Thorns on Roses

by Randy Rawls

  His first task was to gain some operating space. He needed cover in case the police discovered his lack of cooperation and decided to hassle him. He would deal with them later, but he had other things to do first. He dialed the office of Bernstein, Goldsmith, Espinosa, and Bernstein.

  “Beth, it’s Tom Jeffries. Put me through to Bert Bernstein, please.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while the phone clicked and whirred in his ear. “Bert, Tom here. I won’t be in today. Nothing heavy on my schedule unless you put it there last night. If anyone should come asking, I’m working a case for you. Will you back me?”

  “What’s up? Who might be asking?” Bert said.

  “Maybe the police, maybe no one. But don’t worry, I’m not doing anything that can affect the firm. I’ll fill you in when I see you. Can you cover for me?”

  “Sure. I’m waving the magic wand. There, the attorney-client privilege cone just descended over you. But don’t get thrown in jail. We have some big cases coming up. I need you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” Tom smiled. Good ol’ Bert had come through as expected. The most fortunate thing Tom had done since moving to Florida was rescue Bert’s teenage daughter from a difficult situation. After an early evening meeting in Bert’s office, Tom walked out of the building preoccupied with the surveillance he’d been asked to run. A high-pitched cry of help alerted him, and he raced toward its source. Two punks had a teenage girl cornered against a car in the parking lot. Tom didn’t take time to find out what they were after, but waded in, and cracked their heads together.

  The last he saw them, they were in full retreat, racing away without looking back. The girl was terrified, so rather than pursue, he stayed with her to calm her. It turned out they hadn’t touched her—probably they hadn’t had time. Based on what they said to her though, their intent was obvious. He hadn’t known she was Bert’s daughter until he walked her into the building where everyone fawned over her—and him when they heard the story. Bert’s appreciation was almost embarrassing in its effusiveness. He swore an everlasting debt to Tom. The practical result was he never hesitated when Tom asked a favor, not that Tom asked many. He seldom needed to.

  Tom drove home, brooding over what he’d seen. He’d give Charlie and Lonnie space to do what they had to do. It would also give him time to prepare for what he intended—to avenge Mary Lou’s death in whatever way presented itself—the more painful, the better. Somewhere out there was a punk who wore the rose tattoo and had known her. Soon, whatever knowledge he had would be Tom’s. And if, as Lieutenant Richards said, that tattoo went with a gang—Thorns on Roses—it was their bad luck. Gangs were the roaches of society. Eliminating them would be a benefit, but that wasn’t his primary interest. Society had allowed itself to be cowed by criminals. It had elected and appointed judges whose first interest was the rights of the accused. In too many ways, society was getting just what it deserved. But for him, scattering the body parts of the killers would assuage the anger he felt. They were street scum who preyed on young women and did not deserve to live. Their deaths equaled justice.

  Inside his house, he went to his bedroom and dug into the back of the closet, searching among boxes he hadn’t touched since moving to Florida. The first one he opened held a Colt M1911 pistol, commonly called a Colt 45 during its years of military service. He laid it aside and moved more containers.

  Next, he took out a Mossberg 590 pump-action shotgun. He smiled as he checked to make sure it was unloaded, then held it by the pistol grip and pulled the trigger. Its twenty-inch barrel made it easy enough to handle with one hand although the kick from the loads he fired mandated a two-handed operation. It showed its age, but was still a favorite weapon.

  He considered for a moment, then reached for another box. It held his single-action, five shot mini-revolver. Its two-inch barrel and nine-ounce weight made it an excellent carry for his ankle holster, while its .22 magnum cartridges inflicted punishment on whatever they hit. There were also five speed loaders.

  His next stop was the closet in the guest bedroom. From under a loose floorboard, he retrieved ammunition and a critical part for each weapon. Tom Jeffries was not a gun nut and did not believe in extending invitations to burglars. He knew the power of his arsenal and prided himself on his proficiency with it. He also did not wish to arm any of the underbelly of society. Quite the opposite, he preferred to make them disappear.

