Stanley made it clear that Redbone did everything with the medical paperwork, and Richardson handled the legal end.
“This crap went on for about six months, and then one day, Richardson showed up at the doc’s office while I’m there for some kind of powwow. The lawyer told me that he had filed the lawsuit and that we were asking for unspecified damages for pain and suffering in my case. Richardson told me that since he was doing all the work and making big things happen, he expected me to give him most of the cash award when it comes in. I asked him how much he was talkin’ about here. He said he fully expected at least five million bucks, if not more. Holy shit! I thought. Five million dollars! I asked how much he would take for himself and Redbone, and he said he wanted seventy percent of whatever comes to me. At first I got pissed, but then Richardson pulled out a calculator and showed me that thirty percent of five million was one and a half million motherfuckin’ bucks.”
Will asked him, “So, what was Dr. Redbone getting for all his hard work?”
Stanley continued, “Well, I don’t know exactly. I know he sent in a bunch of dummied-up medical bills, and he was getting a lot of money from the state and the insurance, but I don’t really know. That guy was a real magician.”
My partner asked, “What do you mean by that, Stanley?”
Blivins then told us how Marvin Redbone was up to his eyes in this scam. “Well, the doctor had to remake that trick cast three times, and he showed me X rays he had somehow dummied up with my name on them, showing a fucked-up shoulder and arm. They looked pretty gnarly. I had no idea where he got the X rays from, but he was very busy keeping the scam going. That damn cast gave me fits, too. Fucking thing was hot, and my arm itched like a bitch. Old Redbone kept me in the Oxy, though. It helped ease my pain over all those months.”
I thought, Yeah, too bad you don’t have your Oxy now. But I kept him talking. “How long did you guys keep this up? And how did Richardson work on the court case?”
“He had me do two dep…er…depersitions, and there was a couple of those motion things, too. We finally got to trial about two months or so before the doctor was killed—around February last. I was on the stand for about six hours, and I must say I was bitchin’. I should have been good since friggin’ Richardson grilled me in his office for about three days straight, right before I had to testi-lie. Everything had to be perfect, right? I had to say certain things, and I had to act and not get mad when the liyars—I mean, lawyers—for Telford questioned me. I deserved an Oscar, if I gotta say so myself. Redbone was something else, too. I had no idea I was that fucked up. He told ’em I had a broken this, a torn that. It was a little embarrassing, though, ’cause he told them I couldn’t get it, you know, my dick, up anymore—all because of the trauma. Shit, I was fucking like a porno the whole time—had plenty of pussy. I just had my bitches swear to keep their traps shut when I took the cast off. I kept them in Oxy, and they kept my little secret.”
Stanley then continued his tale of deceit by revealing that Telford Corporation had offered five million dollars to settle midway through the trial. Blivins wanted to take it, but Richardson told his pawn he knew he could get more out of them, so Blivins reluctantly went along. Both he and Marvin Redbone about crapped their pants when the case went to the jury without a negotiated settlement. Everyone was nervous until the verdict came in: verdict for the plaintiff, with a fifteen-million-dollar jury award. Blivins said they all went back to Richardson’s office and split several bottles of champagne.
Will and I then centered our questioning on what happened after the coconspirators had received their ill-gotten gains.
“So, Stan, you have fifteen million dollars now at your disposal. What happened next? What did the lawyer say about who gets what? Do you know what Redbone got out of this?”
Blivins got serious for a second. “Wow, it got real intense the next day at the law office. The attorney and the doctor went into another room, and I heard lots of yellin’. Lots of ‘Fuck you!’ going on in there, all coming from the doc. He stormed out of Richardson’s office. The lawyer then came back to me and started giving me his instructions. He said I had to wear that heavy friggin’ cast for about a year more. A fucking year! He also said the most important thing was to never reveal anything about the plan to anyone. If I did, he would see to it that I spent a lot of time in the bucket, or worse.”
I responded to this interesting comment. “What did he mean by worse?”
