Category: Action/Thriller Publisher: Charles Shea
Type: Fiction
Pages: 187
Copyright: Jan 1, 2010
ISBN-13: 2940011831324
A mysterious vigilante begins killing an attorney's clients after acquittal.
Have you ever wondered how a trial lawyer can sleep at night after helping a client he/she knows is guilty, beat the legal system?I have.Have you ever wondered how an attorney would feel if that same recently acquitted client kills a second time?Again, I have, and these very questions prompted me to write a dark mystery/thriller about just such an attorney…I call it DEFENDING EVIL.
Travis Knight is an extraordinary Criminal Defense Attorney winning high profile cases in Atlanta.One of his recently acquitted clients kills again, which has Travis and his wife Julie, questioning what he does for a living.Travis is shaken to his core, but being a consummate lawyer, he is able to move past his feelings of guilt; Julie isn’t.
In a bizarre twist, a mysterious vigilante begins executing Travis’ clients after he wins them an acquittal. This righteous vigilante decides that the clients Travis is helping to put back into society are guilty, and don't deserve to live - the vigilante delivers ultimate justice.
The police only half-heartedly search for the vigilante; off the record, they are glad someone is cleaning-up after the hot-shot attorney.
The vigilante's attention turns to the source, and sends Travis an ultimatum: stop defending guilty clients or he will be the next to be executed. Risking his life, and his marriage, Travis refuses to be intimidated, and continues to defend clients accused of murder.
This story chronicles the labyrinth of high-speed twists and turns of a deadly cat-and-mouse game…a game that can end with only one winner.
Buckle-up and enjoy the ride!
Best Regards,
Charles Shea - Author of DEFENDING EVIL
Excerpt
Chapter 1
The stalker in a green Nissan sedan thumbed the safety switch on his silenced semi-automatic pistol back and forth between the On and Off positions. Click-click. Click-click. He was unaware that the rhythmic clicking was in perfect time with his heartbeat; his mind was on other things. His large thumb had been flicking that safety switch for over three hours as he waited in the parking garage of the law firm.
He checked his watch again. Through narrowed eyes he saw it was quarter-after-seven. Time crawled, but he was used to that. His patience was not only a virtue, in his line of work, it was a necessity. What little of the sky he could see between the cement pillars and half-walls of the garage indicated that it would soon be dark. The lengthening of shadows only served to remind him of how long he had been waiting.
The stalker slid lower in his seat when the bell from the garage elevator pinged. His heart raced for a moment before he realized it was just another false alarm. Two women stepped out. The ladies called their goodbyes as they headed to their respective cars. As one of them passed the front of his car, he caught the scent of a familiar perfume which set off a flood of bad memories. It was why he was waiting in the sweltering heat, because of memories of her.
He slapped the leather-wrapped steering wheel and cursed the man he stalked. A moment later, the scent of perfume was replaced by the stench of his body. It was hot and humid, but he couldn’t risk attracting attention by running the air-conditioning. His deodorant had given-out hours ago, and his shirt was soaked through at the armpits. The stagnant, car-exhaust-saturated-air of the parking garage provided no relief.
Click-click. A few minutes later, the elevator pinged again. The brushed steel doors parted, and a man with sandy-blond hair and a raven-haired woman stepped through. The last click left the safety switch in the Off position ready to fire. As he hissed, “It’s about damn time,” a globule of spit shot from his mouth and hit the windshield. His knuckles strained as he clenched the pistol. The target had arrived.
Travis Knight and his paralegal, Tina Martinez, laughed about something he could not quite make out as the pair walked towards her car. Travis watched as she backed out of her space, then headed to the exit. He got into his car and did the same.
“Oh yeah, this looks real good. I’ve got you now, shit-head,” whispered the stalker. He followed one hundred feet behind Travis’ car.
Travis turned right onto Peachtree Boulevard, and so did the Nissan. Minutes later, Travis made a sharp left turn darting onto the ramp for Highway 400 North. The stalker kept going.
