Blood and Justice: A Legal Thriller (Brad Madison Legal Thriller Series Book 4)

by J J Miller

  I needed to know if something illegal was stolen in that fatal robbery. I needed to know if there was a huge angle to this crime that the cops had missed.

  If that turned out to be the case, then I needed to prove it.

  The clubhouse was marked by the perimeter wall with a large Iron Raiders coat of arms—a helmeted skull in front of two crossed Harley Davidson pistons and rods—painted over a black, sheet-metal door.

  The muffled strains of Deep Purple’s “Highway Star” came from within. I figured if we had to knock, I’d better make it loud.

  I banged my fist on the door four times and waited.

  Twenty seconds later, someone inside slid the Judas window open and a pair of mean eyes filled the rectangular frame.

  “What the fuck you want?”

  “We need to speak to the boss.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then fuck off.”

  I saw the biker’s fingers grab the grill to shut it.

  “Look, I’m a lawyer,” I said. I didn’t have to look at Jack to know he was rolling his eyes.

  “No shit,” said the biker.

  It dawned on me I was still in my suit, about ten o’clock at night outside the headquarters of one of America’s most feared outlaw motorcycle gangs.

  “I’ve got a proposition,” I continued. “It’s urgent. Tell him it’s about Sonny.”

  “Sonny Cromer?”

  “That’s right. I can get him out.”

  I looked at Jack now, who clearly thought I’d lost my mind.

  The grill slammed shut. The doorman didn’t tell us to leave, so I figured we’d wait. A minute later, the door opened and in its placed stepped a barrel-chested biker wearing a greasy blue tank top and jeans.

  “What did the boss say?” I asked.

  The guy took a step forward, close enough for me to see the deep pores in his ugly, fist-weathered face, and close enough for me to get a dank waft of his Jack-and-Coke breath.

  “He said the next word I don’t like that comes out of your mouth, I got permission to punctuate it with your broken teeth. Got it?”

  “Understood.”

  “This way.”

  The biker led us through a courtyard and into the clubhouse proper. The place was just like any old smoke-filled bar with leather booths, pool table, pinball machines, and now AC-DC blaring out of the sound system.

  As we walked through the bar, a dozen pairs of eyes were fixed on us. Who the fuck’s the suit?

  My eyes scanned ahead to the drinkers at the bar. To my horror I saw that the Bear was perched there. He turned around to see what his drinking companion was looking at. I kept my eyes ahead. As we passed by him, he shot his arm out to block me.

  “I thought I told you to stay clear of Chip Bowman,” he growled.

  “I know you did. But I’m hoping you and me and the boss can come to a new agreement about that.”

  The boss. I didn’t know who was in charge of this chapter. I just said “the boss” like I knew him, and I’d deliberately avoided referring to him as “your boss.” The Bear looked like he answered to no boss.

  “What if I like our agreement just as it is, fuckface?” With this, the Bear downed a shot of bourbon and got off his seat. The scowl on his face made it clear I was about to die, or near enough.

  “Randall,” a deep voice cautioned from across the bar. The tone was calm, almost affectionate, like a doting dog owner commanding his cheeky Rottweiler to drop the neighbor’s cat.

  The man who spoke came and stood between us. He was not your typical biker, appearance wise. He was clean shaven. The jeans and t-shirt he wore looked like they’d been washed at least within the past few days. He had a narrow face and his light brown hair, up top, was thick and combed back while the sides were cropped short. Put a suit on the guy and he wouldn’t look out of place in court. He looked young, too. Thirty-five tops. He looked fit, but not a soft city gym fit. I’d bet he was pretty handy at some form of martial arts, and that he could put Bear in his place with more than words. His eyes were sly and skeptical. Something told me this was one street-smart individual.

  “Who are you?”

  I told him my name and introduced Jack.

  “I’m Ace,” he said. “You look like a couple of Leos.” That meant Law Enforcement Officers. To rid him of that notion, I pulled out my phone to show him my website.

  “My sister’s a lawyer,” he said as he looked at the screen. Then he handed my phone back. “We don’t talk much.”

  Ace walked toward the booths. Jack and I followed. The Bear turned back to the bar and grabbed a bottle of bourbon to refill his glass.

  When we were seated, Ace laid his hands flat on the table. “So. About Sonny. You can get him out?”

  “I can get him out.”

  This was my bright idea. Back at Vinnie’s, the details of Sonny Cromer’s case came back to me. He was arrested on an aggravated assault charge and the prosecutor went hard and got Cromer put away for ten years. The lawyer Sonny had was useless.

  How did I know this? It was three weeks ago, and I saw it with my own eyes. I had the next case listed after Sonny’s, and I got there early. My ears pricked up when I heard it mentioned that Sonny was high up the command chain of the Iron Raiders motorcycle club. The way his lawyer fumbled his defense, it made a mockery of our profession. I was insulted. Bob Housman was the lawyer’s name, and he was living proof that you can pass the Bar and still be an incompetent idiot.

  “What do you mean out, exactly?” asked Ace. “And how?”

  “Sonny should never have been convicted. I know his case, and I can file and prosecute a successful appeal.”

