But they weren’t the target.
Hunter looked for the girl amongst the panic on the street, but she was already gone.
Chapter 27
Jasmine Langford had nowhere to go.
With the hood of her black sweater still up, she sprinted down the side alley, not wide enough for a car, moving between the dumpsters. Fear pulsed through her body, her heart rate reached its maximum, and her ears were still ringing from the echoing sounds of gunshots. Once out the other side of the alley, she checked the street, searching for the truck, and then ducked into the 7-11. She moved to the back of the store, waiting for the truck to race past.
If they knew she was alive, then she couldn’t go back to the shelter. Word must’ve gotten out. They’d already be looking for her there. She couldn’t bring trouble to the women that had already experienced so much. She had to keep them safe. From the front corner of the 7-11, staring over the top row of shelving near the door, she watched the cars go past, waiting for the truck.
A set of police sirens wailed by, followed by another one. There was panic in the street, a fear the gunshots may continue.
“Hey, you buying anything?” The man behind the counter looked edgy. He’d heard the gunshots. “You there. What are you buying?”
She didn’t look in the man’s direction, waiting for another car to go past.
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” the man continued. “You. The girl in the hood. Are you buying anything?”
Jasmine didn’t respond, instead she stepped out onto the street. She looked both ways, looking for anything suspicious. It was a targeted hit. Cowan didn’t want her to testify—not about the raid, not about the club, and not about what she saw the night Lana died. Cowan had already warned her once not to say anything after Lana’s death. He wouldn’t warn her again.
She stepped into the street, amongst the crowds coming to see what happened. She walked around the block, keeping her head down, staying near the wall, looking for any suspicious movements. While she hurried through, she remembered the words of her mother—stay strong, and always keep moving.
She had vivid memories of her mother.
Her clearest memory was in the kitchen, with her mother dressed in an apron, whisk in hand, a splatter of red sauce on her sleeve. She was a solid African-American woman with long black hair, strong forearms, and shoulders strong enough to carry the weight of the world. She always danced as she cooked. Swaying her hips side to side with a broad smile on her face.
Her worst memory of her mother’s life was at the funeral. At fifteen years old, it was the moment when everything became real. It was the moment when it sunk in that her mother wasn’t coming back. There would be no more cuddles. There would be no shoulder to cry on. There would be no more help. Her step-father kicked her out of home a month later.
She felt her mother’s presence every once in a while. Like a ghost in the room, she could sense when she was nearby. That loving touch, that caring smile, that guiding hand, a burst of warm air.
She needed her now.
Jasmine moved to the end of a block on West Jackson Boulevard, the area already cordoned off by the cops. From down the street, she could see the police were speaking to the lawyer and his companion. They were both standing. They’d survived the shooting. The paramedics were there, but they didn’t look too concerned. There was no rush to save lives, no desperate noise of panic.
Ten minutes before, when she heard the lawyer’s yells to move, she dove behind a trash can. The bullets peppered her location, and once the truck had passed, she ran down the nearest alley. She wasn’t going to wait for them to come back for her. She couldn’t trust the people on the street, and she trusted the police even less. She caught a quick glimpse of the man with the gun. She recognized him from the club. The shooter must’ve been following the lawyer, keeping an eye on him, and when they saw her approaching, they took their opportunity.
As the crowd began to gather, she saw a dark sedan in the traffic, half a block away. Moving behind a taller man, she sheltered from view. The traffic light turned green. The car edged forward. Slower than it should’ve been going.
The crowd was beginning to file down the road, and she moved between the people around her.
The car stopped.
With her hood still on, she turned and walked away from the drama on West Jackson.
She couldn’t trust any of them—not Cowan, not the men that came to her apartment, not the police. They all had connections, and they were all willing to use her as a pawn in their games. She trusted Cowan the least. The man was a sleaze, taking advantage of the vulnerable and using them to do whatever he wanted. She saw it happen to Lana. She wished she had the power to stop them, she wished she had the power to end the run of hatred.
