Brent Marks Legal Thriller Series: Box Set Two

by Kenneth Eade

  Brent beamed. His luck was finally changing. He was already composing the press release in his head, and could see hundreds of cases of mortgage fraud coming his way. Albertson looked weak and pale, like a hangover victim in search of a toilet bowl.

  “We have to talk about this, Marks,” he said as Brent packed up his things. Brent smiled, and then suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone who looked familiar in the back of the courtroom. The man, realizing that he had been seen, got up and ran out of the door in a rush.

  “I have to go!” said Brent to Albertson, and he ran after the man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Brent saw the man (whom he recognized as “Flusher”, from his photograph) slip into the elevator just as the doors were closing. He ran to the escalator and, using a technique that he hadn’t used since he was a teenager, skipped over steps as he slid with his arms on the handrails, stopping momentarily to pass some idle riders on the left.

  Brent hit the Spring Street lobby running, and caught a glimpse of Flusher running out of the double entry doors. “Stop him!” he yelled to the U.S. Marshals, who looked up in surprise at him and his flying tie.

  Brent smashed through the double doors into a massive dose of sunlight: there was no time to put on sunglasses. He ran down the stairs and after Flusher, who was running down Spring Street as fast as his chubby legs could carry him, toward the freeway overpass.

  “Stop! I need to talk to you! Stop!” he yelled as he weaved in and out of passers-by. Flusher looked back nervously, and attempted to bury himself in the crowd.

  Brent gained on him, his feet feeling the hardness of the road as if they were bare, save the thin piece of leather bottom of his $350 Italian-made dress shoes, which were definitely not made for running. Flusher flew through the intersection at Aliso against the red light, across the freeway overpass, and again through the red light on Arcadia Street, dodging cars as Brent ran closely behind him. He turned right on Paseo Luis Olivares. Brent’s heart was pounding and he felt himself getting weaker. He was in no shape to run like this. Still, he didn’t give up, and stayed on Flusher’s tail as he saw him duck into historic Olvera Street.

  Flusher dodged tourists among the colorful souvenir stands and ducked behind an adobe building into a deserted alley. Brent spotted him, dove, and slammed into him, knocking the wind out of both of them. Flusher hit a wall of trash cans, but then popped up immediately. Brent threw a right punch to his stomach, which Flusher absorbed with his ample fat, and he returned a left hook to Brent’s chin, knocking him backward. Brent jumped at Flusher’s midsection, but Flusher pushed him back and got him in a choke hold against his throat.

  Suddenly, Flusher’s hands went limp, but Flusher pushed against him, like he was being shoved by an unknown but very strong force, as though he had been hit by car. Flusher wheezed, as if he was trying to say something, and fell against Brent, knocking him to the ground. As he scrambled to his feet, he was flushed with a warm liquid, and, as he stood up, he saw a knife protruding from Flusher’s back, and realized that he, himself, was covered in his blood. Brent stepped back, repulsed. He felt cold hard steel grinding against his temple and turned his gaze to see his assailant, a masked man dressed in black.

  “Pull the knife out or I’ll blow you away,” said the man with absolutely no emotion. “Do it now!” he commanded, and Brent obeyed. The knife was hard to pull out. Brent used both hands and yanked with all his might, hearing a sucking sound as it came free. Brent turned to face his assailant, who was gone. He dropped the knife, in shock, as the alley began to fill with curious onlookers.

  Suddenly Brent was slammed against the ground. His face was forced against the pavement and he could smell the oily asphalt of the alley mixed with the scent of garbage and Flusher’s blood. He felt a knee in his back and cold handcuffs being slapped against his wrists.

  ***

  Brent was photographed, stripped, and thrown into a holding cell at the LAPD Metropolitan Jail. He resisted talking to anyone, saying only the five words “I want to call my lawyer,” which he finally was given the opportunity to do. The call Brent placed was to Jack Ruder.

  “Jack, I’ve been arrested for murder.”

  “Murder?”

  “Yes: please listen, because I don’t have a lot of time. Call Hannaford and get him on the case. I’m being held downtown at the LAPD Metropolitan Jail, but they’ll probably book me into the Twin Towers.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was set up. I saw Flusher in the gallery at court today, and chased him out the door and all the way to Olvera Street. Someone stabbed him and made me pull the knife out at gunpoint.”

  “Did you see the guy?”

  “He wore a mask.”

  “So, your prints are on the knife, the blood of the victim is all over you, and no ‘one-armed man.’”

  “Exactly. The only way I see out of this is solving the case we’re already working on.”

  ***

  Brent sat in the attorney waiting room, wondering how it was that he was on the other side of it after all these years of visiting clients in jail. When he heard the outburst of laughter, he knew that his lawyer, Richard Hannaford, had arrived. Richard must have been warming up the deputies with his latest joke. He had been blessed with the gift of eloquence. God had given him that gift in contrast with the huge schnoz that Brent supposed God had thrown in either to give Richard a sense of humor, humility, or just to toughen his character.

