by JC Kane
Chapter 4
Bruce walked into the conference room at McGill & Mason. Two men in suits were sitting at the large table. The mediator was at the head of the table so Bruce sat down across from the insurance attorney, David Platt.
Mr. Platt was flipping through a binder full of exhibits, notes, and other random legal documents. The mediator was lost in his smartphone. Bruce stared at Mr. Platt but didn’t say a word.
Mr. Platt looked up at Bruce. Based on Bruce’s gritty appearance, Platt assumed that he was in the wrong place. “I’m sorry, we’re having a mediation in this conference room. You must be in the wrong room.” Mr. Platt looked back down at his binder full of papers.
“Are you David Platt?” Bruce asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I’m in the right room.”
Bruce continued to stare at Mr. Platt without giving any further explanation.
Mr. Platt was confused. “Who are you, exactly? And what’s your relationship to this case?”
“My name is Bruce Kennedy. I’m a consulting attorney in this case with Cooper McGill. I’m just helping him out with the mediation today.”
Mr. Platt half-smiled. He wasn’t sure if that was a joke or not. Bruce certainly didn’t look like an attorney, and even if he was, he certainly wouldn’t bring anything useful to the mediation. “I don’t have any paperwork indicating that you represent the injured party or that you’re working with Mr. McGill. Let’s just stick to the original plan. You go get Mr. McGill and we’ll handle the mediation. That’d be great if you could do that right away.” Mr. Platt looked at his watch and shook his head.
Bruce looked at the mediator and tapped on the table to get his attention. The mediator looked up from his phone. “Could you give Mr. Platt and I a minute to chat real quick before we get this thing started?” The mediator agreed and stepped out of the conference room.
Bruce moved to the head of the table where the mediator was sitting. He wanted Mr. Platt to know that he was in charge. It was also a strategic move to prevent Mr. Platt from leaving the room before Bruce was done with him.
“Cooper told me that you offered $150k to settle this case. Is that right?”
Mr. Platt leaned forward in his chair. “I can’t share any information with you. I don’t know who you are, or how you’re involved in this case. I don’t even know if you’re a real attorney or not.”
“You’re right,” Bruce said. “You don’t know anything about me. But I know a lot about you. I know you live in Walnut Creek with one dog and one cat. I know you’re single. You have no children. You have a mother that lives in a nursing home in Oakland Hills. Your father passed away five years ago. One brother that lives in Phoenix, Arizona. I know that you’ve been practicing law for almost 18 years, but most importantly, I know that you’re going to settle this case today for one million dollars.”
Mr. Platt was a bit shocked. He didn’t know what to make of this man who knew so many personal details about his life. “What the hell is going on here? Who are you? I don’t know where you got your information, but it is incorrect.”
“Which part?” Bruce asked.
“To start with, the part about settling the case today for one million dollars.”
Bruce smiled. “I had a feeling you might say that.”
Mr. Platt was getting flustered. He was used to being in control. “Look, I’m not sure what you’re trying to accomplish here, but if you want to make progress on this case, then I suggest you get Mr. McGill in here, get the mediator back in here, and after you leave, we can talk about the case.”
“You’re right. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time, especially mine, so let me get straight to the point. I’ll give you two options right now. Option number one - you agree to settle the case for one million dollars, the full policy limit. Then, you process the paperwork and issue the check as fast as you possibly can. If you do that, we can call it a win-win situation and we’ll all go home happy.”
“There’s no reason to settle the case for that amount. We have a witness that says the plaintiff was speeding. Our client says he was speeding. The plaintiff also has a preexisting medical condition that is directly related to the injuries sustained in this accident. If we go to court, there’s a good chance we’ll get a judgment for substantially less than one million dollars. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if my client was found to be free of any negligence whatsoever.”
“David, I’m not here to argue the merits of this case with you. We’re past that point. I know what the case is worth. You know what the case is worth. I’m just here to tell you what your options are. You can choose the option that works for you. It’s your decision. However, I do strongly suggest you take option number one. Now, would you like to know what option number two is?”