She recognized the face of one of the men that first came to her apartment. The younger man. He had been at the club the night Lana died. Along with Cowan, he walked into the private room that Lana never walked out of.
She had enough money to run. She had enough money to stay on the streets for a few days, hitching rides and sleeping in parks. She could even make it to Florida. Try to start again. That was her favorite option.
Telling the truth was another option. It was dangerous, deadly even, but in her heart, it was the path she knew she had to take. Not just for her, but for every girl in the club, and for every girl that was being used.
She knew what she had to do.
But she also knew the cost.
Chapter 28
Tex Hunter raged through the busy Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club, pushing customers out of the way, searching for the owner. Investigator Ray Jones followed him through the Friday night crowd, struggling to match the pace of his boss. The main performance room of the Five-Star was hectic, men throwing dollars around, drinking heavily, and cheering on the twirling performances from the dancers.
“Where is she?!” Tex Hunter stormed into the office of Rick Cowan, swinging the door wide open, followed by Jones. Hunter’s teeth were clenched together as he came to stand over Cowan. The office in the back of the Five-Star Gentlemen’s Club was shadowy, and stunk of smoke, sleaze, and stale liquor. The liquor cabinet behind the desk was well-stocked, and a couch to the side of the room was well-used. Posters of past performances lined one wall, paintings of naked women on the other.
“I didn’t expect to see you here.” Cowan sat in the large leather chair, feet on his desk, one leg crossed over the other, cigar in his mouth. “Come to watch some girls dance? I’m sure we can give you a good deal. Perhaps a private dance for free. Choose your girl and we’ll look after you.”
“Where is she?” Hunter repeated as he slammed his hands on the desk.
“Who are you talking about?” Cowan took his feet off the table. “I didn’t pick you as the sort of guy that would be desperate to find one particular girl to dance for you, but whatever you want. You’re helping me in court, so I’ll help you with the girls. Let these girls relieve some of the stress you’re carrying around.”
“I want to know where Jasmine Langford is.”
“Jasmine?” Cowan squinted. “You won’t find her here; I can tell you that. She won’t be dancing for you.”
“Jasmine Langford attempted to approach me on the street this evening, and as she did, she was shot at by a passing truck. They missed, and Jasmine ran away, and luckily, there were no casualties. But Esther and I were almost caught in the line of fire.”
Cowan hesitated, and for a rare moment, he looked concerned. “Is your assistant ok?”
“She’s fine. She’s shaken up, but she’s made of steel.”
“I’m sorry to hear you were shot at, but I have to say, I told you so.” It didn’t take long for his arrogance to return. “It was Schultz’s work, for sure. I know how that guy works, and it sounds exactly like his work.”
“Don’t blame someone else. Don’t lie to me. I know it was you. You wanted to take her out, but she was coming to talk to me. We could
’ve convinced her to tell the truth.”
“I’ll be honest with you—I’d heard a rumor she was still alive. She was hiding from me. She’d slipped through our grasp before, and it wasn’t going to happen again. A girl like that has to be taught a lesson. I put a tail on you because I thought she might try and talk to you.” He smiled. “My friend John Warden passed on information about her whereabouts, and I just wanted to talk to her. That’s all. Just a friendly chat.”
Cowan looked away, picked up his cigar, and took a long drag before taking it out of his mouth. He looked at the end of the cigar, and then blew a large puff of smoke in Hunter’s direction.
He would come to realize it wasn’t a smart move.
Hunter shoved the security monitor off the desk, and stormed forward to face Cowan. The club owner leaped to his feet, hands out. Hunter stood over him and pressed his finger into his chest.
A noise came from the entrance to the office, and the large Samoan guard appeared at the door. Ray Jones stepped forward. There were many times when it was beneficial to be six-foot-four and as wide as a door. Jones was happy to use his size to stand between the bouncer and his boss.