  Brent was shackled to the table looking at Richard, who was standing in front of him with a clowny smile under the nose. Chronologically, Richard was in his eighties, but he seemed never to have gotten past the age of 21. He made a gesture to Brent with his hands, indicating that Brent was on the wrong side of the room.

  “Don’t you think I know that, Richard?”

  Richard parked the smile away as he sat down across from Brent and got to business. “I had a discussion with God today,” he said. Brent waited. Richard never said anything without a point.

  “He told me that I must be crazy for taking this case. Really, Brent: if you didn’t kill this guy, then it’s the best frame job I have ever seen. Even your opposing counsel and the federal judge have you running out of court after this guy, not to mention half the population of Los Angeles, little grannies from Des Moines Iowa, and a bunch of Italian tourists who saw you chasing him.”

  “I know it looks bad.”

  “No, Brent, no: it doesn’t just look bad.” Richard shook his head. “It looks much worse than that. I don’t suppose you want to try to get a plea deal?”

  “Absolutely not. Just get me out of here, Richard. If I’m out, I can work at this thing and we can win it. If I’m stuck in here, well, then I just don’t see any way out of it.”

  Richard paused. Brent could almost see the gears turning behind his furrowed forehead.

  “I’ll get as many declarations as I can – from judges, prosecutors – and every one of them will say you’re not a flight risk. And I’ll get Benny the Bondsman to write the bond. You’ve still got that nice house in the hills with the harbor view, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good, he’ll need that for the underwriter. We’ll get you out of here, Brent; by God, we will!”

  Brent felt better already, but then Richard’s smile faded. “Of course, there are no guarantees.”

  “I know the line, Richard. Of course not. Just do your best.”

  The worst of Richard Hannaford was ten times better than anyone’s best.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  The Central Arraignment Court at the Men’s Central Jail is not a very cheery place. The building itself looks like it’s part of the jail. Its ugly, foreboding white mass sits behind a fence which bears the sign “Men’s Central Jail,” and its three sets of security-enforced double doors look like the entrance to a prison corridor. The place was overflowing with lawyers milling around, people waiting in the gallery for their cases to be calle
d, and prisoners in custody awaiting their arraignments; of which Brent was one.

  Judge Stephen Penrod was almost two hours late taking the bench. He called the in-custody cases first: a businessman charged with possession of cocaine, a couple of punk-haired tweakers charged with being under the influence of methamphetamine, and, finally, lawyer Brent Marks, charged with murder.

  “People versus Brent Marks,” said the judge.

  Richard Hannaford and the Deputy D.A. stated their appearances. Then Richard took a deep breath and stole the spotlight from everyone else, including the judge.

  “Your Honor, Brent Marks is a respected lawyer with inextricable ties to the community. Not only does he have a thriving law practice here, he is well respected by his fellow jurists as well as local judges; many of whom have submitted the testimonials before you on the bench,” said Hannaford as he stood flamboyantly at the counsel table to give his performance. As if he had been compelled, the judge studied the letters that had been placed before him by the Clerk who, of course, had already been the subject of Hannaford’s undivided attention before the judge had taken the bench.

  Hannaford turned and gestured to Brent, who was standing among the custodies in the jury box. “Mr. Marks is a respected member of the Bar with no criminal record whatsoever, who has made his home here in Southern California for many years, and our bail bondsman is present in court, ready to post a bond. In short, Your Honor, this man poses no flight risk and is no threat to the community. Also present in court to attest that Mr. Marks is not a flight risk or a danger to others are Special Agent Angela Wollard of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and ex-FBI agent Jack Ruder,” said Hannaford, gesturing to them as both Angela and Jack stood up in the gallery.

  “Thank you Mr. Hannaford,” said the judge, and turned to the young Assistant District Attorney. “Ms. Freling?”

  “Your Honor, this is a murder case. Mr. Marks was observed by eye-witnesses chasing down the victim. The murder weapon – a knife – was observed in his hands and has his fingerprints on it, and he had the victim’s blood all over his clothing. The People in this case request that no bail be set.”

  Hannaford bore a look of outrage on his face. “Your Honor, one of the fundamental reasons for this Court’s procedure is to guarantee the accused notice and an opportunity to be heard. Counsel is arguing the merits of the case without giving my client his constitutionally-guaranteed right to confront and cross-examine the witnesses against him, and to have the evidence heard by a jury of his peers. And he does not stand before you accused of a capital crime: the People have charged second degree murder. Under these circumstances, my client is entitled to a reasonable bail.”

  “I’m satisfied, especially with the testimonials from the several prominent judges from Santa Barbara and Los Angeles counties, that Mr. Marks does not pose a flight risk. I will set bail at $500,000.”

  ***

  After his bail was posted, Brent was processed and released, and when he left the jail, Angela was waiting for him, shaking her finger at him. She hugged him and they headed out to the car. Once inside, she let him have it.

