Payback, p.22
Payback, page 22
“Nothing, so far. It’s zero, until you start putting in some effort.”
For the first time, I felt more enthusiasm for the position I’d taken out of desperation. Maybe I didn’t want to join up with a Manhattan defense firm, after all. My mother’s firm was undeniably profitable, and she could provide a hands-on instruction in effective legal defense.
“What’s inside the safe-deposit box? Just so I’ll be prepared.”
She turned back to her keyboard, pulled up a legal document and hit print. The pages churned out of her printer as she said, “No idea. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”
Chapter 43
I knew my mother was serious when she’d counseled me on my professional attire at her office the day before. So I wasn’t wearing rags when I walked through the door of First Central Bank on Thirty-Ninth and Broadway. But I didn’t look like a figure from the Style section either.
When I’d sorted through the scant offerings in my closet that morning, I had asked Millie if she had anything I could borrow. She answered with an eloquent look. Apparently, she was holding a grudge over the destruction of the last outfit I’d borrowed from her.
So I pulled a dress from the back of the closet, a relic from law school I’d worn to a classmate’s wedding. I’d purchased it at T.J.Maxx, not because I liked it, but because it was hanging on a clearance rack, priced at 75 percent off retail value. I concluded that no one in the whole city wanted to wear the garment. It was a wrap dress, a good fit on me. But the fabric was pink, with a multicolored paisley pattern.
I held the dress up to my shoulders and assessed the reflection in the mirror. It was definitely not courtroom attire. The only advantage the dress could claim was that it was perfectly clean. Wrinkled, but clean.
Millie was standing behind me. Our eyes met in the mirror. Sounding doubtful, I said, “What do you think?”
Her face lit up. “I like it! My married sister in Oklahoma has a dress just like that.”
That comment almost talked me out of it. I was ready to shove the pink paisley dress back into the closet and wear the black suit that was stuffed into a dirty clothes hamper. But I checked the time. The bank was opening soon, and I didn’t want to run late. My mom had given strict instructions. We had a golden opportunity, a chance to pitch Rod’s case before the judge, in chambers.
So I tried to carry myself with dignity as I strolled into the bank in my multicolored frock. The security guard winked at me; that was alarming. The dress I wore was like a flashing sign: “Don’t take me seriously.”
I had to go through multiple levels of evaluation with the bank security staff before they gave me access to Victor Odom’s safe-deposit box.
After I’d provided documentary proof to the bank’s satisfaction, a middle-aged woman dressed in black told me to follow her. When the bank employee let me into the vault, I said, “This is probably a novel situation, am I right? Seems like people don’t lose track of keys to safe-deposit boxes.”
She gave me a conspiratorial look. “You’d be surprised.”
When we stepped in front of the wall of boxes, I said, “Which one is it?”
She pointed to one of the boxes. “This one belongs to Mr. Odom. Number 11013.”
I was startled to see it. I assumed Victor would have a little box, maybe to hold some important papers, or old wedding rings, something like that. He’d been married three or four times. A guy with that many ex-wives might want to hide his valuables.
But the box she indicated was huge, the biggest size available in the vault.
“Are you sure?” Because I thought there must be a mistake.
She handed me the paperwork, from my mother’s law office. “There’s the number. It’s consistent with our records. The locksmith is here. Have a seat, it will only take a few minutes.”
I sat in a chair by a small metal table and watched the locksmith drill the lock. When he was done, he swung the door open and stepped away from the box. The bank employee said, “You’ll need to take the contents with you.”
I brought my briefcase along, as my mother had ordered. Like Mom, I figured it would serve the purpose. But from the size of the box, I should’ve brought a steamer trunk. What the hell did Victor have in there?
When I dragged the heavy box from its place in the wall and opened it, my first reaction was shock. The box was stuffed with cash, packets and packets of hundred dollar bills.
I glanced over at the woman in charge and quipped, “Wow! Looks like Victor robbed a bank.”
