. For new staff.”

  “This kid,” Chris said, “he’s some kind of genius. His IQ is off the charts.”

  “Sounds like someone else I know.” Ted poured his new beer into a frosted glass. He had been in awe of Chris’s intelligence since he met him his freshman year at the U.

  Chris had an incredible mind. He could read something then pull an image of it up in his brain months later and search it like a Web page. Ted and all of their friends hated Chris in school because he never had to study for tests. He just sat down, pulled up the text books in his head, and wrote his answers.

  The fact that Chris was valedictorian of their class and finished number two at UW Law behind his step-mom only proved what a Brainiac he was.

  “He’s really poorly adjusted. He can’t cope with society.” Chris reached for a chip and dipped it in the salsa. “He had a really rough childhood, but that doesn’t excuse his behavior. He’s just anti-social.”

  “Why did he have such a rough childhood?” Hope asked.

  “His dad beat him then left them at an early age. Then his mom won’t win any mother of the year awards. But his problem is that he’s smarter and more mature than the adults that surrounded him. He hated school because it slowed down his learning process. He dropped out when he was twelve, but is better educated than most people with a BA.”

  “I can see how that would make him sour on the world,” Ted said.

  “Yeah, but at some point he has to take responsibility for his own life. He can’t go on blaming his mom or his dad or his teacher for all of his troubles. He has a lot to offer. He’s just plain wasting his talent.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Hope asked.

  “I’m going to slap some sense into him. He needs a drill sergeant, not a lawyer, someone to hold him accountable and force him to grow up.”

  “Are you ready to order?” Mari approached the table.

  Chapter 6

  Abe Weinstein loved his offices in the Skinner Building. The historic landmark housed the world-famous Fifth Avenue Theater and had underground concourses to both Union Square and Rainer Square. He could walk to shops and restaurants without ever getting wet.

  He loved the classic feel of the building, erected in 1926, but enjoyed the modern remodels and updates that made it class A office space.

  “Mr. Weinstein, Mr. Randall is here to see you,” his receptionist said over the intercom.

  “Very well, Rachel. Show him to my office.”

  Weinstein felt like he needed to hide behind his massive oak desk. He did not have good news for his client.

  The door opened and Rachel, a good-looking woman with silver gray hair and high cheekbones approaching sixty, ushered Dick Randall into the office.

  “Dick, good to see you.” Weinstein rose and extended his hand. “Come in, sit down. Would you like coffee?”

  “I’m not in the mood for coffee,” Randall said.

  Weinstein waved his receptionist away. “That will be all, Rachel.”

  Weinstein took a moment to compose himself then looked around his office. Everything neat and in its place. He loved organization; he just couldn’t do it himself. He didn’t know how he would get on without Rachel and his legal secretary, Joshua, to keep his life in order.

  The dark paneled walls with classic brass light fixtures gave the office a sense of decorum. The office felt substantial. He wanted his clients to believe in him.

  “Well, what’s the news?” Randall asked.

  Weinstein took a breath. “I’m afraid it isn’t good, Dick.” He took a sip of cold coffee from his cup, just to buy another second. “I talked to the judge and the prosecuting attorney. They’re going to throw the book at you.”

  “What?” Randall’s face showed genuine surprise. This wasn’t what he expected.

  “It’s a political thing. The church people in Everett want all the bikini barista joints shut down, but the city can’t do it. You’re not breaking any laws. So, the judge figures he’ll make an example out of you. He wants to put you away for ten years and issue a fine of twenty thousand dollars.”

  Randall sat in stunned silence. He shook his head. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  “I think you can get out in five years for good behavior.”

  That didn’t seem to comfort his client. It was time to drop the other shoe.

  “I heard from the U.S. Attorney too.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “He’s going to prosecute you on money laundering charges, says he has enough evidence to put you away for twenty years.”

  Dick Randall just hung his head.

  “I do have good news though.”

  Randall looked up.

  “The U.S. Attorney offered you a deal. If you’ll turn state’s evidence and testify against the Caglione family, he can get you a reduced charge. You can serve it concurrently with your exploitation time. You could be out in five years.”

  “Are you nuts?” Randall’s face was suddenly animated. “Even if I lasted five years in prison, which I highly doubt, I’d be a dead man the day I walked out of the joint. The Cagliones play for keeps. They don’t take kindly to rats.”

  “That’s the beauty of the deal. The U.S. Attorney will put you in the witness protection program. They’ll relocate you; give you a new identity...”