“Why don’t you humor me.”
“Option number two - you can walk out of here today without a settlement agreement for one million dollars. That’s option number two. Anything other than a signed settlement agreement for one million dollars.”
Mr. Platt laughed. “Okay. I’m leaning towards option number two right now. If I were you, I would work on your persuasion skills a little bit more.”
“If you choose option number two, there are some potentially negative consequences you might have to deal with. I should probably tell you about those, to be fair.”
Bruce reached into his back pocket and pulled out several pieces of paper folded into a small rectangle. He unfolded the papers and slid them across the table towards Mr. Platt.
“For one thing, you will no longer be able to practice law,” Bruce said.
Mr. Platt grabbed the papers and looked them over. “What is this?”
“Well, I understand you like to go to Raven’s Gentlemen Club, yes?”
Mr. Platt shook his head. “What is this? This is bullshit.”
“That’s not bullshit,” Bruce said. “Those are sworn affidavits from two young ladies that allege they were sexually assaulted by you. Two different incidents. Two different occasions. Those are felonies in California. That means that you would very likely go to prison for a few years, at least. You would definitely be disbarred and your days of practicing law would be over.”
“You’re not an attorney, are you?” Mr. Platt asked.
“Oh, I am an attorney,” Bruce said. “Haven’t had one complaint against me yet. Well, no official complaints, at least. I’m not very good with all the legal procedures, but, I’m pretty good at solving problems.”
“If you really are an attorney, you could be disbarred for falsifying documents, blackmail, unprofessional conduct—”
“I didn’t falsify anything. Do you see my name on those affidavits? Personally, I think that the police, as well as a judge and jury, would be very sympathetic to two young ladies that were sexually assaulted by a big, powerful insurance lawyer. Especially since they were just trying to work their way through college. One girl, maybe there would be some doubt. But two? That shows a pattern. Very persuasive in court, I would imagine.”
Mr. Platt stood up and pointed at Bruce. “You can’t get away with this. I will not let you get away with this.”
Bruce slammed his hands down on the table and stood up. He towered over Mr. Platt. “Mr. Platt, you’ve got some set of balls on you. You really do. I like your determination, but in this case, it’s pointless. You’re a hard-headed prick and it’s preventing you from making the right decision. Either you settle this case today for one million dollars, or I remove you entirely from the picture, and when I do that, it’s gonna hurt. A lot. You, not me. One way or another, I will get exactly what I want, which is a quick, fair resolution of this case. Your resistance means nothing to me. Your desire to get even with me is nothing more than your oversized ego. You need to let that go. There is absolutely no chance, whatsoever, not even a tiny little speck of a chance, that you will come out ahead on this one. If you do the smart thing, you can go on with your life as you know it. Or, it will
be resolved tomorrow when those two lovely young ladies walk into the police station with their lawyer and the original affidavits. You will be questioned, investigated, arrested, suspended, and the insurance company will assign a new attorney to handle this case. An attorney who will be much easier to deal with. When that happens, you will have no authority, no voice, no ability to delay this matter anymore. Right now, you have to decide if you want to settle this case and continue living your fascinating life as an arrogant attorney, or don’t settle the case and face the very harsh consequences of option number two.”
The receptionist opened the door and stuck her head in. She recognized Bruce and was a bit surprised that he was in the conference room. “Oh, hi. Would you gentlemen care for something to drink? Water? Coffee? Tea?”
Bruce looked at her. “I’d love a coffee to go, if that’s possible.” Bruce looked at Mr. Platt as he sat hunched over the table, looking at the sworn affidavits that could destroy him. “David, anything for you?” Mr. Platt looked up and simply shook his head.
“Just one coffee to go. Black,” Bruce said. “Thank you.”
The receptionist closed the door and Bruce turned his attention back to Mr. Platt.