She didn’t laugh, which was understandable, considering the setting.
Assessing the contents of the box, my next response was a jolt of exasperation. How the hell would I manage to stuff all of that money into my briefcase?
Chapter 44
I pulled up to the Criminal Courthouse in an Uber. Because there was no way I could walk down into the subway with all that cash in my possession.
It wasn’t limited to the briefcase. There was too much of it. The bank had to give me additional bags—a handful of those zippered bags with the bank logo, designed to hold cash. Once I’d filled them, they created such a bulky armload that the bank offered me a black plastic trash bag. I was toting a Hefty bag full of currency, in addition to the bills stuffed into my briefcase. I was a walking target for a mugger. Climbing the front steps of the courthouse, I felt like a flashing sign over my head spelled out “ROB ME.”
Fortunately, the criminal courts security personnel knew me. When my buddy Ahmed checked out the briefcase and the trash bag full of cash, his eyes popped out of his head.
He took me by the elbow after I walked through the metal detector and pulled me aside.
“What the hell, Stone?” he said in a shocked whisper.
“It’s not mine!” I said.
Bemused, he looked over at the bags of money. “Then who does it belong to?”
I spoke in a low voice. “Ahmed, my mom has a new probate case. The guy just died, and she told me to empty out his safe-deposit box before I met her at court. We’ve got a chambers conference with one of the judges.”
It was the plain truth. Ahmed said, “That sounds conceivable. I guess.” But he looked doubtful.
I said, “Can you honestly think of any other explanation for me to have that kind of cash? You’ve known me for years.”
I was afraid we might be attracting attention. I scooted closer to the loot. If someone grabbed it, my mother would lay the blame at my feet.
Ahmed said, “You’re probably doing defense work, now that you’re not an ADA. You sure that money’s not dirty? Connected to a criminal enterprise?”
In fact, I wasn’t sure. But I lied. “Cross my heart.”
He handed me the trash bag and the briefcase. “Whoever died must have been made of money. He had the golden touch, right? I’d like to be in the business he was in.”
I just nodded. Didn’t tell Ahmed that he was in a similar line of work as the late Victor Odom.
Which raised the question I’d been chewing ever since they drilled Victor’s box open. What kind of side hustle was my dad’s old partner into, to come by all that cash?
I went to the elevator bank and rode up to the courtroom. My mom was sitting on a bench in the hallway outside Judge Robertson’s court, having an animated conversation on her cell phone. When I trundled up with my hands full, she gave me a stare of horror and cut off her call.
“What are you wearing? You look like a character out of a Tennessee Williams play. Why can’t you dress like a lawyer?”
I’d been so intent on protecting the money that I’d forgotten to brace myself for the ridicule. Deadpan, I said, “I love this dress. It’s my favorite.”
When she smirked at me, I hoisted the trash bag and dumped it on her lap.
Her face wrinkled with pique. “Don’t dump your trash on me, Kate.”
“It’s Victor’s. The contents of his safe-deposit box.”
She gazed up at me like she was checking to see whether I was kidding. When I nodded, she untied the top of the trash bag and peeked inside, reached in, and unzipped one of the bank bags.
And then she gasped. “Oh my God.”
I dropped the briefcase beside her on the bench. “This is the rest of it.”
She shoved the trash bag aside and lifted the briefcase, groaning at the weight. Before she opened it, she said, “This is crazy.”
“Yeah.”
She flipped the latches and lifted the lid, just high enough to spy the contents. After she glimpsed the stacks of hundred-dollar bills bound together with brown paper bill straps, she slammed the briefcase shut. As she locked it, I heard her murmur, “Victor, what were you up to?”
I was wondering the same thing.
She stood up, grasped my briefcase by the handle, and instructed me to tote the remainder of the money. “We’ll have to carry it into chambers. I’ll think of some explanation.”
“Right.”
As she marched into court, I followed her, carrying the trash bag over my shoulder like Santa’s bag of toys.