“It’s a meeting between a lawyer and his client.” Jones stated, holding out his hand as a stop sign. “Nothing to worry about.”
Jones opened his leather jacket, revealing the weapon on his belt.
“Don’t look at them, look at me.” Hunter snarled into Cowan’s face. “I’m not your employee. I’m not your friend. If anyone gets hurt during this trial, I’m blaming you.”
“Now, now.” Cowan tried to smile, but he was uneasy. “Need I remind you of our deal. The file you so desperately need?”
“I’ll get that file.” Hunter brought his mouth to Cowan’s ear. “And if anyone comes near Esther, Jasmine Langford, or me again, there’ll be hell to pay. And I’ve got the best team of debt collectors.”
Hunter could smell the fear coming off Cowan as he pushed his index finger into the space at the base of Cowan’s throat.
Cowan’s hands came to Hunter’s wrist, trying to pull it back, but Hunter was too strong, too powerful.
“I get it. Don’t touch your friends. Stay away from them. You’ve made your point.”
Hunter stared deep into Cowan’s eyes, and when he could see the fear of death, he removed his finger and began to leave the room.
“Tex.” Cowan called out as Hunter reached the door.
Hunter stopped and turned around.
“I won’t touch your friends, but I can’t promise the same for Jerry Schultz.”
Chapter 29
Hunter’s anger hadn’t disappeared by the time the trial restarted on Monday morning. Justice was his life, the courtroom was his world, and the law was something he believed in. Even when he defended guilty clients, he did it as an important piece of the system. The constitution required that all defendants, regardless of guilt, received a fair, non-biased and impartial trial. The entire liberty of the country depended on people receiving a just outcome, and it required fairness regardless of wealth, skin color, or history. Every accused person deserved a chance to show they were innocent. Of course, the system wasn’t perfect. Hunter knew that. There was an unconscious bias to the system, as there was in the human conscience, be it racial background, gender, or social class.
But it was the people that exploited it—the people who used their money and power to control the system—that earned Hunter’s fury. The people who thought they were above the law, the people who thought they made the rules, the people who believed they could do whatever they wanted.
Throughout the morning, a number of additional expert evidence witnesses came and went, talking about the drugs and the locations, as Spencer built towards the close of the prosecution’s case. He’d only used half of his witness list, but the facts had been drummed into the minds of the jurors over and over again—yes, the drugs were in the club, yes, Rick Cowan had the keys to the room, and yes, people had heard him talk about the delivery of drugs before.
With thick low-lying cloud cover outside, the lighting in the courtroom seemed dimmer than normal. The wood paneling seemed darker, the chairs seemed bleaker, and the atmosphere of the room seemed even more melancholic than usual.
There were five people in the audience of the courtroom that morning. Three were law students, notepads out, pens ready, watching the morning’s testimony with interest. They occasionally talked amongst themselves, and Judge Marshall scolded them when they became too loud.
John Warden sat at the back of the room, watching with interest, arms folded most of the time, nodding when he heard a piece of factual information. Dressed in jeans, shirt, and sports jacket, he looked relaxed, the case building towards the conclusion he wanted.
But it was the fifth person, the person seated in the front row, who really stood out. Seated behind the prosecution’s table, he was twitchy, unable to sit still for more than a minute. Tattoos ran up his neck, poking out above the flannel-shirt collar, his skin was weathered, and his untrimmed goatee was gray. He was hardened, not just in his appearance, but in his eyes. On the street, most people would’ve avoided him, and in an almost empty courtroom, Hunter was cautious.
The man brought with him a feeling that spread through the room, a nervousness that affected everyone there. Even Spencer seemed unsettled by the presence behind him. As Spencer asked questions of the witnesses, he fiddled with his pens, moving them side to side constantly.
“Don’t disrupt this courtroom.” Hunter turned to Cowan when Judge Marshall called a short recess between witnesses. “This isn’t the place to play games. Now isn’t the time to disrupt the process.”