“Settling this case is the right thing to do and if you could look past your inner-asshole, you’d see that. I’m not asking you to do anything illegal, or even immoral. And don’t even start talking about your stupid fucking witness statement or I’ll really get pissed off. I’m giving you an opportunity to save yourself. That’s it. Take it or leave it. If you don’t want to take that opportunity, your life tomorrow will be very different than it is today. It’s your choice. Now, I’m gonna send in Mr. McGill and the mediator. Do yourself a favor and settle this case for one million dollars as soon as they get in here. If you don’t, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Bruce snatched the affidavits from Mr. Platt’s hands, folded them and stuffed them in his back pocket. He opened the door and looked back at Mr. Platt. “By the way, I like your tie.”
Chapter 5
A gray Toyota Camry pulled up outside of Oceanic Bakery Distribution Center. The building was a medium-sized warehouse in the industrial district of San Jose, California. The man driving was Mexican, young, clean-cut. His partner, in the passenger seat, was a young white guy. The driver pulled his car up to the security gate and waved at the security officers in the gatehouse.
The wall surrounding the Oceanic Bakery property was unusually tall and the security measures were extensive. Video cameras and motion detectors were mounted at regular intervals on top of the wall. The two security guards at the front gate were both armed. Another armed security officer patrolled the property in an SUV to ensure that no unwanted visitors breached the perimeter. It seemed a bit much for a bakery production facility.
Oceanic Bakery was a regional bakery and production facility known for its amazing loaves of sourdough bread. They distributed bread and other baked goods, primarily in Northern California.
One of the security officers at the front gate waved to the driver, opened the steel gate, and the Toyota Camry drove around to the back of the bakery.
There were six Oceanic Bakery bread trucks parked behind the warehouse. The gray Toyota stopped next to one of the delivery trucks. The driver and passenger both got out of the car. The white guy unlocked the truck, jumped in the driver’s seat, and started it up. His partner stood in front of the truck as he tested the turn signals and lights. Then, the Mexican went around to the back and made sure the lights and signals were working on the back of the truck. Everything worked fine.
The white guy pulled the truck up to the warehouse and stopped in front of a large garage door. The Mexican punched a code into an electronic keypad next to the pedestrian door. He opened the door and walked inside. A few seconds later, the garage door opened and the white guy pulled the truck inside. The garage door closed behind him as the truck cleared the doorway.
Inside the warehouse, two workers loaded stacks of bread into the back of the truck. In total, there were ten stacks of bread, stacked ten high, secured in place by nylon straps. The workers closed the doors on the bread truck, the Mexican opened the garage door, the white guy backed the truck out and waited for his partner.
The Mexican came outside and jumped in his Toyota Camry. He followed behind the delivery truck and drove out the front gate.
The gray Toyota Camry stopped outside of the Oceanic Bakery retail store in Santa Clara. The Mexican parked his car by the back door and went inside to check things out.
Inside the bakery, the Mexican asked the cashier, Manny, how he was doing. Manny said he was good. That was what the Mexican wanted to hear. If Manny mentioned anything about his back pain, that was a signal to abort. The Mexican looked around at the people inside the market and nothing looked suspicious.
There were two men sitting at a table in the back of the store. They were always there on delivery days. One of the men sitting at the table handed the Mexican a brown paper bag. The Mexican opened it up and looked inside. It was filled with money. It appeared to be the correct amount of money - ten stacks of two thousand dollars. Sometimes it was two stacks of ten thousand dollars, but the smaller bills were preferred. He could usually tell by the weight, but he liked to look at the money anyway. The Mexican went back outside and looked around for anything suspicious. Everything looked normal. He called his partner in the delivery truck to let him know that it was time to deliver.