  I wasn’t certain that Sonny’s lawyer had made an error that could form the basis of an appeal. I just had a hunch that he did. Actually, it was less a hunch and more of a wing and a prayer. The thing was, an appeal had to be launched within sixty days of conviction. With the time that had elapsed since Sonny’s conviction, it was closer to forty.

  “But you want something in return, right?”

  “That’s right. I want to know who asked your friend over there to pay me a visit.”

  Ace had to think about what I said. Then the penny dropped.

  “Ah, you’re that lawyer.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not going to tell you that. Next question.”

  “I want to know if it was Quinn Rollins.”

  “I said, I’m not telling you that. Anything else?”

  “I understand you lost out in the HardShell heist.”

  “That’s no secret. We had some weed in that van, and all of it was stolen.”

  “Yeah, I know that. And that will be covered by insurance, right?”

  “It’s already done.”

  “What do you mean? Rollins has paid you out?”

  Ace nodded. Obviously, it was understood the Raiders were not prepared to wait for an insurance company investigation to recoup what they lost.

  “My understanding is that you might have lost something that wasn’t covered by insurance.”

  Ace’s eyes hardened into a glare.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I think you know.”

  Ace leaned in threateningly. “You’re skating on thin ice, lawyer. You want me to call Randall over?”

  “No. All I want to say is that my client is innocent, and that I intend to find out who killed those men.” I held Ace’s stare. “And I intend to find everything that was stolen that night. Everything.”

  Ace nodded once.

  “I thought you’d be interested to know who the real perpetrators were and what they did with all the goods that they stole.”

  Ace didn’t blink. “I’d be very interested.”

  Neither of us spoke for a few seconds.

  “You’d best leave,” said Ace.

  “Don’t you want to know how I plan to get Sonny out?”

  “Nope. But
I know I’m going to keep you to it.”

  Jack and I said nothing until we got back to the car. I wasted no time in firing up the engine and hitting the road.

  “So,” said Jack. “You just had Ace confirm your suspicion that Chip’s van was carrying meth that belonged to the Iron Raiders.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’ve told him that not only will you get Sonny Cromer out of jail, you’ll tell him who stole his meth?”

  I gripped the wheel a little tighter.

  “Yep. That’s about it in a nutshell.” And I’ve got less than forty days to do it, I neglected to add.

  “How do you suppose you’re going to find this meth?”

  “I was hoping we’d find it together.”

  “Too easy, Sherlock. All we have to do is search the entire city of LA.”

  I shook my head. “Nope. That’s not where we’re going to look. My guess is that it’s a long way from LA by now. But I know where I want to look first.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll drop you off home now then I’ll swing by tomorrow afternoon to pick you up. I need you to pack all your surveillance gear. Especially your drone.”

  “Where the hell are we going?”

  “Santa Barbara.”

  Chapter 21

  “What is that they’re growing, anyway?” asked Jack, pointing to the rows of squat, leafy trees spread out below us. We’d just pulled off the road that offered a good view of Rollins’ five-acre property in Toro Canyon, a hilly stretch of coastland in Santa Barbara County. I’d had to go see Chip at MCJ earlier in the day. Calls to inmates weren’t permitted, and so to find out if he knew the location of Rollins’ property, I had to ask in person. Fortunately, he did. He’d never actually set foot on the property, but he’d looked it up online when he heard Rollins had purchased it. Chip helped me find the listing, and from there the address. From the prison, I went straight to Jack’s house. We jumped into his Ford Ranger and headed up the coast. Now the setting sun was over the Pacific, about ninety minutes from being swallowed whole.

  “Coffee,” I said. “Apparently, it was all the rage around here a few years back. Then a price slump hit and a few growers went to the wall. Chip says Rollins pounced on this place eighteen months ago. Got it for a steal.”

  From where we were positioned, the land fell away sharply into a valley. Rollins’ orchard straddled the valley with rows of dark green plants climbing up both sides. Near the upper part of the estate were three buildings: a main house, a smaller cottage, and a green house.

  We’d spent thirty minutes scoping the vicinity of the property before choosing this position, which was ideal for us to go about our work undetected. There were two ways out if we had to leave fast, and dense trees concealed the truck.

  Squatting down among some scrub, we’d counted a total of seven men on the property, mostly standing around. Rollins, though, was not among them.

  “Let me have a look,” said Jack, taking the binos from me.

  “You know a thing or two about cooking up meth, I suppose?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” he said, pressing the glasses to his eyes. “Don’t feel bad that all you know comes from Breaking Bad. I got real-world experience in these matters.”

  “Really?”

  “A year ago, I had a client who thought his tenant was acting sus. He was not what you’d call a cleanskin himself, so he wanted to find out what was going on without getting the cops involved. At first, at least. Turns out his tenants had converted his investment property into a cook house. So, he made an anonymous call to the authorities and, presto, problem solved.”

  “Did you just make that up?”

  Jack shrugged. “You’ll never know.”

  “I’m calling bullshit.”

  “You see, Madison. That’s what that suit does to you. Turns you all cynical.”