  “You’re shittin’ me, right? Witless protection? Do you know what that means? They’d put me in some Podunk little town in Idaho and get me a job as greeter at Wal-Mart. I
think I’d rather be dead.”

  Weinstein got up from behind his desk and walked around to his client. “Dick, you’ve got to think about this. Take it seriously. You’re talking about the rest of your adult life here. What are you, fifty or so? By the time you get out of the joint, you’ll be an old man. Do you really want that?”

  “Abe, I’m not stupid. I always knew there were risks. Let me think about this for a few days. When do they have to hear back?”

  “Take the weekend. I can get back to them on Monday.”

  ****

  The drive to Coupeville, the county seat of Island County, took Chris more than two hours, including a ferry ride from Mukilteo to Clinton on Whidbey Island. Once on the other side of Possession Sound, Chris turned his Porsche Boxster loose on Highway 20 up the long island. This was the kind of road the low-slung sports car had been built for. The drive gave Chris a chance to gather his thoughts.

  Maybe it was because Coupeville was such a small town, but Chris’s parking karma was working at peak efficiency. He found a spot right in front of the court house. He slid out of his Boxster and made his way through the metal detectors at the front door then headed for the courtroom.

  The juvenile courtroom didn’t have the stuffy feel of superior court. For one thing, there was no jury box. For another, the room was trimmed in lightly stained Douglas fir. The soft yellow color was much more relaxing than the heavy-stained wood in adult court.

  In fact, the courtroom had been specifically designed to be more inviting and less threatening. The purpose of juvenile court was not to punish, but to rehabilitate, to help the young offenders get back on the right path to a productive adulthood.

  Chris took a deep breath before walking up the aisle between the spectator benches and entering the exalted realm of the attorneys. This was his first “real” case. Okay, it was just a juvie hearing, but this was the first time he would stand before a judge on his own, the first time that someone’s fate would be in his hands.

  He walked through the swinging gate and turned to his right to the defendant’s table. He placed his brown leather briefcase on the table and pulled out the chair. He stopped for a moment and looked around the room. Years from now, when he was old and jaded, he wanted to remember how he started out, how the butterflies attacked his stomach. He didn’t want success to go to his head.

  “Mr. Hardwick, you’re here.” Natalie White was dressed in a nice blue blouse and white slacks, a light blue wind breaker draped over her arm.

  “Please call me Chris.” Chris stepped back through the swinging gate to talk with his client’s mother. He felt silly having a woman old enough to be his mother call him “Mister.”

  “Where’s Clay?”

  “He needed to use the little boy’s room.” Natalie sat in the first row of benches, behind the defense table. “He’ll be here in a second.”

  There was a stirring at the front of the room. A court clerk, the bailiff and the prosecutor all entered the room from the side door. The clerk’s arms were filled with a stack of file folders.

  The prosecutor walked over to Chris.

  “Judy Wong,” she said and extended her hand. “I’m surprised that HB&J would be involved in a case like this.”

  Judy was a fortyish Chinese-American woman. She had a plain face and a straight up and down body with no hint of a curve anywhere. Her dark black hair was cut in a short style that pointed towards her chin. The top of her head just barely reached Chris’s chest.

  “Hi, Judy,” Chris took her hand. “Chris Hardwick.”

  “Hardwick? Wow! HB&J sent their first team.”

  “Hardly,” Chris laughed. “Our client is a nephew of one of the partners. He wanted me to watch out for his rights.”

  “This is just a preliminary hearing,” Judy said. “The judge will want to know the facts of the case and decide if there’s enough evidence to continue to trial. I’m hoping we can find a way to eliminate that possibility. I don’t think a trial is in anyone’s best interest.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Chris’s radar switched on. Any time someone offered him an easy way out, it was usually not in his own best interest.

  “Your boy is quite a thorn in the Island County Sheriff’s side. He’s got more complaints against him than Hillary at a Tea Party convention. I don’t see this being swept under the carpet.”

  “Have you talked to Clayton?” Chris looked around the courtroom to see if his client had arrived yet. “Do you have any idea of what his home life is like?”

  “I’ve heard all the sob stories before. The bottom line is that he has become a nuisance to the community. We need to get him off the streets.”

  “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

  “Well, we also need to get the boy on the right track. I know how smart he is. We need to get him back in school, get him an education. He has the potential to really contribute to society. I hate to see it wasted.”

