I'd like to thank Randi for all the work she did setting the magical mystery tour up, and for inviting me to write knowing that the trolls come out in force at the mere mention of my name. As for the story that follows, don't expect any nice guys or a Hollywood ending. I was thinking Dashiell Hammett, not Nancy Drew.
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Copyright© 2018 by Richard Gerald
The Falcons Rest is a bar and grill out old route 7. It is located where three counties intersect and is a little beyond the city limits. The Rest, as it is known, is what is sometimes referred to as a cop bar because a significant number of the patrons are from the members of law enforcement. As a place for a clandestine meeting, it would be last on most people's lists which placed it first on mine.
I parked in the well-filled lot and headed for the main entrance. As cop bars go, the Rest is better appointed than most with a large open bar room well stocked with tables for seating its guests. On the last Friday of the month, it had a large number of customers but was not overly crowded. It was the perfect situation for my meeting with sergeant Devin Cross. It had enough witness to make the meeting appear anything but clandestine.
As I entered, I drew hostile stares from the majority of the patrons. I would have expected nothing less as the lawyer suspected of killing his unfaithful wife and her police detective lover. There was no conviction or indictment, of course, hard to do either without evidence. No bodies had been found, and the lover's car had gone missing with the lovebirds. Nevertheless, I was guilty. The couple had vanished without a trace. I had the motive, and I was a sleazy lawyer. Who would need more proof outside of a courtroom?
Devin arrived looking none too happy with my choice of meeting place. He was a tall, well-built black man. He was what can only be described as an honorable man. He was here to pay a debt, and thereby purge his soul of the guilt he bore just by being obligated to a man of my character.
At this point dear reader, I will be candid and state that I'm what they refer to as bent or crooked, a lawyer who does not claim the least bit of moral character. I'm the unindicted co-conspirator of a half-dozen organized crime pleadings. Poor Devin had fallen on truly hard times the day he walked into my office with a thick packet of foreclosure papers.
The then office Devin Cross of the Metropolitan police had fallen victim to the predatory lenders of the great mortgage fraud, and in those early days of 2008, he with his wife and four kids were about to become just another sad homeless statistic. He made the rounds to all the honest and quasi-honest lawyers without receiving any significant help. He turned to me out of pure desperation.
In truth, I don't know why I helped him. There was nothing in it for me. He was an honest cop and a good man who was loyal to his friends, but no one I could use. He couldn't pay. Being an honest man, he told me this right off. The scammers on the internet had taken his last dollars. The foreclosure was the following day. He just sat there in my office a big physically powerful man, with tears forming at the corners of his eyes, telling me about his daughter, his little princess. She had cancer, and he didn't know how to tell her and her brothers that they were about to lose their home.
I filed the bankruptcy to stop the sale. Then I had some of my more disreputable clients visit the mortgage broker and obtain a confession that the documents used in the foreclosure were false. In other words, the mortgage crook face by two more violent felons told the truth for once. It then only took a larger bribe to the court than Deutsche bank was willing to pay to get actual justice for once.
Why did I do all that? I still can't tell you, but Devin Cross had a hard time living with the knowledge that his family's home had been saved by a crook like me.
"You picked an odd place to meet," he said.
"Even a guy like me has some conscience. I couldn't let you get jammed up helping me out."
"So, you picked this place?" he said as Lottie the barmaid came up.
She was dressed as usual in a tight top that didn't cover her midriff and pants that seemed to be painted on. She was a very pretty girl who was unafraid to show her assets.
"What can I get you, Bruce?" she said to me.
She and I had a long association of harmless flattery and overindulgent tips on my part. She had a young son and no man at home having made the mistake of choosing sex appeal over dependability. I could see the tension in Lottie's manner. Everyone said I was guilty. Accordingly, I must be, and therefore, anyone associated with me would suffer. Still, I noticed that Lottie had come to the table when she could have pushed my service off onto another.
Lottie was a good friend. As it was turning out, I had more like her than I realized. I wouldn't want them to suffer for their loyalty. I needed to do something to get my life back and assure people they could relax around me. Devin Cross was in his way throwing me a life preserver, but I needed to make the most of it.
"Bring us two Boston Lagers, Lottie," I said.
"I got to admit you got guts counselor. Walking into this place filed with Paul Moreno's friend and work buddies," Devin said.