“Don’t really know, and I fuckin’ didn’t want to find out neither when he said that. He told me he would hold my money for a month before giving me any, to see if I could live up to my end of the bargain. He gave me five grand cash as a teaser. I did good, too. I knew the prize was coming, and I was a very good boy. Never even left the house much. Then after a month, he met with me and gave me a check from Telford for all fifteen million dollars. I got a boner just lookin’ at that check, man. He made it very clear that I needed to go deposit it immediately and cut him a check for exactly ten million five-hundred-and-five thousand dollars. That bastard gave himself my five-grand advance back.”
Stanley Blivins then took his nearly four and a half million and started the now-infamous spending spree that got him where he was today—fucked and tucked. Will Phillips and I devoted a considerable amount of time and energy trying to get him to give up any information, anything related directly to the murder of Dr. Marvin Redbone. We got zip, nada.
However, we did end up with a little something to jam up a certain attorney’s ass.
So it seemed that the good doctor was not a happy camper the last time he met with the lawyer. A little visit back to the office of Robert E. Richardson, JD, was in order.
Before we left Nevada, I obtained a telephonic arrest warrant for Stanley Blivins for PC 487 (grand theft) as well as seven other charges related to insurance fraud, altering medical reports, and so on. After I laid out the facts for the judge, the magistrate set his bail at five million dollars. After Nevada finished with him, he would be ours. We also reminded Stanley not to tip off Robert Richardson, because he needed to testify against him to help himself out. Any chatting would nullify any deal the DA might want to offer him. It might piss Richardson off, too, if he knew who Stan’s new best buddies were.
Nye County would monitor all of the little shit’s calls to let us know if any were made to a certain law office. Our bets were covered, and we were relatively certain our songbird would keep his beak shut.
To show our appreciation for Stanley flapping his gums so extensively, Phillips and I agreed to go by the Chicken Ranch on our way home. It seems that Blivins had left his Mercedes SLS parked in the lot there, and he asked if we could have it towed to a safe storage yard for him.
“Hey, man, it’s the least we can do for you.”
We rolled into the asphalt-and-gravel parking lot outside the Chicken Ranch around 3:00 p.m. Where, oh where was that beauty? Nowhere. We figured that the sheriff might have towed it, so we went into the bordello’s office. Although slightly tempted, Will and I agreed to only attend to business there. A rotund, big-breasted young madam, with way too much makeup on, sat reading some paparazzi rumor rag behind the desk. Her purple hair accentuated her nicotine-stained teeth.
We identified ourselves and asked her what might have happened to that new tan/black SLS that had been parked for a few days outside in the parking lot. She just stared at us and reached down slowly, fumbling under the desk for something. My hand, just as slowly, slid down my side to grip the .40 caliber under my jacket. Dying in a whore house was not on my bucket list.
She came up with a small box wrapped in bright-red party paper. A cute yellow bow sat on the top. She nervously said, “Some big black guy said to give this to anyone asking for that Mercedes.” Will opened the card attached to the top of the box and handed me the note written in scribbled cursive. It merely said, “An eye for an eye, motherfucker!” It was signed, “Bubba.”
Opening the box, we saw a black piece of plastic elect
ronics. It looked like a small oblong box, or something similar, with red, white, and green wires hanging out of it. On the side, in raised-white printing was, LoJack Alarm Corp.
I later sent a teletype to the Nye County jail about our find so they could have Stanley Blivins file a stolen vehicle report with the Nevada authorities. They could give Stanley the good news.
The next morning, after arriving back at my desk, I noticed a thick manila envelope sitting on top of a new stack of reports there. Addressed to me, it had a return address of “RCIPS/Royal Cayman Islands Police Services, Cayman Brac.” Grabbing a cup of joe, I decided to spend a few minutes on something other than the Phantom case.
I eagerly read the details about the investigation into the death of Troy Williams on Cayman Brac. Very intriguing reading, indeed, especially the inspector’s deduction that suspicious circumstances existed in how the compressor air intake had somehow come in contact with the exhaust manifold hose of the gasoline-powered engine. This caused the inspector to make formal contact with the US State Department to request the return of Cheryl Howard to the island for further questioning.
However, the investigative reports seemed to end abruptly with the notation, “Case closed per Commissioner Roberts. Coroner inquest finding: Accidental death by drowning.”
I found all of this very intriguing but of little value in my decision-making process for the domestic-violence case.
