Rogue Divorce Lawyer

by Dale E. Manolakas

  He forced his way through his stunned family and their guests, including Presiding Judge Alexander and his wife and Gary’s lawyer Suzanne Friedman. He staggered to his Mercedes and skidded out of the driveway raging.

  “Fuck you. Fuck you all.”

  * * *

  Approaching the compound’s guard gate, Gary sped through the white wood exit bar before it could lift. He shattered it, denting his Mercedes grill and scratching the hood as it bounced to the street.

  He saw the frantic guard in his rearview mirror. He didn’t see Brianna sitting in her little white Honda Civic. She had been arguing with the guard to get in for Mary’s open house—gun in purse and revenge in mind.

  When she saw Gary’s Mercedes speed away from the exclusive enclave, she hung a U-turn, floored her accelerator, and followed him. She had planned an encounter in front of all his ritzy friends at the open house announced in the news.

  No matter. He wasn’t getting away from her this time.

  Back to Plan B, Brianna glanced at her purse with the ever-present, never-used gun.

  She hovered back, shadowing Gary as he drove.

  * * *

  Gary parked on the curb in front of his office. Brianna pulled up half a block back.

  He jumped out and rushed up the steps, slamming the door behind him.

  Brianna watched through his office window as the light went on. Seeing that, she grabbed her purse on the passenger seat and dug out the Ruger LC9 she had hidden when her husband left

  With shaking hands, she checked that it was loaded, with a round in the chamber and six in the magazine, and made sure the safety was turned off. She took a deep breath, put it back in her purse, and stared at the office where she had been violated. Again and again and again. She didn’t move. Neither did her resolve.

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  Copyrighted Material

  Chapter 63

  Gary wiped out his coffee mug with tissues. He opened his booze drawer and grabbed his coveted single malt. He rapidly downed two shots and then poured another.

  As he drank, he perused his stash of news articles demonizing him from The Los Angeles Daily Journal, The Los Angeles Times, local rags, and internet coverage sourced from the Associated Press, Buzzfeed, even the Huffington Post.

  “What do they know?” Gary yelled, sweeping the stack from his desk onto the floor.

  He watched the pages settle. Then his eyes fixed on the five new files near his inbox. Feeding on his misfortunes, five turncoat local litigators—supposed colleagues—had sued Gary, representing his former clients. Little did his old colleagues know that a contingent fee that was one-third of nothing was exactly that—nothing.

  Now, these women accused him of doing horrible things to them. Back then, each of them, each to a one, had liked what he did to them. For them, really. They moaned and squealed and had come back for more, all of them, hadn’t they? Didn’t those litigators see that? It was simply payment-by-barter. That was all they had left after the money was gone—barter—barter with their bodies.

  “I helped them for free. For nothing. Now the bitches want money from me?” Gary grabbed the files and threw them on the floor to mingle with the other papers. “Surprise! I don’t have any.”

  He stopped laughing. As each victim had come forward, the media’s clamor for criminal prosecution had grown. The dead A.D.A. who nailed Skip would already have had Gary in cuffs and in the county jail with no bail.

  “Too bad,” he chortled. “The wicked bitch is dead.” Gary held his shaking hand up in a toast to her. “Long live the bitch.”

  He took a long drink.

  * * *

  The next day, after Detective Gonzalez grilled him, Gary would be handed to a live A.D.A. looking to build a career on Gary’s transgressions. In prison, Gary would be a convicted rapist, a sexual deviant. He shuddered as he reminded himself that behind bars, he would be the used, not the user, bartering for mercy with his flesh.

  “No way,” Gary muttered as he poured another two fingers into his mug and gulped it down.

  Tired and drunk, he managed to bulls-eye the key into the lock of his sacred top drawer. He heard the accustomed click as he turned it.

  In his drawer, he beheld the personal forms of over forty victims, his women who had willingly and unwittingly filled them out over the years—the recorded secrets of his special clients, mementos of his sexual exploits. The treasures he hoarded, relished, savored and cherished. He hadn’t used those women. They knew the score. Their soft mouths moaning and whimpering proved it. They played the game and, deep down, they loved it.