  He spent the next two hours cleaning and checking the weapons. When satisfied that each met his exacting standards, he loaded them, then laid them aside. He’d slip the ankle holster on later with its mini-revolver and put the .45 and the shotgun in the car. Until this was over, he would not be unarmed or unprepared.

  It was early afternoon and his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten anything yet. But that could wait. He figured Charlie had had time to go to the morgue and return home. His friend came first. He dialed the number.

  Charlie answered, sadness radiating through the line.

  “It’s Tom. Did you talk to Detective Richards?”

  “Yes, and before you ask, I saw Mary Lou. And no, I didn’t take Lonnie. I wouldn’t do that to her. They’re holding Mary Lou for autopsy. Why would anyone do that? Why would—”

  “Because they’re scum. But they’ll pay, Charlie. I promise you they’ll pay.” Tom paused. “Can you answer a couple of questions?”

  “If they get my mind off what I saw, fire away.”

  “Who was the guy Mary Lou met at Publix?”

  “All I know is the name, Johnny. It’s not like she invited him around. He worked in the cold storage area—yogurt, milk, stuff like that. Do you think he’s involved? If he is, I’ll—”

  “Easy, Charlie. I don’t want you doing anything. I’m sure Mary Lou would not want her stepfather in jail. This is my job.”

  “How do you figure that? She’s my—”

  “And you’re my best friend. Remember all the spots you’ve pulled me out of. Trust me on this. I know what I’m doing. If you go after them, you’ll just get arrested…or worse. If I go after them, they won’t know what hit them. I’ve done this before.”

  “But—”

  “How’s Lonnie holding up?” Tom asked to cut off debate.

  Charlie hesitated. “She’s asleep. The doctor gave her a sedative. It’s gonna be tough when she wakes up though. You know how she doted on Mary Lou.”

  “Yeah, I do. Question. Mary Lou didn’t come home Saturday night, and today is Tuesday. Do you have any idea where she might have gone, who she might have stayed with?”

  “No. If I did, I’d be there now.”

  “I know you would. If you happen to come up with Johnny’s last name, let me know. Also, sometime tonight or tomorrow when you feel up to it, put together a list of her friends. Maybe one of them knows something. If anyone stops by, ask who she might have been with. For now, that’s all I want you to do. That and keep your cool. Lonnie needs you. And there are arrangements to be made for Mary Lou. I’ll get back to you when I know something.” Tom hung up, controlling his rage. Until this was over, he couldn’t allow his emotions to surface. He had to return to what he had once been—a cold, methodical, killing machine. “I know you understand, Sis.”

  * * * *

  Detective Jim Richards walked into his partner’s cubicle and leaned over his desk. “That damn Jeffries. I knew he was holding out. What’d you get on him?”

  Phil Summers turned away from the computer. “Haven’t finished yet, but what I have makes him pretty impressive. Enlisted in the Army straight out of high school. Went to sniper school, then became a Green Beret. Expert in about any kind of killing you can think of.”

  “Any hints he’s done any of it around here? Does he like young girls?”

  “Slow down, chief. You’re racing away in front of me. Let’s see… Okay. He spent ten years in the service, made Sergeant First Class, then got out. Moved to Dallas and joined the police force. Maxed the Academy, drove a beat. Excellent re
cord, several citations. Nothing you wouldn’t want in your file. Seems like an above average cop. After seven years, he quit. The official reason was burnout. I’ll see if I can get behind that. He picked up a PI license and wangled retainers from a couple of Dallas law firms. Again, I need to dig deeper—”

  “How’d we get lucky? What brought him to Florida?”

  “Relocated here a couple of years ago. Don’t know yet whether he was hired by Bernstein, Goldsmith, Espinosa, and Bernstein then moved, or moved then connected with them. Again, I—”

  “I know. You need more time.”

  Phil smiled. “Yep. Computers might be fast, but I’m not. Think GIGO—garbage in, garbage out. Give me time, and I’ll eliminate the garbage. Now, what dumped the ants in your picnic basket?”