“Son-of-a-bitch! Not tonight. . . not tonight!” he barked. He pounded the dashboard with a massive fist and yelled, “Damn! Damn! Damn!”
On the other side of downtown Atlanta, another man cursed in Spanish. Carlos Calderon was running out of time. In thirty more minutes it would be too dark to tell the weeds from the flowers in the Albrechts’ flowerbed. All the weeds had to be pulled before he could finish spreading the pine straw. He would’ve been done hours ago, but he had to take his daughter to the doctor that morning, so he’d gotten a late start. The Albrechts were good customers, and they would be coming home from vacation tomorrow. He didn’t want them to return and find that the work he had promised was not done.
The sky blazed in red and orange as the sun sank lower on the horizon. Carlos had no time to enjoy the show. He was working in the last flowerbed at the rear of the property next to the neighbor’s privacy fence. He stopped for a moment to massage his aching back, then mopped the sweat from his brow with a bandana. Just about to kneel down and pluck another weed, he heard a splash, then another. Next came a yell that almost sounded angry. He wasn’t sure. It was not unusual to hear splashes because most of the houses on this street had heated pools in the backyards. The Calderon Yard Maintenance Company also took care of many pools on this street, but the one next door to the Albrechts’ was not one of them.
Carlos thought maybe the neighbors were just roughhousing or skinny-dipping. What he heard next was unusual, a cry for help. It took him a moment to find a damaged board on the fence with an opening big enough to see through. A blur of movement in the shallow end of the pool caught his eye. Both people still had their clothes on. He saw a powerful man standing over a woman. The man had a fistful of the woman’s hair as he pushed her underwater. “Madre de Dios,” he gasped. The woman’s head broke the surface, and he heard another garbled cry for help as the man pushed her back under.
Heart racing, he almost called out, but fear for his own life stopped him. He was sure he would be found on the bottom of that pool next to the woman if he were discovered. Instead, he turned to run, took a step, then stopped and went back to the fence. Carlos tried and failed to calm his ragged gasps for air. He fumbled in his pocket, then pulled out his cell phone. His calloused finger made it difficult to press the small button, but he managed to snap two pictures before dialing 911.
“9-1-1 operator. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“He’s killing her. . .the lady,” Carlos whispered.
“What lady, sir?”
“She’s in the pool. Hurry! Please hurry!”
“What is your address?”
He gave her the Albrecht’s address.
The big man hunched over her now. He was holding the woman underwater with both his arms. A hand shot out of the water and locked onto his upper arm. The hand stayed there only a moment before it went limp and slipped back under. A torrent of bubbles broke the surface, then stopped.
Carlos backed away from the fence. When he turned to run he stumbled over the wheelbarrow and fell onto a bale of pine straw. Regaining his balance, he moved further away from the horror he had just witnessed. He could barely hear the woman on the phone asking more questions. Carlos made the sign of the cross with the phone still in his hand. Acidic vomit rose in his throat like molten lava from an erupting volcano. A spasm wracked his body; he dropped the phone. He fell to his knees and threw-up in the grass.
Travis Knight’s phone intercom beeped. “Detective Brikler is on line one. Do you want to take the call?”
“Yes, I’ll take it. Thanks.” He pressed the button next to the blinking light. “This is Travis Knight.”
“Knight, this is Brikler. I thought you might be interested to know that your former client, Ron Gurrero, was arrested last night for another murder.”
Travis leaned forward and put his elbow on the desk; his stomach knotted. He cradled his forehead in his hand then exhaled before asking, “What happened?”
“Almost an exact repeat of the first time we went through this shit with your client. He drowned his latest girlfriend in his pool. This time it’s going to stick. You won’t be able to bullshit your way past a jury by claiming it was an accident, like you did last year. We have an eye-witness and pictures. Your boy thought no one was home next door, but the gardener was working late and saw the whole thing. He even took pictures with his cell phone. God, I love technology!” Brikler chuckled into the phone. “You want to take this one counselor? Huh?”
Travis thought fast. “I’m slammed. Can’t take on any new cases right now.”