  But now, perusing the three stacks of his legacy, he was not sexually aroused. Quite the reverse. He remained flaccid. Public exposure had rendered his treasures and him impotent. He had no regrets, though, as his eyes and thoughts recalled the bodies he used and abused. Each was a rare epicurean sexual delight.

  His wife and his life had driven him to them—and their lives and their husbands had driven them to him. He made them feel alive again. They wouldn’t admit that now, but it was true. They chose to indulge in the erotic pleasures he offered. He never hit them or hurt them. They were “willing.”

  But … what now?

  It was a rhetorical question of course. He had already decided “what now” on Friday when Detective Gonzalez had called. Every moment since then had merely confirmed his decision.

  There was only one way out because to society he was a predatory monster—a monster with a “hunting license”—a State Bar card he used to prey on women.

  Now, to his shell-shocked wife, he was a depraved degenerate—a fiend. To his leech children, he was a cold, callous pervert—a deviant who could have gone after his own granddaughters, given the chance.

  There was no safe harbor for him. No calls. No sympathy. No loyalty. He was a pariah.

  He took the stacks of precious forms and tossed them in his trashcan. A splash of scotch, a tossed match, and the only good memories of his career, his life really, burned before his eyes. They were his memories, his alone, not for anyone else.

  The flames soared. He jumped up, grabbed a water bottle from his credenza, and guarded the burn. It subsided. He set aside the unopened water bottle and choked as he wafted the smoke away with a yellow legal pad.

  * * *

  His souvenirs obliterated, he sunk into his chair. He leaned back and cleared his gullet with more booze. He studied the black smoldering remnants laced with dying orange ribbons of flame. He poured another single malt for courage. Courage that would help him get the job done—a job that would keep him out of prison.

  Gary opened his top drawer again. Now unfettered by his memorabilia, the gun he kept there slid forward from its towel wrapped corner. A Smith & Wesson Governor, which had cost him a pretty penny when the money was pouring in. It was a big gun. He was a big gun. He stroked the black cold steel and froze.

  “What?” Gary laughed loud and long.

  “You’re kidding!”

  He put his hand on his crotch. It was hard. He stopped laughing.

  This would be his last sexual act—the ultimate sexual act—a snuff-worthy act. He had spent his life getting off subjugating others, and now he was getting off on subjugating himself.

  * * *

  Gary ruminated about his colleagues, his wife, and the human condition. Happiness is an accident—sadness and tragedy are the norms. He had found happiness. Deep, true happiness, in his own little domain—he’d had that.

  He checked his pistol for bullets and took off the safety. He was satisfied that the .45 caliber hollow point shells were in place and sound. He had researched on the Internet that this was the surest way to do what he had to do. It was the only real way to end up dead and not a drooling vegetable with a jaw or the side of his head blown off.

  He had wanted to stage his death to look like murder so from the grave he could reach up and tear apart the lives of his stable of disgruntled females and his leeching family. But he was tired. He was
beaten.

  He put the gun to his temple and then brought it down again.

  He thought, What a fuck’n mess. I need a tarp from Builders Emporium.

  Gary laughed maniacally. Neatness. That was Mary’s thing. Fuck her and fuck the mess.

  He put the gun back up to his head and started to squeeze the trigger. He stopped again.

  A note? Should he leave a note to someone or to-whom-it-may-concern? Some explanation? Some defense of his behavior?

  No. No one cared. His isolation proved that. And why anyway? Why a defense? Why an apology? He had no victims. The only reason all those women had come out of the woodwork was for money. He knew it and they knew it. They were kittens who, having romped, were now cats showing their greedy claws.

  No. There would be no note. His colleagues who indulged as he had were the only ones who knew the truth. Easy pickings were not illegal or criminal. Oh, they would cool their own activities for a while, but soon enough they would dip into their own luscious and inviting divorcees yet again. Just like Gary, they couldn’t help themselves.