  “He lied. He knew our Jane Doe, knew her well enough to have her stepfather contact me. She’s ID’d as…” He took out his notebook. “Mary Lou Smithson. Her mother is Lonnie Smithson-Rogers and the stepfather is Charles Rogers. She was seventeen years old, a senior in high school. Didn’t come home last Saturday night. Now she’s dead, and Jeffries knows more than he told me.” He slapped the desk. “I’d like to bring his ass in here and sweat him. Damn PIs think they can do what they damn well please.”

  “Easy, chief. There’s no law says he has to identify a body. And you said he sent her stepfather in.”

  “Dammit, there ought to be a law. I’m tired—”

  He was cut off by the ringing of Summers’ phone.

  Summers answered. “Yeah. Hold on. It’s for you,” he said, handing the instrument to Richards. “The desk sergeant heard you yelling back here.”

  He glared at his partner as he took the phone. “Richards.”

  “This is Tom Jeffries. I owe you an explanation. You gonna be there awhile?”

  THREE

  Rubin Bernstein hung out his shingle simply as Bernstein, Attorney-at-Law, thirty years earlier. As his business and reputation grew, so did the firm. After several years, he had four associates and more work than they could handle. Goldsmith, who was almost as successful as Bernstein, approached him about merging their two firms.

  After extensive negotiations handled by outside attorneys, they consummated the deal. Each swore he was attracted to the other because he’d been smart enough to hire someone to represent his interests. They reworded the old adage to, An attorney who represents himself has a sucker for a client. For his birthday, Goldsmith gave Bernstein a silver plaque with the saying engraved in black. The following year, on Goldsmith’s birthday, Bernstein reciprocated with a larger one in gold and black. Every year since, the birthday plaques grew larger and fancier. The shape and size of next year’s presentation became an office secret. Details of cases were discussed among associates, but those in the know never gave up anything about the next gift.

  During the days before plaintiff attorneys became the darlings of the media and juries forgot the value of money, Berstein and Goldsmith scored major wins for their clients. Soon Espinoza, who had watched their growth with envy, approached them. A merger took place, and they became Berstein, Goldsmith and Espinoza. Espinoza’s contribution was an entrée to the Latino community of South Florida—an entrée that rushed money into the company’s coffers.

  When Bertram Bernstein, the only son of Rubin, graduated from law school, he became part of the firm, but not at the top. He started as a law clerk to his father and worked harder than anyone in the office. His hours became legendary, and a person driving past the office at any time of the night might see his light on. Every new hire soon learned he must bill as many hours as Bert Bernstein or his status reports would suffer. Many couldn’t stand the pace and moved on.

  As Bert earned his father’s respect at each step of the learning process, he moved up the ladder. Finally, five years ago, at the age of thirty-five, he asked about becoming a partner, then lobbied Espinoza and Goldsmith hard, not realizing they reported each effort to his father. He also did not know it was Goldsmith and Espinoza who convinced his father to grant his wish. His father worried Bert was too soft to be a full partner.

  BGE&B was now the largest plaintiff firm in the area. So big and so successful that two years before, they opened a civil defense side. Being careful to avoid any appearance of a conflict of interest, BGE&B soon acquired several insurance companies as clients. Bernstein and Bernstein handled the plaintiff side while Goldsmith and Espinoza oversaw the civil defense side. Although there were frequent partners’ meetings and an active social agenda, all four were scrupulous in not crossing the line of integrity they’d drawn when they enlarged their interests. That became well known in the area and more cases came through their doors.

  The shop that began as the dream of one man now employed twenty-five attorneys with each having sufficient clerical staff that the associate never had to be bothered with the day-to-day trivia of the office. Billable hours and wins in the courtroom were the measurements of success.

