“Thanks.”
I had to look away. The statement from the little woman hit me hard, right in the heart.
“She can rest now. We all can.”
I knew what she meant.
That sense of peace, that sense of calm, was something that I hadn’t known since Claire’s death.
I felt settled and a certain acceptance of where I was, thanks to justice. A simple word that meant so much. Truly there can be no peace without it.
Justice was something I knew I would always pursue, wherever it led me and no matter the cost. For with justice came truth, and my truth I realized now, more than ever, was fighting for it, and whoever was currently being denied its blessed sanctity.
“What’s next for you, Jack?” asked Laura. “A break, a vacation, some time off?”
“Hardly Laura,” I said with a smile. “In fact, a new case has just arrived. And this one is guaranteed to ruffle more than a few feathers.”
THE End
Author’s Note:
Thanks so much for reading Gates of Power. I hope you enjoyed Jack Valentine’s first book.
Thanks to all the people that made this story happen. To all my amazing family and friends, thank you for your inspiration... and your patience!
Extra thanks has to go out to my editor; to my proofreader Jessica, and to Bel, my cover designer.
Writing is a very solitary pursuit, and I love it and feel I was born to do it, but I’m also a social being who loves a good laugh. That’s why I mostly write out of co-working spaces. Co-working spaces are officers where freelancers of various disciplines come together to work in a communal office; be they photographers, graphic designers, writers, or the like. Co-working offers a sense of belonging, a place to go and say hello to people, talk about the football, and have a morning coffee with friends.
Co-working wouldn’t work for every writer, but for me, it’s perfect.
On the other hand, I need time to think before I even put pen to paper. In that stage of the writing process, you’ll usually find me by a beach, in the water, or walking through a forest.
I wrote the bulk of this plot while in Chicago; a lot of the ideas for the story were born after I spent the day around the Buckingham Fountain, watching people come and go.
If you enjoyed this book, please leave a positive review. Reviews mean the world to authors.
I’ve already started the next book in the Jack Valentine series, so keep an eye out for it…
You can find my website at: peteromahoney.com
And if you wish, you can contact me at: [email protected]
Thank you!
Peter O’Mahoney
Also by Peter O’Mahoney
*****
In the Tex Hunter Legal Thriller Series:
Power and Justice
Faith and Justice
Coming soon: Corrupt Justice
*****
*****
In the Bill Harvey Legal Thriller Series:
Redeeming Justice
Will of Justice
Fire and Justice
A Time for Justice
Truth and Justice
*****
SAMPLE CHAPTERS:
POWER AND JUSTICE
TEX HUNTER LEGAL THRILLER
BOOK 1
PETER O’MAHONEY
Family is the world’s greatest masterpiece.
Chapter 1
She didn’t fight much.
The girl tried to struggle, tried to fight back with her ailing body, but not as much as the woman expected. It was remarkably easy getting the girl into the basement under the darkness of night. Easier than she thought it would be. A cocktail of Valium, cocaine, and alcohol would do that.
It was a quiet street, practically lifeless at 3 a.m. The woman made sure of that before she planned her setup. Giant oak trees lined the upmarket street, and during the day you’d expect to see children dressed in Ralph Lauren polo shirts selling lemonade in front of freshly painted fences. She would never drink that lemonade. She hated the idea of those grubby little fingers squeezing their dirty germs into her juice.
The girl she had tied to the chair had been working as an escort, making herself available through various web pages, hardly even trying to hide her adult profession. Not that she judged the woman for her choices. Life offers many different paths, and the girl in her early twenties tried to do the best she could. At least she was working for the money.
Revenge was so close.
The girl struggled in the chair. Her right arm moved upwards, tugging at the thick rope, but it was tight enough to prevent any large movements. It wasn’t much of a movement, only a reaction from her central nervous system, trying desperately to metabolize the overload of drugs. Even without the massive intake, the girl couldn’t call out anyway. The cloth tied around her mouth made sure of that.
As the woman wiped down the edge of the wooden dining chair, taking care of any fingerprints, she spotted the scratches on the girl’s arm, right in the crease of the elbow. It made her sigh. She’d seen that so many times before, more times than she cared to count, and she empathized with that pain so much. But even as she fought her depression, fought back the black dog that tried to attack her, she could never think about turning to the artificial highs that illicit drugs provided.
The girl groaned and moved again. She was getting louder.
Under the low roof of the damp, enclosed basement, the woman moved a box to the right, emptying the space around the girl. There were tools and half-empty paint cans to her left, boxes of memories to her right, and old gardening tools near the door. Despite all the mess, despite all the distractions, the girl was the focus in the cramped space, directly under the only fluorescent globe hanging from the roof.
The woman had been wronged so many times by the same man, and this was her revenge. She wasn’t going to let him get away with what he’d done to her.