  He chuckled. Maybe he should have made those damn women sign a document acknowledging that the sex was consensual. He finished the last of his scotch.

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  Copyrighted Material

  Chapter 64

  Through her windshield, Brianna stared at Gary’s lit window for over an hour. If she was going to kill him, she had to do it now, before fear stopped her. She slung her purse over her shoulder and got out of her car.

  On the sidewalk, she paused and looked up and down the street. It was Sunday-evening-empty. She turned to the door she had entered so many times to submit to Gary’s abuse—willingly, he would claim.

  Willingly? In your dreams, she thought. You’re not going to get away with saying that, you pig.

  Her hand was shaking as she put it on the tarnished door latch. She squeezed it gently with her thumb. It was stuck at first, but then to her surprise, it submitted. She could sneak in and do it without facing his filthy leers and mouth.

  She opened the door, gun in hand, feeling very lucky and very determined. As she shut the door, a gunshot resounded from his office.

  “What the …” Brianna knelt shaking until she heard a loud thud and crash.

  She opened Gary’s office door and saw his chair turned over and him lying on a pile of papers and files slowly saturating with his blood.

  She gasped for breath.

  Gary’s wild and terrified eyes darted to meet hers. His jaw hung in a fleshy mass from his face and blood spurted from his neck. He had botched the job. His left arm reached out to her and jerked from the elbow, silently inviting her to shoot him and finish the job.

  Brianna lifted her gun to put the wounded animal out of its misery. But as her eyes melded with his, the memories of her humiliation and disgust flooded into her mind. She then slowly returned the gun to her purse. Gary’s eyes followed her every move. She took a minute to savor his agony.

  Then she turned and walked away, out of his office, back to her car and, at last, a Gary-free life.

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  Copyrighted Material

  Chapter 65

  Christmas Eve, Nancy Andrews left her office early to deliver one gift and then take her children to her parent’s. In the hallway, she passed Justice Rios, headed to the justices’ private elevator. As she approached, he glared at her.

  “Well, Ms. Andrews. That Stockton lawyer killed himself.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.” As she continued down the hall—not missing a step—a smile crossed her face. “Have a Merry Christmas, Justice Rios.”

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  PostScript

  On March 9, 2017, California Bar Association finally passed Rule 1.8.10 prohibiting sexual relations with a current client with some exceptions.

  The End

  Please review this book at https://www.amazon.com/Rogue-Divorce-Lawyer-Legal-Thriller-ebook/dp/B0798D9PL9 Need to reach 100 reviews—a few lines will do!

  Other Legal Thriller Series: LETHAL LAWYERS and THE GUN TRIAL

  View Book Trailers ~ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J0LiWhwjh6I

  Buy at ~ https://www.amazon.com/Trial-Sophia-Christopoulos-Legal-Thriller-ebook/dp/B01AWZFU6G

  Also Below is a Sample of LETHAL LAWYERS

  View Book Trailer on Dale E. Manolakas’s You Tube Channel at ~ https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=Dale+E.+MANOLAKAS

  Prologue

  Number One With A Gun

  The barrel end of a cold gun dug into Frank Cummings’ graying temple, which was glazed with sweat.

  “Don’t. Don’t.”

  Frank’s voice echoed through the underground garage.

  “Shut up.” Jim Henning spit through his clenched teeth into Frank’s face.

  “I can fix it,” Frank bargained.

  The two men’s eyes locked as they stood beside Frank’s black BMW. Suddenly, Jim thrust the gun forward, slamming Frank’s head down onto the hood, still warm from his pre-dawn morning commute.

  “Like hell you can.”

  Jim grabbed Frank’s suit collar, threw him hard onto the cement, and aimed the gun at Frank’s forehead.

  Frank gasped in pain.

  “Wait.”