Then I saw a handwritten notation scrawled on the very last page of the report that the police inspector and the commissioner had been contacted by an American attorney who claimed to represent Oswald in the matter: “Robert E. Richardson, JD, of Miami, Florida.” With my senses at full attention now, I quickly scanned the remaining pages and came to the vital statistics page, listing information on the woman at the center of the case.
Staring at the grainy color photo, I abruptly jumped up in my chair. Oh, my God! Staring back at me was a photo of a twenty-eight-year-old Cheryl Oswald: five foot eleven, tanned, athletic, with stunningly red hair.
Chapter Sixteen
Unpaid Debts
Cheryl Oswald packed quickly. She thought about leaving Troy Williams’s belongings in the resort’s hotel room. She thought, No, that wouldn’t be right. His family might want them. She was so tired, having spent sixteen hours yesterday being interviewed—no grilled—by that Cayman police inspector. Why did they do that? After all, wasn’t she grief-stricken over Troy’s untimely death? Couldn’t they see that? Lots of questions. Too many questions. She told them she didn’t know why Troy hadn’t alerted her that he was in trouble. She was very concerned when she realized he wasn’t behind her as they left the coral cut. “Just ask Jasper; he could see how upset I was.” She finished packing early that morning and quickly left the hotel by cab, arriving shortly thereafter at the Cayman Brac airport. No police here, no more questions—instant relief. She prayed the plane would be on time. Her United flight started to taxi out on the runway, right on schedule. Could they make the plane stop, or even worse, turn back? They couldn’t make the jet return, could they?
Once over the United States, Cheryl Oswald finally felt safe. Back in Miami, Troy’s parents, Sue and Tom Williams, met her at the airport. They were inconsolable. Troy left them so suddenly that all they felt was pain. How could this have happened, Cheryl? Couldn’t you help him? More questions and many more tears. Then three days after her touchdown on US soil, a phone call from the State Department sent Cheryl Oswald back into panic mode.
The Cayman Police wanted her back. They claimed that she never had permission to leave the island in the first place. Her claim of ignorance was met with insistence on behalf of the island police. Panic, fear, and confusion. Then more questions came from Sue and Tom Williams.
“What is this about, Cheryl? Why do they want you to return for questioning? What aren’t you telling us?“
Cheryl satisfied his bereaved parents with, “I have no idea, mom and dad. I’ll call and see what they want. I’ll cooperate all I can. Don’t worry. It’s just routine in this kind of situation, I suppose.”
Two hours later, she frantically searched the local Miami phone book, checking the dozens of pages under “Attorneys.” One particular ad caught her eye—the colorful full-page spread for Robert E. Richardson, JD. That same afternoon, Cheryl Oswald met the attorney at his office. A concerned Robert Richardson began the conversation. “Tell me, my dear, how is it that I might help you?”
A trembling Cheryl Oswald related through tears, “I was involved in a diving accident five days ago, where my fiancé died. It happened while we were on vacation in the Cayman Islands. I thought I was done with questioning, but now they’re demanding that I return. I’m confused, Mr. Richardson, and I am afraid they won’t let me leave if I go back there. I really need your help.”
The attorney consoled her. “Ms. Oswald, I’m certain I can help you. However, from what you say, there may be more to this than what you are telling me. Could that be? Am I right? Ms. Oswald, if you wish me to represent you, I must have full disclosure as to the circumstance of this accident. Rest assured, young lady, anything you tell me will be held in the strictest of confidence. Our conversation is fully covered under the attorney-client privilege. No legal authority or court has the right to know about what you tell me in confidence. Trust me; hundreds of others like you have.”
Taking a deep breath, Cheryl Oswald told Robert Richardson everything.
“I was twenty-seven years old when I met Troy Williams in Miami. I was quite attractive back then—tanned and in great shape. I worked as an aerobics instructor at the west side Golds Gym and moonlighted as a personal trainer. Troy was an aspiring law student at Metcalf College of Law, who worked out infrequently at Golds. He started working out a lot more when he met me.” She blushed as she spoke.
“We hit it off right away and started dating. He was very handsome and attentive to me. We made a nice-looking couple. Everyone said so, Mr. Richardson.