This was her reckoning.
The girl started to swing her head left and right. Maybe she was trying to see where she was, or maybe she was trying to shake the blindfold off her eyes. The girl tried to yell, the cloth around her mouth muffling the scream.
The woman couldn’t let her make a noise, not with the man upstairs in the house. He couldn’t know she was there yet. Not when payback was within her grasp.
The woman had no choice but to swing her left hand across the girl’s face.
The girl’s head fell to the side, her voice and movements silent again. Maybe she had hit her too hard. She hadn’t wanted to hurt the escort, she had nothing against the girl, but she was a necessary pawn in the plan.
Part of the retribution.
The woman checked for a pulse. It was slight. The man upstairs should find the girl the following afternoon—hopefully, sooner. Despite her choices, she hoped the man found the girl before too much brain damage occurred.
The woman knew she should have hired someone to do the work, someone with the skills to perform the delicate task of hauling a drugged-up escort into the basement. Those people would have made sure the girl survived. They would have been cleaner, quieter, perhaps even more effective.
But none of that mattered now.
Her work was done.
And revenge was a sweet, sweet feeling.
Chapter 2
In life, some places are etched into memory, places that are scratched so deeply into the recess of one’s mind, that no amount of drugs, therapy, or alcohol will ever erase what happened there.
For Tex Hunter, the Metropolitan Correctional Center in Chicago is imprinted into his mind, branded onto his brain like a mark on a bull. It had been more than thirty years since the criminal defense attorney first stepped inside the walls of the building, thirty years since his life changed forever. The building still smelt the same, the furniture hadn’t changed, and the same beige coat of paint, now faded and cracked, lined the walls. Some of the same guards still hustled through, although the years had taken a toll o
n their vibrancy.
He was only ten years old when he was first escorted through the narrow halls, an impressionable boy who didn’t understand what was happening, didn’t understand why people in authority were harassing him. They questioned him for six hours straight, stuck at the metal table in the windowless room, not even allowed to take a toilet break. The cops pressed him so hard, so ferociously, screaming in his face, squeezing every piece of information out of his young brain. He cried, they yelled, and he told them everything they wanted to hear before they would allow him to see his father.
By the time they were done, he wasn’t even sure of the truth anymore.
“Still defending killers?” Prosecutor Michelle Law stood in front of Hunter, lifting her chin to stare up at him.
Hunter grinned and ran his hand through his thick black hair. “As long as you keep trying to put innocent people away, I’ll keep defending them.”
The low ceiling on the second-floor foyer added to the sense of claustrophobia, enhancing the sense that this was a place where hope was lost, not found. A long reception desk sat behind the wall of security checkpoints, with a forgotten row of vinyl seats to the left and two dying indoor plants to the right. Beyond that, there were elevators to the various floors and numerous signs detailing the strict rules that governed the building. A rarely used brown couch sat near the exit. Hunter understood why the chair looked outdated but still unused; this was not a place where anyone wanted to linger.
“I’ve always thought your title was misleading, Tex.”
“How so?” He stepped closer to her.
“It’s missing the word ‘and’. It shouldn’t be Criminal Attorney Tex Hunter; it should be Criminal and Attorney, Tex Hunter.”
“Witty.” He smiled. “How long have you waited to say that?”
“I’ve been sitting on that joke for months.” Law stood straight, rigid, with the type of posture that comes from taking out her self-hatred on hours of yoga every week. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I actually thought that you were going to come and join us in the prosecution, over here on the right side of the law. It would give you a chance to clear your conscience.”
“A clear conscience is usually a sign of a bad memory.”
She let out a laugh.
The guards turned around. Laughter was not something they were used to hearing.
“I suppose you live by the defense lawyer mantra—just because your client did it, doesn’t mean they’re guilty.”
“Never forget—every criminal was innocent once.” He tapped the area over his heart, a mischievous grin on his face. “My only hope is that they come to me before they’re condemned by your rules.”
“Oh, how honorable. If you really wanted honor, then come to my office and apply for a position within my team. We’re not all about money and nice suits over there; we’re about the law and finding justice. We get a kick out of putting guilty people away to protect the innocent.”
“What even is guilt? Or innocence?” Detective Daryl Browne interrupted, appearing in front of them. As he stood next to the lawyers, he rubbed his plump stomach in the same way a pregnant woman does, almost looking proud of the years of alcohol abuse that it took to develop it. “What even is justice?”
Hunter turned to the cop. “You wouldn’t know. You’ve never been interested in any of them.”
Standing next to the lawyers, Browne appeared as a contrast to the field of justice—the lawyers, fit and tall, were perfectly dressed, and the detective, round and short, had his shirt untucked at the front. There was enough artificial glow from the fluorescent lights for Hunter to spot the abundance of ear hairs on Browne—not something he wanted to notice but something he couldn’t stop looking at.
