by Kenneth Eade
“Dude, nobody says fox anymore.”
“Yeah, well nobody says dude anymore either. Hey, whatever happened with that nut case and the restraining order?”
“Joshua Banks? They served him on Monday.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I told the Sheriff he was dangerous, so they asked the cops for help. They brought out the whole freakin’ SWAT team – served the guy at gunpoint and everything – he even gave up his whole gun collection.”
“No shit.”
“No shit. I think that one is under control.”
“Just watch your back, man. You never know.”
“I know.”
“And Brent…”
“Yeah?”
“You know you can always call me if it gets too hairy.”
“I know, thanks.”
“No need.” Brent knew that was true. The mark of a good friend. Someone who asked for nothing, and gave everything. Someone you could call up at 3 in the morning who would never be pissed off at you. And he could do the same.
7
April was ecstatic when Brent told her the news on the phone. “Now, we have to investigate, we have to prepare...” she said.
“Wait a minute. Remember, I told you I run the case?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Your role is to provide information when I need it, not to investigate. You’ve done a great job so far, but I have my own investigator who used to work for the FBI.”
“Okay, well then we should meet to discuss the case.”
Normally, Brent liked to have as little client contact as possible. Talk to the client, find out what is necessary to find out, get paid and go to work. With April, it would be easy to make an exception, but that could turn into breaches of other rules he had set for himself, so he decided to play by the book, instead of by the seat of his pants.
“I should have you sign the contract and, of course, we need to settle the matter of my retainer.”
“No problem. When can I come by to sign and drop off a check?”
This was the exception to the infrequent contact rule. Clients with checks were always welcome, no matter how much of a pain in the ass they may be. If a client was holding a check, Brent could listen to the same story for the third time with the patience of Job. He even had a box of Kleenex on his desk for the teary-eyed moments.
Brent had heard every story that could be imagined in the human experience over the last 20 years – women who were beaten by their husbands, parents who molested their children, women who wanted to be men, men who wanted to be women, same sex couples who wanted a ‘divorce.’ The variations on human misery that he had witnessed could keep a psychiatrist busy for life.
***
When April came by to sign the agreement and drop off the check for the retainer, she was dressed to make an impression as usual, in smart black slacks and a red silk shirt. Melinda showed her in, taking silent wardrobe notes.
“You look wonderful,” Brent told her. “Please have a seat.”
“Thank you,” April said, sitting down. She dug around in her purse and pulled out the check, handing it to Brent. He accepted it, said “thank you,” and put it on the desk, like it was not as important as it was. Then, Brent slid the two page retainer agreement over to her.
“So, once I sign this, you take over, right?”
“Yes, it will then be in my hands.”
“Before I do, I just want to be sure of one thing. I have your word that you will take the murder allegation seriously, right?”
“We can still plead RICO without it, but, if there is a shred of probable cause that Bernstein had anything to do with your mother’s murder, we will plead it and try to prove it.”
It was Voltaire who said that all murderers had to be punished unless they kill in large numbers to the sound of trumpets. If you believed the Bible, the first murder was committed by the victim’s brother. We were put on the earth for so short a time. It was absolutely unconscionable for someone to arbitrarily decide that our time was up, and to make it so. Brent vowed to make sure that if he and Rick discovered who murdered April’s mother and attempted to murder her father, they would be punished. No extra charge.
8
Charles Stinson used to tell Brent, “Nothing is easy,” and, with respect to legal work, that was absolutely true. Most people had no appreciation of what went into a letter or a legal brief; they only saw the result. To get to that result was a tedious process, of legal research to find the law, analyzing the facts, and then applying the law to those facts in a concise legal argument. Legal arguments were like fingerprints. No two were ever completely alike. That was why the bar examination was so tough - only about 40% of people who took it passed it – and even less on the first try.
Brent had been working on the complaint for about a week, while Rick sniffed around. Night and day, he toiled at the office, thinking about each critical piece of the case and putting together allegations that were supported by his research. The case would be filed in federal court, and the bank would hire the best legal team they could to try to quash the complaint on a motion to dismiss. Everything had to be carefully worded and every cause of action carefully supported by the appropriate law.
As a provisional remedy, Brent would ask the court for a preliminary injunction to stall the foreclosure sale until the case could be finalized. In the case, he would ask for the court to declare that the mortgage, or deed of trust, as it was called, was void, because it was not assigned to the Trust pool of mortgages by the closing date of the Trust. A technical argument, but one that had some limited precedent.
Because the note and deed of trust were void, Prudent Bank had no right to collect on them as the servicer of the loan, as the mortgage had never been properly assigned to the Trust. He would plead fraud and bad faith, and that the bank was violating the Fair Debt Collection Practices Act.