Brikler laughed again. “Yeah, I bet. When you know we’ve got an open-and-shut case you get too busy. Imagine that! You made your big, hot-shot reputation defending Gurrero the first time. Come on, are you sure you’re going to pass?”
Travis ignored Brikler. The headache came on fast like daggers in his temples. He massaged his head. “Is there anything else, Brikler?”
“Just one thing: If you hadn’t gotten Gurrero off last time, he’d be some con’s bitch in a maximum-security prison instead of choking the life out of another human being. As far as I’m concerned, you helped kill that girl.”
Travis pushed back from his desk, jumped to his feet and roared, “Bullshit! A jury of his peers set him free, not me! Innocent until proven guilty, that’s the way the system works. If you geniuses would’ve done your job, the jury might’ve found him guilty.”
Brikler’s response was just as loud, “We did our jobs! You just confused the jury into letting that murdering bastard go! You saw the evidence. I really don’t know how you sleep at night.”
“I sleep just fine. Say, I’d love to continue this pissing contest, but I have work to do.”
“Sure you do, so many killers to free and so little time. Sweet dreams, counselor.” There was a click and the line went dead.
Travis fell back down in his chair, then leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. A minute passed before he opened the center drawer of his desk. His hands shook as he picked up the aspirin bottle. He fumbled a moment with the cap. “Child proof. Shit!” He poured two aspirins in his hand. The headache was a doozy. He shook out two more for good measure.
Travis normally didn’t drink this early in the day, but he needed something to wash down the aspirin, and water wasn’t going to do the job. This was, after all, a first in his career. He walked to his wet-bar and filled a tumbler with ice. He poured a few fingers of eighteen-year-old Laphroaig, single malt scotch over the ice and returned to his chair.
Travis had been an assistant defense attorney or in the “second chair” with his former law firm a few times at murder trials, but Ron Gurrero’s trial was the first for his own firm. It was the publicity from that trial that lit the fuse on his career rocket. That was just one year ago, and things were going great, until now.
Everything came tumbling down with just one phone call. Travis knew Detective Brikler was right. If he hadn’t done such a brilliant job defending Ron Gurrero, the poor woman would still be alive. He’d helped keep a killer free.
Ron Gurrero was the spoiled, playboy son of a local multi-millionaire home improvement chain-store owner. Last year he had been accused of drowning his girlfriend, Alicia Stone. Travis was introduced to Ron through a friend of a friend. Ron seemed impressed during their meeting and asked Travis to defend him. There were no eye-witnesses to the crime. The strongest evidence the District Attorney had was the testimony of Courtney Miller, Alicia’s girlfriend. She said Alicia told her she was going to break-up with Ron the day she died, and that she was worried he might hurt her. Courtney claimed she had convinced Alicia to break-up with Ron in a public place like a restaurant, and Alicia agreed. The woman had no idea how or why they ended up at Ron’s house.
Travis was able to discredit her testimony by convincing the jury that Courtney was trying to “get back” at Ron because he had recently rebuffed her sexual advances. He argued that Courtney was the kind of friend anybody would be better off without. The jury agreed.
Travis popped the aspirins in his mouth, then followed up with a large swallow of scotch. At ninety dollars a bottle the Laphroaig scotch was an expensive aspirin chaser. The fiery sensation sliding down his throat took his mind off the bad news for a few seconds, which was way too temporary. He needed to talk to Julie, so he mashed the speed-dial button on his phone. Julie’s cell phone rang a few times then went to voicemail. She must be in surgery, he thought. “Son-of-a-bitching voice-mail.” He slammed the handset back into its cradle. That was it; there was nothing else to do but refill his glass.
After getting another scotch, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He imagined the poor girl fighting with Ron in the pool. He heard her screams and saw that lower-than-whale-shit psycho smiling as he held the girl underwater. Screams echoed though his mind. If he had been there, he would’ve grabbed a pool chair or something and bashed Ron over the head. The sad truth was he couldn’t help her now. He’d had his chance a year ago. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, then gulped down the remainder of his drink. He squeezed the glass hard until his hand hurt.