  “What did we tell you, Brent? You’re dealing with professionals here, and it's obvious you’re no match for them.”

  “I know, I know. But Flusher didn’t look like a professional. I just wanted to find out why he was stalking me.”

  “Don’t give me that, Brent. You were working on the case, and now it’s a mess.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” said Brent, hanging his head.

  “We’re going to meet with Jack now, and I want you to tell us everything you know.”

  “Could we meet somewhere where I can get a bite? I’m starving.”

  ***

  Brent and Angela met Jack at Julia Child’s favorite Mexican restaurant, Los Agaves on Milpas. Between generous portions of fajitas, Brent filled them both in on what had happened outside of court.

  “The problem is that we’re up against a completely anonymous killer,” said Angela as she dipped a corn chip into the guacamole.

  “Or killers,” added Brent.

  “Brent cracks open the Bekker murder and suddenly the will contest is dropped and the one who refuses to drop it is killed. Next, he makes an inquiry on Erasure.onion and another one of the plaintiffs is killed and Brent is set up to be responsible for the murder,” said Jack.

  “Sounds like a conspiracy,” said Angela.

  “The conspiracy is among the cyber-stalkers. I think they put up Bekker for erasure,” said Brent.

  “And when they pressed the case and we got too close, the erasers came out and erased all traces of what had happened, and pinned it on you,” said Angela.

  “But there’s still Stock Sleuth and Truth Seeker.”

  “You’ve got to lean on them, Jack,” said Angela. “But be careful.”

  “Yeah, one accused murderer at a time,” said Brent.

  “And you!” Angela said, pointing her finger at Brent. “You are under house arrest!”

  ***

  Brent didn’t have to worry about reputation management anymore. The first three pages of Google on “Brent Marks” were stories of the arrest mixed with gossip from the usual mob of cyber-stalkers, which had seemed to grow in number since the sensational event.

  I told you Marks was a crook.

  Be careful what you say on the boards. That shyster Marks might kill you, too! LOL!

  Every newspaper in California carried the story on the first few pages. In Santa Barbara, it was on the first page. Instead of a famous lawyer, champion for the downtrodden and disenfranchised, Brent had become an infamous criminal.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Jack got off the plane in Minneapolis and rented a car for the short drive to Bloomington. The Mall of America had something for everyone – all the major department stores and boutiques for the women, a theme park and aquarium for the kids, and even a Hooters restaurant for the guys. But Jack bypassed all the excitement. He had scheduled a job interview with Jeremy Williams, aka Stock Sleuth. Jack was, of course, wearing a wire, and his primary objective was to record everything Williams said. He hoped there would be a lot to tape.

  Williams had a modest office in the administrative area of the huge mall, which employed over 12,000 people. Jack was interviewing for the job of mall security officer.

  “To tell you the truth, Mr. Templeton, you may be a tad over-qualified for this job,” said Williams, as he peered over Jack’s application. Williams was a nerdy little guy, complete with beady eyes and a yellow bowtie which he wore on a white shirt with no jacket.

  “I don’t mind, Mr. Williams. I’ve always wanted to ride one of those Segways. But I have to confess, I don’t really want this job.”

  Williams looked up at Jack in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is that I came here to talk to you about Allen Bekker.” Jack was playing it by ear, and the note hit a nerve that flipped on Williams’s adrenalin switch.

  Williams’s fight or flight response immediately set itself to 'flight'. He swung his head back and forth, looking for a way out that did not entail going anywhere near Jack.

  “I did what I was told!” he insisted. “I disappeared! I don’t know anything and I didn’t tell anyone anything! I swear!”

  Williams’s secretary buzzed his intercom. “Mr. Williams, is everything alright?” she asked. Jack motioned for him to answer and put his fingers to his lips in a ‘shh’ gesture.

  Williams timidly pushed the intercom and responded, “Yes, Miss Davis, everything is fine, thank you. You – you can take your lunch now.”

  Williams looked up at Jack. “What are you going to do?”

  “That depends on you, Mr. Williams.”

  “I did everything you asked. I dropped the case, but Finegan didn’t want to. It wasn’t my fault!”

  Jack just looked at Williams sternly, and listened. Sometimes you can get more answers by not asking any questions.

  “I’ve g
ot a wife, I’ve got a family!” Williams pleaded. His hands were shaking and he was sweating as if he was coming off of a drug.

  “Mr. Williams, we know all that. Tell me something we don’t know.”

  “It was Finegan’s idea to leave the note. And it was Marsen who volunteered to follow Marks. He was just doing what you said!”

  “Marsen’s dead.”

  Williams’s mouth dropped open. “Dead? Please! Please! I’m invisible. I really am.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if there was another solution.”

  “Please!” Williams began to cry. “I’ll do anything!”

  “First, you have to take responsibility for what you’ve done – what you’ve all done. It’s the only way to save your life.”

  “What can I say?”

  “Everything, Mr. Williams. Pretend that I’m your priest. I want a full confession.”