But, the weakest link was RICO. That was the part the bank would work the hardest to throw out; not necessarily because they were guilty of murder, but because they were guilty of bank fraud and RICO carried a punitive damage penalty of three times the actual damages you could prove. It was like 2-1 odds at the horse track.
***
To Brent, it seemed like he had just finished breakfast at 7 am, came to the office, and checked his email, but it was coming up on 4 pm and he had not even eaten lunch yet. He was developing a headache from eye strain. Brent knew there were others besides April and Melinda counting on him. There was also Calico, his orange and white cat. He decided to take off early, which meant that he would pack up his laptop and head home, taking a short break to feed and pet the cat before getting back to work.
The phone rang just as Brent was leaving the office. Brent generally hated talking on the phone, and considered it a nuisance, except for the conveyance of absolutely essential information, which was better done by email anyway, so before Melinda announced who it was, he said, “Take a message.”
“Mr. Marks, I think you should take this one. It’s Mr. Penn.”
Brent picked up the phone. “What’s up, Rick?”
“Can you come down to the cop shop right away? I’ve gotta show you something.”
“Does this mean I can put the ‘M’ word in the complaint?”
“Come down and see for yourself. Meet me in homicide.”
Brent packed up his laptop, said good-bye to Melinda, and headed for the police station.
9
The Santa Barbara County Sheriff had jurisdiction over Hope Ranch which, technically, was not within the city boundaries. Their office on Calle Real was about an eight minute drive from the office. Brent met Rick there along with William Branson, a no-nonsense detective with the homicide division. Rick knew William from his days at the FBI. William was dressed in his usual uniform – black slacks with a white shirt that needed a little extra bleach on the next wash, and a tie that looked like it was retired in the 70’s. Anyway, it matched the style of his dyed hair
comb over. After a round of handshakes and introductions, the three got down to business, which centered around a few boxes of materials that were spread out on William’s desk.
“Here’s what I wanted to show you,” Rick proudly said, holding up a report with a bunch of color coded strands.
“What is it?” asked Brent.
“It’s a polymerase chain reaction report on a hair fiber found at the crime scene,” chimed in Branson, as if that was supposed to mean something to Brent.
“Guys, I’m a lawyer, not a scientist, tell me in plain English what we’re looking at and why I’m here,” said Brent.
“This is a result of DNA profiling done on the hair found at the crime scene,” said Branson. “There was a sampling that didn’t match either victim.”
“Meaning that the murderer, or someone with the murderer, lost a hair during the struggle,” said Brent.
“Very good,” said Rick. “We think that April’s mom fought back.”
“Great work guys,” said Brent. “Now all we have to do is find the murderer and we can prove it was him.”
“Yeah, that is the hard part,” said Rick. “Bernstein doesn’t have a criminal record, so we’ve got nothing to go on. But it’s a start.”
“Look, I’m going to head home. You guys call me if you find anything else, okay?” Brent left the station, a little peeved at Rick, but he couldn’t fault his enthusiasm. He slipped behind the wheel of his blue Jaguar F-Type and peeled out of the parking lot.
***
If the human brain is really capable of having 60,000 to 80,000 thoughts per day, Brent was living proof, because he never stopped thinking. As he drove home, he had an epiphany and pulled over to the side. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and called Rick.
“Rick, April said Bernstein was a branch manager for Prudent before he made VP, right?”
“Right.”
“What about before that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Before he was a branch manager, what did he do?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Prudent Bank is a major bank. Most of those major banks have a drug testing policy. And some of them use hair follicles. Find out what lab does their testing and see if they save the samples.”
“Oh shit, I see where you’re going.”
If the hair follicles from the drug testing were saved, Brent thought he may be able to obtain them in the discovery process, and then compare the DNA in the hair follicles with the hair found at the murder scene. But to get that far, they needed something more than just April’s hunch, nor matter how strongly she felt about it.
10
Brent checked traffic in his rear view mirror and side mirrors routinely as he headed down the 101 freeway to home. Traffic was typical for a Wednesday afternoon, but there was something strange about it. A white Mustang about ten cars down seemed to be following his every move.
Either he was paranoid, or somebody was following him. To test the theory, Brent changed lanes. A few moments later, the white Mustang also changed lanes. If he was being followed, there was no way Brent wanted to give away where he lived, especially if it was some crazy nut like Joshua Banks. And if it was Banks, Bent wanted to make sure he nailed him on violating the restraining order, so Brent exited the freeway at Las Positas, and turned onto State Street. The white car was still behind him.
Brent turned left on Anapamu, parked alongside the courthouse, and called 911. The Santa Barbara police station was about a half block away, so it wouldn’t take long for them to get there. The Mustang was still behind him, parked about a block down, and it looked like it had two occupants in it. Brent described the vehicle, as well as his suspicions that it was Banks, who had violated the restraining order, and sat tight for the cops.