“You need to focus on winning this case. I’m not going away for fifteen years.” Cowan whispered, his eyes looking forward. “And I make my own rules. You don’t get to tell me the rules of my game.”
“Jerry Schultz is on the list for this afternoon. Don’t you try anything.” Hunter was guarded when Judge Marshall left the courtroom.
“I know who’s on the list.” Cowan said, and looked to the tattooed man. The tattooed man nodded and then walked out of the courtroom.
John Warden, seated in the back row, stood as well, following the tattooed man. Hunter followed them.
Hunter stepped into the hallway outside the courtroom, and looked to his right. There, seated on a metal chair backed against the wall, waiting for his turn to testify, was Jerry Schultz. He stood once he saw Hunter in the distance. Dressed in a black suit, complete with a black tie and polished shoes, his movements were slow but elegant. As the next witness, originally named Witness A, Schultz ambled forward, not even looking in the direction of the tattooed man who came towards him. A deputy sheriff was to his left, the tattooed man walking past on his right.
The tattooed man turned.
In one swift movement, he leapt towards Schultz, throwing a wild punch. A heavy left hook connected with Schultz’s cheek.
Schultz crumbled, the unexpected attack sending him to the floor. He yelled in fear.
The deputy sheriff was quick in his movements, racing to the tattooed man. His reaction time was impressive, grabbing the tattooed man in a chokehold, and wrestling him to the ground. He pinned him to the floor, diving on top of him, his body weight serving to subdue the attacker.
“Don’t move!” He held the man to the floor, pushing his head down, and holding the tattooed man’s arm behind his back. “Don’t move!”
John Warden rushed to assist the officer, ready to defend Schultz, but he wasn’t needed. Schultz was holding his bloodied face. There was a slow tickle of blood from his eye that seeped through his fingers.
“Remain still!” The sheriff continued to shout as more officers rushed into the commotion to assist. “Stop resisting!”
Cowan stepped out into the hallway and leaned against the wall, unfazed by the disorder. A smile spread across his face as he watched Schultz try to get to his feet. Cowan gave Schultz a wave when he looked in h
is direction.
As the tattooed man was locked in handcuffs, another deputy sheriff came to the aid of Schultz. The officers called for back-up on their radios, and soon, the halls were filled with officers who had no sympathy for the well-being of the handcuffed man.
Once the officers began to clear, Cowan turned to Hunter.
“This is how I do business, Hunter. Schultz was my friend, a good friend, and he crossed me. This was a symbol of my reach. I’ve let him know I can get to him anywhere.” Cowan leaned close to Hunter and whispered. “It’s a warning, a threat to let Schultz know wherever he goes, I will get to him.”
Chapter 30
“I’ve read your motion for a mistrial.” Judge Marshall looked at his watch, moved a file across his desk, and leaned back in his chair. “And you’d better have a mighty fine argument for this conference, Mr. Hunter. I know what you’re claiming, but I won’t be manipulated. Not by you, not by the defendant, and not by thugs who treat my courtroom like a boxing ring.”
Timeworn law books lined the walls of Judge Marshall’s chambers, a dark antique leather couch sat near the entrance, and a burgundy Persian rug lead to the judge’s hefty Mahogany desk. Judge Marshall waited behind his desk in the narrow chambers, his heavy arms spread wide, staring at the defense attorney, waiting for the excuses to come. The trial wasn’t going how the judge planned, it was taking longer than he thought, and he was a man who didn’t like surprises. He liked defense lawyers even less. The rug in front of the judge’s desk was well-worn, a patch of gray where the color had faded, but the chairs looked barely used. This was a place where most lawyers had to stand, not sit, and it was clear Judge Marshall had no time for small talk with lawyers he didn’t know.
However, Samuel Spencer was seated in front of the desk, lounging back, looking extremely comfortable, as if he was discussing menu options at the country club instead of discussing a man’s future.
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