Judge Robertson’s clerk led us straight back to the judge’s private office. Nobody messed with my mom; there were no complications, no delays.
The judge was in his shirtsleeves. He rose as we entered. “Hey, Patricia! Good to see you. It’s been a while.”
She shot him a toothy smile. “Too long.”
“Have a seat.” He waved a hand, indicating a couple of worn office chairs facing his desk.
Mom eased into a chair and crossed her legs, like she was a femme fatale in an old film noir movie. “Judge, have you met my daughter? Kate has joined my firm.”
He cast a doubtful glance my way, like he’d never seen me before. “Nice to meet you, Kate.”
I was starting to tell him I’d appeared before him the week before, when Mom interrupted. “I have to apologize, your honor. Kate’s moving her personnel files from her old DA’s office. I’m so sorry to have her drag things into chambers. Hope you’ll forgive her.”
He gave the trash bag a bare glance. “No problem.”
Mom pulled a file folder from her bag. As she perched the reading glasses on her nose, she said, “Thanks so much for agreeing to see me, Saul. I’ve entered my appearance on behalf of a young man who’s being held at Rikers—a family friend.”
I slid down in my chair, chagrined. Was my mother actually trying to woodshed the judge? It wasn’t ethical to take up a case with a judge unless the other side was present. And no representative from the DA’s office was with us; it was just the three of us, Mom and Judge Robertson and me. Any minute, he was going to shut her down, and I’d be forced to witness it.
Blithely, she went on, as if her professional ethics wouldn’t be called out. “There’s no reason to hold him. He’s clearly entitled to release under the state statute, and no extraordinary circumstances justify pretrial detention in Rodney’s case. He doesn’t have a criminal history. Good God, Saul, the young man is charged with a misdemeanor. And I’m almost certain the state’s witness won’t appear. I anticipate they’ll dismiss the charge.”
Wait—what? Was she blowing smoke? I didn’t know anything about a recalcitrant witness. If the state’s case had a hole, no one told me.
“If you’d go ahead and release him, you’ll be my personal hero.” She beamed at him and held out a document.
I was incredulous. What was going on? What planet was I on?
I waited for the judge to berate her and escort us out of the office. Instead, he took the sheet of paper from her hand, turned to his monitor, and started tapping on the keyboard.
“You make a convincing case, Patricia. But you always have. It’s part of your charm.”
“Saul. Stop that, I’m blushing.”
Oh God. She was flirting. I thought I might throw up.
The judge said, “Rodney Lamar Bryant. That sounds familiar. Seems like someone appeared on his behalf the other day.”
Someone? I opened my mouth to inform him that I was the counsel for defendant who’d appeared on his behalf. My mother silenced me with a sharp kick to my ankle.
I almost howled. Grabbing my injured ankle, I rubbed the sore spot, waiting to see what would happen next. I expected to hear the judge inform my mother of the updated information I’d received when I appeared, that Rodney was being held while the judge pondered release conditions because he’d committed violent assaults on other inmates.
But he didn’t say anything about recent assaults. He stared at the screen, clicking the mouse. My hopes started to rise.
Maybe my mother was a magician.
Since we’d walked into his chambers, the judge acted like he was taking orders from Mom. It was a strange reversal of power, as if he was a genie devoted to granting her wishes. But if it worked, that was good for our side. I started rooting for victory. Come on, Saul, I thought. Listen to your old pal Patricia. Let Rodney go.
When he turned away from the computer, he wore a strange expression on his face. My hopes sank with a thud. I figured I could predict what he was about to say. Rod wasn’t leaving Rikers.
I was wrong.
“Patricia, you’re not gonna believe this.”
“What?”
“Rodney Bryant isn’t at Rikers. He escaped.”
Chapter 45
My mother charged toward the bank of elevators, clutching my briefcase. As I tagged along behind her, I heard her mutter.