About ten minutes later, two uniformed officers approached the white car on foot, from behind. They must have gone through the courthouse to sneak up on the occupants in the white car to detain them before they had a chance to pull away. When the two officers had the white car covered, another two, a man and a woman, approached Brent’s car from the front.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said the male officer. The female officer stood by, talking on her small two-way radio strapped to her shoulder.
“Afternoon, said Brent.”
“Could I see your driver’s license and registration please, sir?”
Brent didn’t really like interacting with the police. They seemed more like machines than humans, and, let’s face it, they are a civilian’s army. An army whose soldiers dressed in costumes and walked and talked like robots, with guns strapped to their waist belts, always looking for an enemy. But he had called them, and, of course, they had to identify him to determine if he posed any threat to their safety.
“Of course,” Brent replied, and presented his documents, including the restraining order, which he kept in his glove compartment, and the officer excused himself to talk to his partner. Then, they both returned.
“Sir, we’ve identified the suspects and neither one of them is the individual in your restraining order,” said the male officer. Police officers always referred to people as “individuals.”
“Did these individuals threaten you with violence in any way?”
“They were following me.”
“But did they make any contact with you at all? Touch you or your car or communicate with you in any way?” Brent knew what was coming.
“No.”
“Sir, I’m afraid that, without a restraining order against them, there is nothing we can do.” Brent already knew that.
“I understand. Can you do me a favor please? Can you take their names and addresses for your report so I can find out who has been following me?”
“All that information will be in our report, sir, and you can obtain a copy from the station.” The officer handed Brent a slip of paper. “This is the report reference number. Just give them that.”
“Thank you,” Brent said, as he watched the white Mustang roll by. The occupants in the car were white males. He couldn’t see any other features as they drove by, trying not to look at him, but he could get all that information from the report.
“You’re welcome, sir. Have a nice day,” said the male officer, and the two of them walked away.
***
Brent called Rick on the phone to tell him about the tail. He would pick up the report in the morning.
“Don’t go straight home,” Rick advised. “Take the scenic route and make sure nobody’s following you.”
Brent did, running all the way down busy State Street and turning right at the entrance to the Pier onto Shoreline Drive, passing the beautiful beach and coastline, all the while checking his mirrors for any sign of a tail. By the time he turned right on La Coronilla, he was sure that nobody had followed him.
Pulling up to his home on Harbor Hills Drive, the expansive view of the ocean and shoreline behind the house reminded him of why he had bought the place. It was always pleasant to come home to. Brent pressed the button to open the garage door, and pulled in.
***
When Brent opened the front door, Calico greeted him right away. The orange and white cat with the round smiling face was as much a part of his home as the house itself. But there was something strange about her today. She seemed a bit nervous, flighty, and wasn’t purring as usual.
“Hey Callie, what’s wrong girl?” The cat flitted about, wagging her tail vigorously. Then Brent saw what had made her so nervous. In the middle of the living room, there was a stone. Underneath Calico’s favorite windowsill were shards of broken glass.
Once he took a closer look, Brent could see that there was a paper attached to the stone. Brent went to the kitchen to put on some latex kitchen gloves so as not to disturb any evidence. He carefully untied the twine that held the paper wrapped tightly against the stone, and, holding only the edges of the corners, straightened it out so he could read it. It read, Stay away from April Marsh. Brent immed
iately called Rick. He was sure there would be no traces of fingerprints on the note, but you never know.
11
“No prints on the paper,” Rick reported, as he kicked back in the client’s chair and put his feet on Brent’s desk.
“What a surprise,” said Brent, adding “Get your grungy feet off my desk!”
The cops had spent over two hours at his house. It wasn’t quite his idea of a quiet evening at home with the cat. Rick took his feet off the desk, and plopped them against the other client’s chair.
“There’s more bad news, I’m afraid.”
“Great. Give it to me.”
“Prudent Bank does have a drug screening policy, but they use blood tests, not hair follicles.”
“Wonderful.”
“But I’ve got the police report on the tail,” Rick continued. “The car is registered to the driver, a Kevin Suskind, age 26, crack head, and his buddy, the passenger, was William Conlan, 30, a hefty body building freak. Any idea who these guys might be?”
“None at all.”
“I’m going to talk to them and see what I can shake out. But first, I’m going to pay a visit to our Mr. Bernstein.”
“What for?”
“If anything else, I can probably tell if he’s guilty just by looking at him. Then we’ll know if we’re on a snipe hunt or not.”
Rick had looked into the empty eyes of enough criminals (the murderous kind) to spot them right away. Brent had too, for that matter. When he first went into private practice, Charles Stinson got him on the private counsel list to defend parole violators when the public defender had overflows or declared a conflict. It was the eyes that gave them away. A hardened criminal cannot make eye contact with you, and, if you are able to look him in the eye, you see the windows to a most evil soul. Rick was used to it, having worked on serial killer task forces on more than one occasion, but it always gave Brent the chills.