"This is all your fault, Ron, you stupid-fucking bastard!" he roared as he brought his palm down hard on the desk. He spent the rest of the afternoon trying numb his senses.
The taxi pulled up in front of his house just before dark. The meter showed forty dollars, but in his condition, it was a small price to pay for not having to risk driving home. He’d have to make arrangements to pick up his car tomorrow. Travis managed to fish out what he hoped was a fifty dollar bill. He handed the bill to the driver and said, “Keep it.” The driver thanked him and pulled away. He watched the cab for a moment as it navigated the driveway cul-de-sac. After it disappeared, he turned then stared at the walkway to his house. He saw two blurry sets of steps. He lined-up his approach and stepped forward on the wrong set. He fell forward onto the flagstone covered walkway and went down hard on one knee. Travis managed to stand, then rubbed his knee. There was a tear in the knee of his pants. “Shit!” He made a feeble attempt to dust off the yellow pine pollen which coated everything at this time of year. When he thought enough of the obnoxious yellow crap was removed, he wove his way to the front door. He took a second to peer through the etched glass panel in the heavy oak door to see if Julie was in sight. She was nowhere to be seen. He would have to open the door himself.
After a couple of tries, he got his key into the lock. He was about to turn it when the front porch light came on.
Julie opened the door. “You smell like scotch.” She shook her head then asked, “Having trouble?”
“Nope, no trouble. I juss couldn’t see. Issh dark out here.”
“You’re drunk!”
Travis steadied himself by grasping the doorjamb with his right hand before slurring his reply, “Yess, yess I am, my dear.”
“You’re thirty-years-old. I think it’s time you stopped this binge drinking.”
“Well, thiss time I had a good reason. Thiss has been the absolute sshittiest day I’ve ever had.” He burped. An odor of stale scotch filled the air.
“What happened?” she asked.
Once Julie was seated across from him at the table, he began the story of Ron Gurrero’s latest murder. She said nothing, only shook her head from time to time. The scowl on her face grew more severe as he continued. Travis was sober enough to know that this was just the quiet before the storm. He finished the story then sat back and waited for the assault.
A mere second passed before Julie was out of her chair wagging a reprimanding finger in his face as she shouted, “I knew this would happen someday! I knew it!”
Dixie, their Chocolate Labrador Retriever, crawled under the table.
“Now we are going to have to live with the knowledge that you helped put that killer back into society, and he’s killed again!”
Travis noticed the extended vein on the left side of her forehead, Not a good sign, he thought. He looked down at the table and whispered, “I believed he was innocent. So did the jury. It’s not my. . .”
“Oh, don’t give me that lame crap about it not being your fault! If you tell me one more time, ‘The jury did it,’ or ‘Our legal system isn’t perfect, blah-blah-blah,’ I’ll scream! You said this would never happen. Now it has. You’ve got to see it now. You’ve got to get out of this field of practice. You could defend criminals that aren’t accused of murder. You could change to real estate law, handle divorces, medical malpractice, anything but defending murderers!”
Silence followed. A drip from the sink faucet produced a single, steel-drum-like note. Travis could not look up at Julie. Her tirade helped him focus through the alcohol-induced haze. He inhaled, held it a moment, then exhaled. Wiping his hand across his face he answered, “I wish I could undo it somehow, but I can’t. If I had it to do over, I wouldn’t take his case. Maybe a less competent attorney wouldn’t have gotten him off. Maybe that girl would still be alive.”
Julie gave a dismissive wave then said, “That’s all in the past, and there is nothing you can do about it now, but you can change the future. Change your field of law.”
“You know I love you and my job. You and my job make me whole. We’ve been married a year, but I’ve been an attorney for five. It’s like you asking me to choose which arm I want to cut off. I could give up defending murder cases, but I would always miss the rush and sense of accomplishment when I win, and then I would blame you. We would never have a chance for a strong marriage under those circumstances. I can’t do that to you, and I can’t do it to me. This is who I was when we met, and this is who I am now. I know it’s crappy, but sometimes the guilty go free. Rarely they’ll kill again. It’s a risk all attorneys that defend accused murderers have to accept. If I can save one innocent person from being executed, it would be worth the risk. I’m good at what I do, and I can do too much good to give-up on my career. Please try and deal with this. We can help each other.”
