The Starks Trilogy (Book 1 & 2)

by Nesly Clerge

  Howling, he charged at Ozy. Used his shoulder to ram the man into the glass door. Sharp shards rained down on both of them and scattered across the floor. Blood trickled from small cuts on both men. Margaret screamed.

  Ozy yelled, “Upstairs. Call the police.” He ran to the kitchen.

  Starks ignored his instinct to leave and followed the man.

  Ozy stood on the other side of the island cutting block centered in the room, with his back against the countertop. He edged his way left, his eyes fixed on Starks.

  “I don’t know why you’re angry with me. You told Kayla you wanted her to be happy, whatever it took. It took me. She liked what I did to her.” His grin was malicious. “Said she’s been spoiled after having one my size. Said I knew what she wanted before she did. In fact, she liked what every man in my firm did to her. Liked me to watch.” His face conveyed amusement. “Didn’t know there was more than me? You’re the loser.”

  Starks saw Ozy rest his left hand on the countertop. Saw him then move his hand behind him. He got distracted when Ozy said, “Are you upset that I did your wife or that sometimes a buddy and I did her at the same time? Get a fuckin’ clue. Get your head out of your—”

  Starks heard metal slide against wood. He saw the large knife Ozy held in a white-knuckled grip.

  Adrenaline surged. Rage replaced reason. A heavy glass bowl rested on the counter near him. He took hold of it. Rushed at Ozy. Survival instinct and something he’d never felt before took over, blocking sound and sensation from his mind. He slammed the bowl into the side of Ozy’s head. Fell onto the downed man. Used his fists to vent the tornado of emotions he’d held in for so long.

  He didn’t notice how much blood there was.

  Or the absence of any defensive blows from his wife’s former lover.

  Starks, handcuffed, was dragged from the kitchen by two police officers. That’s when he noticed two small children clinging to their mother’s robe. Sight of them cleared his mind enough for him to see and hear their terror. Anguish and guilt and shame about how their innocence had been shattered—by him—caused him to cry out.

  His eyes were wide and unseeing as the police hustled him out of the house. Starks stumbled and slid on the slick grass. The two policemen gripping his arms yanked him to his feet. Blue flashing lights drew his attention. He saw the ambulance. And wondered what he’d done. He remembered grabbing the bowl but nothing after that. He looked down; his hands, arms, and clothes were bathed in red. His stomach knotted, his skin went clammy.

  The officer on his right cursed when Starks vomited.

  County jail personnel bagged and labeled his personal items. His pants, sweater, and shoes were put into an evidence bag, his clothing replaced with an orange jumpsuit to wear, along with sneakers with no laces. A doctor cleaned him up and tended to his cuts and abrasions.

  The only time he spoke was to ask to call his attorney. After a brief explanation of what had happened, he said, “Mike, my car.” He felt guilty for worrying about it and relieved when his attorney said he’d take care of it.

  He waited hours in a holding cell with—as he perceived them—unkempt, smelly lowlifes, before he was given a private cell. Once alone and he had time to think, he realized the tidy, organized life he prized and insisted on had taken a very wrong turn. The reality was that it had turned long before this night, he reminded himself. Denial was no longer an option.

  The nightmares began that night. Violent, punishing images that yanked him awake, drenched him in sweat, causing one of the night guards to tell him if he didn’t keep his mouth shut, he’d come in there and shut it for him.

  He wanted to rewind time.

  Too late for that. Time to get yourself out of this and move on with your life.

  CHAPTER 3

  ATTORNEY MICHAEL PARKER put his pen down and stood when Starks entered one of the interview rooms at the county jail.

  Starks glanced at the other man’s appearance then down at the wrinkled orange jumpsuit that was two sizes too large for his average height and slender frame. “I was with you in London when you bought that suit,” he said.

  “I remember. You got a couple suits for yourself then. Lots of good times over the years, Starks. Good memories.” Parker extended his hand.