  Chris ran his hands through his long, blond locks. He noticed the look that Judy gave him. Hmmm... do I have an advantage here? Chris knew how he looked. His crisp black suit hung well from his broad shoulders. He towered over the diminutive Asian attorney. Should I use my looks to my client’s advantage?

  “Maybe we could meet after court?” he heard himself saying. “For a cup of coffee. To discuss the case. I’m sure we could work out a satisfactory resolution.”

  “That would be nice...”

  At that moment, the back doors to the courtroom swung open and Clayton Johnson-White stood surveying his surroundings.

  He looked like some Norse god, walking into the room. He was almost as tall as Chris and put together like a bodybuilder. He wore blue slacks, a white shirt with a red and gray tie and a gray jacket. He almost looked like a contributing member of society; Natalie had dressed him well for the occasion.

  He walked up the aisle and as he passed his mother, she stood and reached for him.

  “Back off, Ma’am!” the bailiff shouted.

  “What???” Natalie shrunk back in horror.

  “Don’t touch the defendant.” The bailiff flew across the courtroom in three steps. He opened the swinging gate and reached for Clayton. “It’s against courtroom rules.”

  “Keep your hands off me!” Clayton pulled away.

  The bailiff put his hand on the handle of his pistol. “Settle down, son, and step to the defense table.”

  “I’m not your son.” Clayton stepped chest to chest with the deputy.

  Chris forced himself between his client and the bailiff. “Easy, Clay, it’s okay, just courtroom procedure. Come on in and sit down.”

  Clayton eyed his attorney then shot a hateful stare at the bailiff. He shrugged and slowly sauntered to the defense table.

  With order restored, the bailiff returned to his post by the side door.

  “All rise,” the bailiff said. “Court is now in session.”

  The judge, an elderly woman with short gray hair and an irrepressible smile, entered from the side door. She walked to her bench and picked up the gavel. Smacking it once on the desk, she said, “You may be seated.”

  The court clerk handed her a folder. “The first case, your honor, is People v. Clayton Johnson-White.”

  The judge pulled the set of reading glasses that dangled around her neck to her nose. She studied the file folder.

  “Are both attorneys present?” she asked.

  “Judy Wong, for the state.”

  “Christopher Hardwick for the defense.”

  “Very well, Ms. Wong, you may proceed.”

  “Your honor, the state will prove that the defendant, a juvenile residing on Camano Island in Island County, is a menace to society.”

  That’s a little harsh, Chris thought.

  “He has repeatedly broken into vacation homes. He has used the facilities, stolen food, blankets and clothing. He is virtually unsupervised and does not attend school.”

  The hearing didn’t last long. The judge quickl
y set a trial date and called for the next case.

  ****

  Karen Randall pulled into the passenger pickup area at McCarran International Airport just outside of Las Vegas in her steel blue Lexus GS300. Why Dick wanted her to pick him up was a mystery. Couldn’t he just grab a cab?

  After all, the trip to the airport was a major inconvenience. Not that she had anything planned. She would have spent the afternoon lounging by the pool, maybe putting in a little time on the treadmill or elliptical trainer, just enough to keep her in shape.

  But keeping in shape was becoming harder and harder for the former Las Vegas show girl. Now in her late fifties, she feared aging and dreaded the day when she would have to change her hair from golden blonde to silver gray.

  Her cell phone buzzed and she pushed the button on the steering wheel. “Dick? Are you here?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got my bag. Pick me up at the Alaska gate.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right there.”

  Karen didn’t get out of the car. She just pulled to the curb and let Dick put his roll-on bag and carry-on in the trunk and climb in the passenger seat then pulled out of the pickup area, heading back towards the city.

  “How was the flight?”

  “Same as usual,” Dick said. “Fortunately, it’s only a couple of hours. I can stand being cooped up in a plane for that long.”

  She had to admit that Dick looked pretty good. He wore tan slacks and a blue jacket over an open-collared pull over. His hair was more gray than brown these days, but he still had that devilish twinkle in his eyes.

  “How long you going to be in Vegas?” she asked her husband.

  “Just today. I need to pick up an espresso machine I have at the rental house. I’ll load it in the truck and get going right away. I need to be back in Seattle on Monday for court.”

  It was a short drive from the airport to their Spring Valley home just outside of the downtown area. Karen pulled into the circular driveway of their four thousand square foot home.

  “Here we are, home sweet home.”