  One of the highest flyers on the staff was Abigail Archer. Although older than many of her peers, she possessed an almost intuitive appreciation for the law, staying one step ahead of the competition. In the office, she found the obscure paragraph or ruling that supported the client. In the courtroom, she knew when to be tough and when to show compassion. Juries loved her.

  Abby, as everyone called her, delayed her entry into law school for six years while she served in the US Army. An ROTC student during her undergraduate years, she accepted a commission upon graduation with the idea of seeing the world before settling down to law. Six years later, she resigned and enrolled in law school to follow her dream.

  Abby sat at her desk, reviewing a case she inherited from another attorney. Since it could be a precedent setter, the partners decided to give it to their best. While she enjoyed the confidence shown in her, she preferred to handle a case from day one.

  She frowned, not thrilled with what she read. Her client was suing the doctor for malpractice. The contention was that the plastic surgeon should have consulted with the husband before performing breast implants on his wife. If he had, he would have discovered the spouse was not in favor of it. Therefore, the doctor’s negligence caused pain and suffering to the husband because his wife took her new cleavage to the bar every night in a low-cut neckline and a pushup bra. The end result was the destruction of a happy marriage and a divorce, leaving two small children without a two-parent home. While Abby thought the case absurd on the surface, if she played it right, a jury might side with the husband. And once that occurred, it set up a whole new set of parameters for future cases.

  The intercom buzzed. “Abby, would you come in when you have time?”

  “Of course, Mr. Bernstein. I’ll be right there.”

  “No rush. Whenever you have a few minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.” Abby smiled.

  Mr. Bernstein was ever the gentleman. He never commanded, he requested, and the request always carried the caveat, when you have time. Every employee in the office guessed that meant immediately—or sooner—and reacted that way. She wondered what would happen if she waited until she finished the complaint. She’d never know. She rose and walked to the mirror on the end wall of her office. After a critical look at herself, she refreshed her lipstick, fluffed her shoulder length red hair, picked up a pad and pencil, and walked out.

  A moment later, she tapped on the doorframe of the open door. “Mr. Bernstein—you wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, Abby. Please come in and have a seat.”

  She entered and saw the younger Bernstein sitting in a chair alongside his father’s desk. “Bert.” She nodded as she sat beside him.

  Rubin steepled his fingers under his chin. “We have a special task we’d like you to undertake…if you’re willing.”

  “Of course. My caseload isn’t too heavy right now. I’m sure—”

  “This will be full time.”

  Abby looked at the senior Bernstein, then turned toward Bert. “I don’t understand.”


  Bert spoke up. “We have a job we’d like you to take on. It’ll be our secret, full time, and outside the work you normally do. Your cases will be assigned to other associates.” He paused and studied her. “I know it sounds strange, but that’s all I’d like to say until you commit. And, please understand that if you don’t agree, you can return to your normal caseload with no hard feelings.”

  Abby smiled. “You make it sound so mysterious. How can a girl say no?”

  “Then you’ll do it?” Rubin said.

  “As long as I have your word it won’t affect my standing in the firm.”

  The younger looked at his dad. “I can say for sure it will not weaken your position. In fact…” He smiled.

  “Now, do I get the secret handshake?” Abby said. “My curiosity is killing me. What is it?”

  Rubin looked at his son. “Why don’t you and Abby go to your office so you can explain?” He turned back to Abby. “Rest assured I fully support this. And,” he smiled, “I appreciate your stepping up. There will be a bonus in your next envelope.”

  Abby stood as Bert did. “Thank you, sir. I hope you don’t think I expect extra pay. I love this firm and my job here.”

  “I know you do.” Rubin rose and offered his hand. “We’re fortunate to have you on staff.”

  She and Bert headed toward his office. Abby stepped out ahead. “C’mon, Bert. Walk faster. You know I hate puzzles.”

  Bert chuckled. “I’m enjoying this. It’s not often I get to see you so disconcerted. Now slow down and walk like a lady.”

  Abby laughed. “You best remember Pat and I are sorority sisters. I can make you pay.”

  “As you and my darling wife have in the past.”

  * * * *