  Starks moved to shake hands—the motion was automatic—having forgotten about the handcuffs on his wrists. The color of humiliation climbed from his neck to his face. Parker cleared his throat; the two men took their seats across from each other at the heavy metal table.

  Starks rested his elbows on the table’s cool surface. “You got the Christmas gifts I asked you to? You got them to my kids?”

  “Like Santa’s helper on Christmas Eve. They were delighted.” Parker pulled at his tie.

  “But?”

  “They miss you. Wanted to know when you’re coming home.”

  Starks turned away. He wiped at his eyes then faced his attorney. “How was New Year’s in Paris?”

  Parker held his gaze for a few seconds then said, “I’m truly sorry you’re in this position.”

  “What about my car?”

  “Repaired. Like new. Jeffrey’s keeping it in his garage. Starts it and runs it a few minutes every day.”

  “I’m lucky Margaret didn’t torch it.” Starks bounced his feet, realized he was doing this and stopped. “Okay. Let’s get down to business.”

  “As I told you before, you’re in a lot of trouble. The fact Hessinger pulled a knife with intent to use it works in your favor. That lets us claim self-defense to some of the charges. However, the problem is that no knife, much less intent to use it, is mentioned in the police report. I did report it after you told me, and they followed up, but it went nowhere.”

  “He pulled a big fucking knife on me.”

  “I believe you. Still—”

  “It’s up to you to make sure it’s included.”

  “I will. But absence of any mention of it puts us at a disadvantage. It would have been better if you’d said something to the police while you were still at the scene.”

  “I told you, I was in shock. When I was able to think again, I thought it best not to say anything until I talked to you.”

  Parked sighed and nodded. “Your arraignment’s tomorrow. You’ve got two things working in your favor: Your reputation in the community is solid, and this is your first offense. That may mean some leniency can or will be shown. Especially if I argue it as a crime of passion.”

  “Crime of passion is right.”

  “Still, the evidence is against you. You crossed unlawfully into the Hessinger house. That’s considered breaking and entering—burglary is the official charge.”

  “I didn’t enter the house; I fell through the goddamned glass door.”

  “I know, and I’ll deal with that when it’s time. However, even though you didn’t go to or enter the house with a weapon, the Hessingers feared harm; now you’ve got burglary with assault tacked on. There was unwanted physical contact, which resulted in serious injury. That’s battery, which has a stiffer penalty than if the situation had stopped at fear of harm. And because the attack continued after the police ordered it to stop, and Hessinger’s in a coma, the D.A.’s going for attempted murder, premeditated.”

  Starks flung himself back in the chair. “Jesus. None of that was supposed to happen. I didn’t go there to commit a crime.”

  “As soon as you touched Ozy outside his house, especially on his property, you committed one.”

  Starks pushed his chair back and began to pace. “I’m genuinely sorry about what happened. I never meant… All I wanted to do was shame him in front of his wife; to let her know what her husband was doing. He brought out something in me that wasn’t me. Isn’t me. I know how it looks but I want to plead not guilty. There was no intent to harm involved, and certainly not planned.”

  Parker pursed his lips. “That’s not the way to go but it’s your nickel.”

  “You mean my quarter mil. Paid upfront.”
>
  Parker cleared his throat.

  Starks leaned forward. “I didn’t mean to sound… Look, I know you can plead my case in a way that gets me off or doing community service… forever,” he waved his hands in the air, “or something.”

  “I don’t think that’s how this is going to go, all things considered. You need to prepare yourself for that.”

  Starks raked his hands through his hair, his volume increasing with each word. “After all I went through…” He rubbed his forehead hard. “The things Ozy said to me, Mike. And he enjoyed every goddamn word. Took pleasure in driving the stake in deep.”

  “Calm down.”

  “Calm down? The one woman I believed was faithful turned out to be a slut. The mother of my children, for God’s sake! Twenty years she’s deceived me. And the personal things she told to… everyone, including that bastard Ozy. As if screwing him and others wasn’t humiliating enough.