  “I’m not wearing a suit. And cynical and skeptical aren’t the same thing.”

  “I think in your case they are… Hello.”

  “What?”

  “They’re loading up.”

  “Give me that.”

  I took the glasses back and trained them on the men. They’d started carrying various items from the guesthouse to the main dwelling. I couldn’t tell what they were holding. One guy lugged a small green duffle bag that looked packed.

  “Something tells me that’s not coffee.”

  Another three duffle bags followed. Then the activity ceased for about fifteen minutes. Then a black van emerged and moved up the driveway, followed by another.

  We watched as the cars wound down the road toward the Pacific coast.

  Jack stood up.

  I stayed where I was.

  “We going to follow them?” he asked.

  “No. I need to know what’s going on inside that guest house. Let’s get your drone down there.”

  “Whatever we get, it won’t stand as evidence,” said Jack.

  “You think I don’t know that? It’s not the point. Like I said, I need to know what Rollins is into. And I’ll take anything we can get right now. It may not be legally obtained evidence, but it might prove powerful leverage.”

  I’d ruled out casing the property on foot. Rollins and his men were experts in turning homes into fortresses. This place would be rigged with more than just security cameras and alarms. They’d have the place booby trapped with grenades, most likely. Possibly, even claymore mines.

  Jack had the drone ready in minutes. He’d told me this wasn’t his most expensive drone, but it was the quietest. Unfortunately, no drones are silent. He launched the device with a hand-held console, steered it up over the road to clear the trees then sent it out toward Rollins’ estate.

  “Keep an eye on it, would you?” said Jack. His focus would be on the console.

  “Sure,” I said and moved forward and crouched. The drone was hovering almost directly above us. Then it shot upward with a high-pitched whir and within a few seconds it was a speck in the darkening sky.

  “Stay high,” I said. “Get over the guest house then drop straight down on my call.”

  “Got it,” said Jack.

  We had done repeated head counts during our watch. All seven men had gotten into the vehicles and left. This could be our only chance to get a closer look at what Rollins was up to.

  “How long can this thing stay out there?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  After two minutes of seeing no movement whatsoever, I told Jack to bring the drone down. The sun had set but there was ample natural light, at least for another half hour.

  “Got it,” said Jack. The droned dropped onto the guesthouse like it was sliding down a steep zip line. It stopped in front of a large window.

  Jack came and crouched beside me, allowing me to see the drone’s field of view on the screen. As the device hovered dead still, the aperture of its lens adjusted to the light. When the interior became clear, there was nothing to see besides a large steel vat.

  “Move to the left,” I said.

  Jack steered the drone sideways. It didn’t present anything new.

  “Keep moving left. Around to the next window.”

  The drone shifted sideways and rounded the corner. It was out of sight now. All we had to go by was the screen.

  “Easy,” I said.

  Jack slowed the drone down to walking pace.

  “I’m going to have to pull back a bit to see what’s on this side,” said Jack.

  As he did, the end of the guest house came into frame. There was a large wooden door with a window on either side, both blocked by blinds. There was a small window near the apex of the roof. I pointed my finger upward. Jack steered the drone to the top window, moving in close. From this angle, we could see what lay behind the vat. There was a large bench strewn with chemistry equipment.

  “Well, well, well,” said Jack. “That’s interesting.”

  I could see there was another large window on the far side of the b
uilding, and it wasn’t covered.

  I tapped the screen. “Can we get a look through there?”

  In a few seconds, Jack had the drone hovering right in front of that window. The vision presented to us was convincing. This was a clan lab if ever I saw one.

  “This is recording, right?” I felt I had to ask the obvious.

  “Of course, it records everything as video but if you want stills, I can get those too.”

  “But it’s recording to your device, the one your holding, right?”

  “Yes. If we lose the drone, we’ll still have the data.”

  That was reassuring. For a split second anyway. If Rollins and his men somehow seized the drone they might be able to identify us, or Jack’s car, in the footage.

  “Super careful. Take it in close. See if you can zoom in on what’s on that bench.”

  Jack had to judge the drone’s distance from the window solely via the screen. He inched it closer and closer to the glass. Suddenly, the vision jolted.

  “Damn!” said Jack.

  “What?”

  “Too close. I made contact. It’s okay.”

  Jack positioned the drone outside the window again, and then zoomed the lens in on the bench. There were various chemicals there. I pointed at a plastic bag with a label on it.

  “What’s that?”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  The camera lens zoomed in closer.

  “I can’t read it.”

  “That’s as far as I can go. I’ll take some high-res photos. We can blow them up later.”

  The console replicated the sound of a camera shutter firing.

  Suddenly, the screen went dark briefly. Something moved across it.

  “What was that?”

  Jack pulled the lens back to wide and there at the window was a man’s face looking straight at the camera. He was shouting.

  “Abort, Jack!”

  I didn’t really have to ask. Jack tweaked the toggle and the drone soared high.

  As it did so, a shot rang out. Then another shot. I had the drone in sight now. Jack had it in evasion mode, zig-zagging through the sky. Only an extremely lucky shot could take it down.