The white guy pulled the Oceanic Bakery bread truck around by the back door and parked. He carried one stack of bread in through the back door while the Mexican kept an eye on the front of the store. The white guy set the crate full of bread on the table in the back room and picked up an empty crate and carried it out to his truck. One of the men sitting at the table picked up a loaf of bread and opened the package. The loaf of bread was already cut in half. The man pulled the two halves apart and inside the hollowed out loaf of bread was one kilogram of cocaine. He put the two halves of cocaine back together and stuffed it back in the bread wrapper. He put the loaf of bread in an Oceanic Bakery paper bag and the two men left the store through the front door.
The Mexican got in his Toyota Camry and pushed several buttons on his stereo in a specific order. The back of the passenger seat popped open and revealed a hidden compartment. He stuffed the bag of money into the hidden compartment on the back of the passenger seat. He hit another button and the hidden compartment closed. The seat was back to normal and no one could tell from looking at it, or feeling it, that it was actually a high-tech hidden compartment.
Once the money was stashed in the trap, the Mexican and his partner drove on to the next stop. Six more stops and they would be done for the day.
A black Ford Edge pulled up to the front gate at the Oceanic Bakery warehouse. The guards knew the vehicle and the driver very well. They opened up the gate and let the vehicle in.
The Ford Edge pulled around to the back of the warehouse and stopped by the back door. Johnny “Green” Reynolds got out of the car and punched a code into the electronic security keypad next to the door. The door opened and the Ford Edge pulled in.
Green was the founder, and current President, of the Two Zero Five Motorcycle Club. They called him Green because he had a short temper. He would get so mad they say he turned green, just like the Incredible Hulk. He had slightly better control of his temper these days, but the name stuck.
Inside the warehouse, Green walked over to a big Ford F-150 pickup truck parked in front of the garage door. He lowered the tailgate on the bed of the truck and hit a button on his key fob. The top layer of the truck bed popped up like the hood of a car. The truck bed was filled with money.
Green did a quick visual check of the money stashed inside the truck bed. There were stacks and stacks of cash covering the entire width and length of the truck bed. He wasn’t going to count it, but he expected it to be about two million dollars. That was usually the weekly take after all the money fro
m the deliveries was consolidated.
Green hit another button on his key fob and the hidden compartment closed. The trap was airtight, waterproof, and the remote would only work if the vehicle was running, after the security code and the fingerprint were authenticated.
Green got in the truck and started it up. One of the workers opened the garage door for him and he was out the door, on his way to deliver the money.
Chapter 6
Bruce Kennedy was downstairs in his motorcycle shop at the Kennedy Firehouse. The Kennedy Firehouse was an actual fire station built in 1869 in San Jose, California. It was in bad shape before Bruce purchased the building, gutted it, and turned it into his own motorcycle shop, law office, and personal fortress.
The lower level of the Kennedy Firehouse was a state of the art motorcycle shop where Bruce and his close friends worked on all kinds of motorcycles, especially old motorcycles. Bruce’s current project was restoring a 1946 Harley-Davidson EL Knucklehead. It was a time-consuming hobby that he would continue until he could no longer turn a wrench.
The upper level of the Kennedy Firehouse was converted into Bruce’s law office, even though he had no clients and really didn’t even practice law. The extent of his legal experience was managing outside attorneys and creating business entities to launder drug money. In essence, he tried to stay two steps ahead of the law enforcement agencies that would love to send him to prison for a very long time.
The Kennedy Firehouse was a popular hangout for the leaders of the Two Zero Five Motorcycle Club. The front half of the lower level was a massive motorcycle shop with four large garage doors, workbenches, toolboxes, lifts, tools, and every other gadget a mechanic could ever ask for. The back half of the lower level was a lounge and office area that was mainly used as a bar, fully stocked with plenty of beer and whiskey.
When Bruce renovated the firehouse he built in modern security technology features. Cameras, sensors, microphones, and everything he could think of was built into the security system and it could all be controlled from his smartphone or laptop. He always knew what was happening at the Firehouse and everything was recorded to a secure off-site location, but could be reviewed at any time on the internet, or in real-time, from his smartphone.