“It won’t be long before the handcuffs are on you, Hunter.” Browne touched the badge on his belt. “You’re just like your father. It’s in your blood, in your DNA, and I’ll take great pleasure in the day I see you behind bars.”
“My parents are innocent, Browne. You know it, and I know it, so why must we always have this dance? Haven’t you got better things to do?” Hunter stepped forward, leaning closer to the detective to talk near his ear. “Like extorting money from small business owners.”
The comment piqued the prosecutor’s interest, and Browne stepped back, the panicked expression on his face signaling that Hunter had rattled him.
Hunter smiled. Good.
“The only thing I know for sure is that your parents are as guilty as your client in that room.” Browne’s voice lowered as he quickly changed the subject. “He’s got a target on his back in here. He’ll be dead soon if he stays behind bars. A dead girl was found in his basement, I hear. It’s funny—Robert Sulzberger presented himself as a moral politician, but it was only a front, a marketing tool. He’s as bad as the rest of them. It just goes to prove the old saying, ‘power corrupts.’” Browne rubbed his stomach again, stepping back from Hunter. “You know, when Sulzberger made the decision to rezone the building status of the veteran’s community center, so that the developers could move in, we all started to get a sniff of what he really was. The character that he presented to the public was a front—he looked good when he won that reality television show Island Survivor, but it was a lie—just the trickery of television. And sure enough, soon afterward, we find a dead girl in his basement. They all crack, Hunter. Just like your parents. Everyone thought they were normal people, living an ordinary life, but in reality, they’d buried those girls six-foot under.”
Hunter made up the space between them again, and Browne’s hand went to his holster on reflex, his face covered with fear.
“Settle down, boys. This isn’t a schoolyard.” Law threw her hands out, stepping between them. “And I don’t feel like being a witness in a case about the lawyer who beat a cop in the foyer of a prison.”
Browne grunted, stepped back from Hunter, and bumped into the wall. “I’ll get you, Hunter.”
He mumbled as he walked to the elevators, scratching his behind as he went.
“You always had a way with words, Michelle. One of your many talents.” Hunter watched the detective enter an elevator, then turned back to his University of Chicago Law School alumni. “You’re more than a pretty face. And it is a very pretty face.”
“Thank you, Tex.” Her voice had softened, although the same stoic look remained. “But flirting will get you nowhere with me. I’m immune to it.”
He shrugged with a grin, showing off his dimples.
Brushing the dust off the shoulder of her jacket, she continued, “I heard that you might be taking on the Sulzberger case. I hope you do because I enjoy our little battles in the courtroom.”
“You might even enjoy it enough to break out into a smile.”
“I don’t smile much these days, Tex, but I’m sure most women would smile for you.” Her mouth cracked at the corners, a slight grin sneaking out. “I’ve just been to a meeting with Cindy Mendel at City Hall, and we were talking about missing persons’ cases. Your name came up because she even suggested that some of the old cases might be connected to your father. She’s passionate about helping young people, but they’re not the cases I live for. I live for cases like Sulzberger’s.”
“Do you know the Sulzberger case well? He’s only been in here a day.”
“He’s big news around here. A name like that in prison, well, I’ve heard that he won’t last long. He’ll be dead within a year if he stays behind bars. A lot of status goes to the prisoners that kill big name detainees. If you take this case, it’ll be more than just another job; you’re going to have to fight to keep him alive before he even gets to trial.”
“It sounds like you know Robert Sulzberger personally.”
“Not personally, but I’ve always been a reality television fan. Robert Sulzberger was the oldest guy ever to win Island Survivor. You don’t get bigger reality television stars than that, but he’s also the man that went into politics on one idea, and then turned on his own people
. The story was front-page news for weeks.” She smiled, but it was awkward. “I don’t want him to die, but if he killed the girl, then he has to do the time. And if he does the time, he dies.”
“Thanks for the pep talk. It really lowered the pressure on me.” Hunter returned the smile. “Hopefully, I’ll see you soon.”
He turned and walked down the narrow corridor to the interview room. He knew his way through these halls much too well, and the overriding smell of fear was something that he would never enjoy.
When he reached the door to the interview room, he paused next to the prison guard.
He understood what entering the door meant. A high-profile client meant months of stress, scrutiny, and burnt out adrenaline reserves. It meant his face was going back on news bulletins, with competitive reporters hustling outside his office, and people yelling at him in the streets again. More significantly, perhaps more painfully, it also meant his father’s legacy, the long shadow cast by the murders of eight innocent girls, would be thrown back into the spotlight.
But he hoped, as he always did, that the wild ride was going to be worth it.
Power and Justice is available to buy now!
Gates of Power Page 18