Julie turned and walked to the sink, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. She probably didn’t want him to see her cry, but her jerking shoulders gave her away. She grabbed a paper towel off the rack and dried her face before she said, “So, in your mind, I guess what it boils down to is the old saying, ‘You’ve got to break a few eggs to make an omelet’.”
“I wouldn’t put it just that way, but, yeah, kind of.”
Julie turned back toward Travis and threw the wadded-up paper towel at him. “Well, I think one broken egg is one too many.” She stormed out of the kitchen.
“Julie! Come back! Julie!”
A few seconds later he heard the bedroom door slam.
Travis shook his head, then picked up the wadded paper towel. “Shit, shit, shit!”
He’d be sleeping in the quest bedroom. . .again. They’d only been married a year, and he was way too familiar with the guest bedroom. Julie, like Travis, had been born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia. She had a hot Irish temper combined with southern tenacity. She was quick to walk away from an argument and prone to slamming doors. They would argue about the usual things like money--how to invest it--the toilet seat being left up, him not picking up his clothes, his career, and the frequency of sex--or the lack thereof. Travis wanted more sex, Julie wanted less. As a Thoracic Surgeon, she worked long hours and was often too tired for romance when she got home.
Although they both graduated with honors from Emory University in Atlanta the same year, they didn’t meet each other until a few years after. The amount of sex wasn’t an issue during the year they dated, before getting married and a few months after. They couldn’t seem to get enough of each other. Julie’s hours had increased over the last six months resulting in a lot of bad moods and more frequent arguments.
Dixie poked her head out from under the table. Now that the storm had passed, she took a few cautious steps towards his chair, then sat and looked up at him.
Travis’ stomach growled, and he rubbed his belly. Dixie nudged him with her cold, wet nose. He scratched her neck a few times and said, “Dixie, don’t get married. It’s too complicated. They try to change you after you’re married. If you got married your husband might want you to quit jumping in the pond and chasing the ducks, and that wouldn’t be fair. You love to chase the ducks don’t you? Take it from me, Dixie, don’t ever get married,” he said. He stood up and wobbled his way to the refrigerator.
Julie’s mention of eggs gave him an idea. He opened the door and began rummaging for the egg carton. Dixie followed his every move. She was in perfect position when Travis dropped a few pieces of cheese on the floor during his preparations.
Fifteen minutes later he was eating a wonderful, steaming hot, ham and cheese omelet. Dixie sat staring at Travis, waiting patiently for the last bite. She wasn’t disappointed. Since there was no more food to be had, the four-legged “traitor” went down the hall and scratched at the master bedroom door. Travis heard the door open and close. “Damn dog gets treated better than I do,” he complained. He grabbed three chocolate-chip cookies from the cookie jar for the trip to the guest bedroom.
Ten minutes later he was lying in bed, a bed that was spinning. He moved to the edge and put one foot on the floor. Aaah, the spinning stopped. A minute later he was unconscious.
Travis was in a pitch-black room, and he could hear a woman in water calling for help. Using his hands and feet he tried to feel his way through the cold, damp darkness, but he couldn’t find the edge of the pool. Between garbled screams, the voice was calling his name, “Travis, Travis help meee!” As he became more frantic he swung his arms in every direction. He seemed to get close to the screams, then they would start again from somewhere behind him. He yelled out, “Hold on, I’m coming!” but he still couldn’t find the edge of the pool. Finally, the screams stopped. He was breathing hard as terror gripped him by the throat. He couldn’t find the woman, and he couldn’t find his way out. He screamed for help, then began running blind.
Travis woke up to find himself tangled in sheets, drenched in sweat and panting. He made his way to the bathroom. With trembling hands he wiped his face with a damp washcloth. He stared at his reflection in the mirror and wondered if this was how it was going to be for the rest of his life.
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