Paul Moreno was the bastard who had seduced my wife and thereby put me in the shit. He, his Ford GT, and my wife had disappeared the night of March 17, Saint Patrick's Day, and the night before back to back thunderstorms flooded the three counties around the Schoharie Creek. This body of water would be called a river in any of the western states, but here it was misnamed a creek. A beguiling title which led to much suffering. People persisted in bridging over and building around this treacherous but modestly named watercourse. They paid a high price in lives and property for misjudging the Schoharie.
By early on the eighteenth of March, all the emergency crews were out saving the people stranded by the flood. No one noticed that my wife and her prick lover were missing for a few days. Then, of course, suspicion immediately fell on me.
"Victory belongs to the bold as the saying goes," I told Devin, and we talked about nothing much while he worked up to doing what he came for.
I waited through two rounds of beers, and then I said, "Just tell me what you came to say, and I'll do the rest. Trust me, and no one will ever believe the tip came from you."
So, he leaned in and whispered, "They have a warrant and will be hitting your home and offices on Sunday at six a.m."
I pushed my chair back and then stood letting it fall before I shouted, "Listen when I want advice I won't seek it from some metro pig, and he'll be a better friend than you. For the last time, I don't know what happened to my wife."
I stormed out leaving a rather confused Devin behind me, but he was a smart guy and would figure out that everyone would believe the worst of him. They would think him an ambitious cop seeking to advance himself on our relationship. A confession from me would be a feather in any cop's cap. Trying to wheedle a confession from me wouldn't hurt him but being seen with me in a surreptitious meeting would have ruined him. This way things were so public no one would believe he had warned me.
As I exited the Falcon Rest, I let out a sigh. I had only myself to blame that things had come to this sorry state. I had let my heart overrule my head. Now I must work my ass off to claw my way out from behind the eight ball that we call justice in this country. Still, the words of my late wife's dairy haunted me. They were a swarm of killer bees stinging my heart until all the blood seeped away.
October first the diary of Elaine Grey (Mrs. Bruce Grey)
I saw him again today. He's very tall and handsome with that wavy black hair of his. Jenny says she knows him. In fact, she has slept with him. He's a police officer which must mean that he is following me because of something involving Bruce.
It is truly hard to believe that a rather drab man like Bruce can engender such suspicion in others, but I guess that comes with being the attorney for such high-profile criminals. I mean the people he deals with are so much more interesting than poor Bruce. Don't get me wrong; I love him dearly. He's a cuddly teddy bear. The kind of man that you feel safe with. Why people think him dangerous, I will never know.
Jenny says the police officer following me is a real stud, very well endowed. His name is Paul Moreno. Jenny dated him off and on over the last six months. Her husband Bob is like a clone of my Bruce except for the fact that he has a dull real estate practice and is not some black hat criminal defense attorney. You can't really blame Jenny for succumbing to the edgy stud of a police officer. I mean the temptation is so great. After seven years of marriage and two kids she is looking for a little excitement, or so she says. Me after fifteen years with a fourteen-year-old daughter I'm ready for the rocking chair on the back porch. Women like me just don't attract the attention of young studs. It makes me feel so old!
October fifteenth
Bruce is away again. I swear that man makes more out of town trips. If it was anyone else, I would suspect infidelity, but the man is as faithful as a spaniel and just about as exciting.
Joined a gym today. It was Jenny who goaded me into it. She's into a fitness craze and needed a partner. I'm not in that bad a shape, not like Bruce who is suffering from middle age spread, but Jenny needed a partner, and I can use the physical tone. I increased my morning run from one to two miles, but I need to work on my tummy and butt. I'm feeling the empty nest anxiety. Maybe getting into shape will help.
Why did I let my fourteen-year-old talk me into that boarding school? I swear Rachael is just like my mother all female ambition. No concern for others at all. My mother still mocks my choice of professions, but I believe that helping others is the highest calling that any individual can aspire to. Being a social worker is often frustrating, but on those rare days when you know that you have helped another human being transform their life, there is no greater reward.
On the other hand, Rachael may be trying to escape the stigma of Bruce's profession. People say such cruel things. A teenage girl can be very sensitive. Perhaps it is better all-around if Rachael is away, but a mother can't help missing her child.
I saw him again today. God, but he is handsome. He was at my gym. What a stud he is. He was wearing this tight outfit. You could see the sculptured shape of his abdominal muscles, but I tried not to stare at the bulge in his shorts. That can't really be all him. Why he keeps following me, I will never know, but Paul Moreno is sure easy on the eyes.