  Frank, a senior litigation partner at Thorne & Chase, looked down the barrel of the gun and then up to Jim’s red, contorted face. He searched for the right words, just as he did to win over jurors and manage his law firm. He was a master of manipulation and needed all of his skills right now. He also needed to get that gun from this ex-junior partner, a man who was younger and had the strength of righteous outrage on his side. After all, Frank had destroyed him.

  “The Management Committee will listen to me.” Frank calculated his odds of grabbing the gun.

  “They already did.”

  Jim lifted his t-shirt to expose a blood crusted bandage and black-bruised flank.

  “What? I didn’t know! I . . .”

  “Don’t play dumb. You sent them.”

  Jim crushed his tennis shoe into Frank’s chest. “You’re a dead man. You and your friends on the Management Committee.”

  “Wait. I can get you back into the firm. Wait. Please.”

  Frank’s lie came rolling easily off his tongue. After all, he was a lawyer. But the word “please” caught in his craw despite the circumstances. Pleading was foreign to Frank’s every fiber.

  “You liar.” Jim leaned over and aimed the gun at Frank’s heart. “I gave up everything for the great Thorne & Chase and what did I get? Nothing. You ruined my life . . . my marriage . . . my reputation. You stole my clients and kicked me out with nothing.”

  “You can’t do this.” Frank changed his strategy with shark-like speed for a Hail Mary pass. “I could . . . but you can’t.”

  Jim hesitated.

  Frank had injected just a split-second of doubt. He saw it in Jim’s eyes.

  Instantaneously, Frank twisted sideways, grabbing Jim’s leg and pitching him to the ground.

  Frank hurled himself over Jim as he grabbed Jim’s hands holding the gun. Locked together face-to-face, the men rolled side to side. When they collided with the tire, the gun went off and a shot resounded through the garage. The bullet plowed into the BMW’s quarter panel with a bloodless ping.

  The men rebounded off the tire. On top, Frank pressed Jim, full-body, into the cement. Frank sneered into Jim’s face.

  “Not so old after all, huh?”

  Frank, the most powerful person on Thorne & Chase’s Management Committee, was in control again. He savored the moment.

  Suddenly, Jim twisted, throwing Frank onto the ground.

  “Fuck you, old man.”

  Dethroned from his momentary triumph, Frank kept his grip around Jim’s hands and the gun. As Jim whipsawed around on top of Frank, the gun became sandwiched deep into the bellies of the two writhing men.

  The gun sounded again. This time muffled. And deadly.

  Frank froze as he felt
a warm liquid soak into his custom made shirt. Then, he felt Jim’s body go limp. As Jim’s head fell onto Frank’s shoulder, Frank heard Jim’s last breath gurgle past his ear.

  “Christ.” Frank pushed Jim’s body off.

  The gun lay between the two men covered in Jim’s blood. Frank scrambled to his feet and backed away watching the pool of blood grow.

  Then from the corner of his eye Frank saw a white cart with a uniformed security guard speed down the ramp towards him.

  “Help! Over here.” Frank waved at the security guard.

  Confidently cloaked in self-defense, Frank gathered his thoughts. He worried only about spinning the incident so as to quell any bad publicity for Thorne & Chase. A gifted tactician and strategist, Frank started formulating sound bites that would fend off the news media. The phrase “deranged ex-junior partner” came to mind, embellished by “planned mass killing.” After all, Frank surmised victoriously, who other than a mentally unbalanced person would try to take on Frank Cummings and a Los Angeles powerhouse like Thorne & Chase?

  Frank took out his cell phone, found a signal ten feet away, and called his partner Chet Apel, the Management Committee’s spin doctor and public face of Thorne & Chase.

  “What the hell did you do to Jim Henning last night? He just tried to kill me.”

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  Chapter 1

  The Rainmaker

  Two years later, Sophia Christopoulos sat across from Frank Cummings in his large corner office at Thorne & Chase. The law firm covered eight sprawling floors of the historic Pacific Coastal Building in downtown Los Angeles. He studied her legal resume, evaluating her for a first-year litigation associate position. Frank was the man who could make her life one of power and wealth or exclude her from that rarefied club called Thorne & Chase.