“Jesus Christ. That’s a first.”
She reached the elevators and punched the down button. When the doors didn’t open immediately, she pushed the button so hard I thought the plastic cover might break.
“That’s what I get for being the nice guy. When will I learn? Never represent someone who hasn’t paid in full.”
She swung around so fast that her glasses fell off her face. Maybe that’s why she kept them attached to a chain.
“People who don’t pay for services have no appreciation for the representation you provide. Remember that!”
I felt obligated to speak up in defense of Rod. “Mom, it wasn’t personal. He didn’t even know you were involved.”
The elevator doors opened to a full carload of bodies. When my mother tried to shoulder her way inside, I tugged her arm.
“Uh, Mom. It’s going up.”
“Shit,” she hissed. She stepped back and jammed the down arrow again.
While we waited, I spoke, more to myself than to her. “Sure hope Rod’s going to be all right.”
“All right?” She gave me a look of disbelief. “Escape from confinement. He committed a felony, and every officer in New York is looking for him. Do you think that’s going to end well?”
Her words sent a chill through me. I wondered how I could break the news to Millie. She was going to be devastated. As my anxiety level ratcheted higher, I wanted to rub the skin by my thumb. It was tough, with a trash bag of money in my fist, but I tried.
My mother caught sight of the movement. As she glanced away, she said, “Are you still doing that? After all these years?”
I jerked my hand away and hid it in a fold of fabric of the pink dress. “What do you care?”
“I told your father when you were a baby. He was just trading one bad habit for another.”
I didn’t understand. “What are you talking about?”
She sighed. “You were a thumb-sucker. Your father taught you to rub that piece of skin instead, to save your teeth from being displaced.”
I was dumbfounded. I had no recollection of that. I didn’t know when I’d adopted the habit. I’d done it as long as I could recall.
The door opened and Mom sighed with relief as she stepped into the elevator. I was about to follow when a voice called out, “Kate! I need to talk to you!”
It was Bill. I turned, saw him running down the hall toward me.
My mother screeched “Kate!” as the elevator doors shut, separating us.
When Bill stopped beside me, he was breathing hard. “God, I’m glad to see you.”
As I checked him out, his appearance troubled me. He’d lost weight; his suit pants hung loose around the waist. His complexion was white as paste, and he had a rash around his eyes. Bill always broke out in hives when he was under stress.
“What’s up? You okay, Bill?”
He took my free hand and commenced to pull on it. “Come on, let’s find a place to sit. I need to talk to you.”
I was always up for a conversation with my old coworker, but I was in a tight spot that day. “Bill, my mom’s waiting on me. I’ve got to go downstairs to meet her.”
As if I’d conjured her, my phone pinged. I pulled it out. It read: Get down here NOW!
An elevator opened, and I walked over to enter it. Bill followed me. As the doors shut us inside, he said, “You were right. Everything you said, you were absolutely right.”
Those are words I love to hear. But I didn’t know what he was talking about.
He must have read my confusion. He went on, his voice shaking. “That support group. It’s dodgy, there’s something wrong with these people. They’re fundamentally flawed, unethical. You wouldn’t believe what they’re trying to make me do.”
The car stopped on the fourth floor. As it started to open, Bill hit the close door button. Someone waiting on four started protesting as the doors shut before they could enter.
“They have no respect for the law. They’re planning criminal escapades—and they wanted me to participate, think I should advise them. Can you believe that?”
Hell yeah. I absolutely could. “What did you tell them?” I asked.
He dropped his voice. “I told them no, absolutely not. And I said I wasn’t coming back. I won’t be, either. Some of these people are batshit crazy, I don’t want to have anything to do with them. And now they seem to pop up everywhere I go.”
It wasn’t lost on me that Bill’s judgment was superior to mine. I hadn’t cut my dodgy support group off until they tried to off me.
We landed on the main floor. As the door opened, Bill grabbed my arm. “I’m worried about your brother.”