“After six months, Troy was in his last semester of law school, and he had already been given a tentative job offer at a local law firm. When he asked me to marry him, I accepted. I could see a future with him back then, and I loved him very much. We were a happy couple. It took me about a year to realize I was dead wrong about him.
“Troy liked to party; you have to know new lawyers like to party, right? Parties meant ecstasy and nitrous oxide.”
The attorney asked her what nitrous oxide/NOZ did as he moved his chair close to hers while gently touching her hand with his to console her.
Speaking almost clinically, Cheryl continued, “It’s actually laughing gas, an anesthetic, which makes you loaded at first but real anxious when it wears off. When Troy got high, he got angry. He took his anger out on me after those late-night parties. Sometimes, he did it when he was completely sober.
“I took the abuse for a while. I could have easily fought back and probably would have won a physical argument. I like to stay physically fit. I managed to push him away every time when we argued, and I avoided getting hurt, other than some little bumps and bruises. I constantly seemed to be covering up those bruises with makeup. I kept telling myself that he would change once he grew up and had that new job with the law firm.
“My foster parents liked Troy, since all they knew about him was his good looks and lofty aspirations. My friends liked Troy, too. He was good-looking and fun to be with—when he wasn’t loaded or pissed off. I was stuck living a lie.
“Although everyone loved Troy, by the end of that year, I was looking to get the hell out of the relationship. One night, I made the mistake of telling him so, and he pushed me hard up against our bedroom wall. It scared the hell out of me. I never forgot the look in his eyes. While he held me there by the throat, he calmly told me, ‘Listen, Cheryl. You’ll never leave me. Do you hear me? I need you, and you need me. I swear, if you try, I’ll find you, and make your life miserable for it. I’ll kill you before I let you go!’ I looked into Troy’s eyes
that night, and I truly believed him. He would kill me. I started thinking of ways to get away from him permanently.”
As Cheryl Oswald poured out her soul to Richardson, she began to tremble. The attorney held her hand tighter. “It’s OK, my dear. Please continue.”
“I had taken up scuba diving three years before starting my relationship with Troy. I loved the water and was a natural at it. I took several additional classes to be a better diver. Six months before my decision to get out of our relationship, we had planned to go on a week-long diving vacation to Cayman Brac, one of the smaller Cayman Islands. Troy took an open-water diving certification course in Miami, and I was allowed to tag along. I always knew Troy was a know-it-all, and although he earned his C-card, I saw he was a lousy diver. He didn’t listen to the instructor and took way too many chances. Hell, I even had to set up his gear every time. The trip had already been paid for, so after making the decision to get away from Troy for good, I began thinking about how I could use the vacation for my exit strategy.”
The attorney queried, “And by exit strategy, you mean what, Ms. Oswald?”
Cheryl looked directly into the lawyer’s eyes and said, “At that point in time, Mr. Richardson, I felt it was either Troy or me. On day two of the dive trip, the dive master we had, Jasper, took us to an exciting deep-dive spot. It was meant for advanced divers, a site called Anchor Wall. Troy had reservations about making a deep dive, but he went along after my private prodding. He was macho and convinced Jasper he had enough experience, but I knew he was sweating it a little. The jerk liked the exhilaration he felt after we did the dive for the first time, though. I asked Jasper if we could repeat the same dive again the next day. He agreed, and I knew I had to act quickly, since this might be my only chance.
“Later that afternoon, I went behind the dive shack where the guy filled scuba tanks for the next day’s dives. I’d been watching and knew that the man working there frequently let the compressor run while tanks were being filled. He would leave the area for more than ten minutes at a time to grab a smoke. The fill station was in the back of the hotel complex and completely out of view. Their large compressor had two hoses on it, so they could fill two tanks at a time. I saw the man leave right after he hooked up two tanks, so I slipped back there and removed the gas engine’s exhaust hose down from where it hung. I stuck the end of it right next to the air intake port on the compressor. I kept it like this for about six minutes as it filled the tanks. No one saw me there; I made certain of that. I then put the exhaust hose back where I had first found it hanging.
Slice of Greed: A Kevin Rhinehardt Mystery (BOL Mysteries Book 1) Page 12