  “And as for him… he used her. Kayla believed every lie he told her. Even after he said he’d never leave his wife for her, she still kept screwing him. And all the lies… all the lies she told me just to cover for that bastard.”

  He jabbed his right forefinger against the table. “For three years she came home to me and our children, knowing she’d been screwing him, knowing he was someone else’s husband. Probably had a good laugh knowing I was inside her after he’d been there first. She betrayed me. My God, how she betrayed me. She sacrificed us… for him.”

  “This is why I’m going for crime of passion, even though, technically, it isn’t a perfect fit.”

  “It’s close enough, damn it. And, self-defense.”

  “All right. Much as I disagree… If you change your mind beforehand about the not-guilt plea—”

  “I won’t. I want a trial. I want the truth to be heard.”

  “Even if the truth is heard, you need to understand you’ll probably have to serve some time in at least a minimum or medium security facility.”

  “Get this straight, Mike, I don’t want to serve any time at all.”

  “I understand that. But the severity of the charges and the circumstances are what they are. You can probably get paroled early for good behavior.” Parker linked his fingers. “That is, if…”

  “If Ozy lives.”

  “That’s the long and short of it.”

  “Pull out all the stops in my defense. There could be a big bonus in it for you.”

  Parker’s expression was unreadable. He stayed silent as he put his notepad and file into his briefcase, which he snapped shut. He returned his pen to the pocket of his hand-tailored white shirt. “Any questions?”

  “None that you can answer.”

  CHAPTER 4

  STARKS TUGGED AT the neckline of the undershirt his mother had dropped off for him at the jail. She hadn’t wanted to see him. He knew why: Members of the maternal side of his family were born with a pride chromosome. Lynn Starks loved her son but the extreme public humiliation resulting from his arrest was more than she could stand. He knew she’d forgive him one day, and that her ability to forgive tended to simmer until she was ready.

  “All rise. The District Court of Suffolk County, State of Massachusetts, is now in session. Honorable Judge Harold Weaver, presiding.”

  The judge took his seat at the bench then shuffled through the case files in front of him, glancing up briefly at the line-up of people waiting to plead. “We’ll begin with arraignments then move onto trials.” In a monotone voice, he continued. “All persons are innocent until proven guilty. You have the option to plead not guilty, guilty, or no contest. No contest means you concede the charge or charges against you, without admitting guilt and without presenting a defense. I advise you against pleading no contest. You have the right to obtain counsel. If you cannot afford counsel, the court will appoint an attorney for you.”

  An hour later, it was Starks’s turn in front of the judge. He flinched and his face reddened when the charges against him were read aloud. He also questioned whether his decision to plead not guilty would work in his favor or not. He’d always been able to methodically weigh pros and cons when it came to business matters. This, however, was unfamiliar, unpredictable territory.

  He tried to give his full attention to what was going on but his mind wanted him in the past, a reverie that was broken when Parker nudged him to stand.

  “My client pleads not guilty to all charges, your honor.”

  The judge looked directly at Starks then glanced at Parker with a quizzical expression on his face. He shook his head, checked the calendar and said, “Trial starts this coming Monday, 10:00 a.m.”

  “In the matter of bail, your honor—”

  “No bail will be set.”

  “Your honor, in this instance, bail can be set quite high, which will ensure my client shows up for trial.”

  “Denied.” The judge’s gavel came down, putting an end to the matter.

  Starks turned to Parker. “I don’t want to stay in jail until the trial. Do something. Get me out, for Christ’s sake.”

  Parker began to pack his briefcase. “This judge is a hard-ass. Plus, it’s election time. You’ve seen the corporate scandals on the front pages of all the newspapers. Everyone, especially candidates running for office, are screaming for corporate criminals to be held accountable.”

  “I’m not involved in any of that.”

  “No.” Parker shut his briefcase. “But you’re considered one of them.”

  “Am I going to have to keep paying for the shit others do?”

  CHAPTER 5

  A HANDCUFFED STARKS WAS escorted by a bailiff into the courtroom from the holding cell. He shuffled directly to where Parker and the other top three of a long list of attorneys from Parker, Birnhaum, Bailey, and Todd sat at the defense counsel’s table. He nodded at each man in turn. The chair next to Parker was empty, which the attorney pulled out for him.

  “I see you brought your muscle,” Starks said.

  “Sometimes it makes a difference, especially for someone as high-profile as you are. But I’m lead counsel for your defense.”

  Starks turned to check out who was in attendance in the gallery. Behind the prosecutor’s table, Margaret Hessinger glared at him. He looked away. Directly behind him and toward the middle sat his mother, his aunt Anita, and her son, Hank, who waved at him. Next to Hank sat Jeffrey Davis, who smiled and gave Starks the thumbs-up sign. Starks nodded, his own smile not reaching his eyes. He continued to scan faces, thankful that Emma had heeded Parker’s advice and stayed away.

  The one person he wanted to see wasn’t there.

  Where the hell is my wife? She should be here, supporting me.

  After all he’d done for her; after all he’d sacrificed for her and their children. And after all, it was her fault he was here.

  His jaw was tight as he turned to face the judge’s bench.

  “All rise. The Superior Court of Suffolk County, State of Massachusetts, is now in session. The Honorable Benjamin Solomon, presiding.”

  Once the formalities were taken care of, the prosecuting attorney walked to the jury box and began his opening statement.

  Starks blanched at the words used to describe him. That person was unrecognizable to him: Extreme sense of entitlement, calculating, serial philanderer, a monster with a violent temper who’d planned his revenge on Ozy Hessinger—the victim of a deliberate, brutal, potentially fatal attack in front of his wife and two young children.

  Starks rested his forearms on the table. Leaning to his right he said to Parker, “He’s trying to make it sound like Ozy was the only victim.”

  Parker touched Starks’s right forearm, making clear his message to stay silent.

  Starks slouched in his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. He crossed his arms and sighed.

  Parker whispered, “Sit up straight. And get that expression off your face.”

  Starks did as instructed and glanced at the jurors, who listened with frowns on their face
s as the prosecutor continued to speak. My God, he thought, I’m being branded as some rich CEO who believes the law doesn’t apply to him.

  Now he understood why Parker had advised him to keep his expression as blank as possible and not to look at the jury. He felt certain none of those people who were supposed to be his peers would think or imagine anything other than what they were being told to. None of them knew what he’d been through. How would any one of them feel if their spouse had cost them their self-respect, reputation, and family, and in the excruciating way his wife had?

  Starks’s head snapped up when he heard his name.

  “Frederick Starks first attacked and injured Mr. Hessinger on his doorstep then entered the house unlawfully. Once inside the house, he hit the victim in the head with a heavy object then beat him repeatedly with his fists, in full view of Mrs. Hessinger and the Hessigner children, even though the victim was unconscious. Mr. Starks had to be forcibly removed and restrained by police.” He paused for effect.

  “I’m sure defense counsel will likely call this a crime of passion. Crime of passion is spontaneous, the result of something distressing happening in the moment regarding a spouse or partner and his or her illicit lover. It’s designed to mean catching them in the act, which provokes the injured party to violence—in the moment. This attack happened almost a full year after the defendant and his wife stopped living together as husband and wife, and the defendant had another woman and her son living with him. So I ask you, what was the point of that brutal attack?

  “Whatever image of the defendant defense counsel puts before you, ladies and gentlemen, evidence against Mr. Starks is clear and irrefutable, as well as the fact that he acted with premeditation, which prosecution counsel will prove.”

  The prosecutor returned to his chair, glancing quickly at the jurors. Pleased with what he saw, he didn’t try to hide his smile.