One and Done (Sam Johnstone Book 2)
Page 31
“Judge, you have been a wonderful help for this community,” Mary said, her eyes welling up with tears. “You’ve saved hundreds of lives and made thousands of other lives better.”
Daniels turned and looked at Mary, smiling wanly. “Thank you, Mary. You are so very kind. But as you know, the district courts are the big leagues—big cases, high stakes. I made a major miscalculation. The world has changed; people are much less forgiving. I think we both know that from now on, no matter what I do or how hard I try, my entire tenure will be gauged against my decision to let Albert Smith out on bond.”
“It’s not fair!” she said, moving his drink to a coaster. “I refuse to believe that people will forget all the good you have done.”
“No one said it would be fair,” he said. “When I took this job, I promised to do my best. Do you see those people forming up on the sidewalk outside?”
Mary went to the window, stood on her tiptoes, and opened the blinds ever so slightly. She was quiet for a moment before turning to face him. “Oh my God.”
“Right,” Daniel said, sitting back in his chair and opening a small humidor on his desk. “Mary, results count. It doesn’t appear my best was good enough for that bunch—now does it? So, if you would be so kind, please close the door and lock up on your way out. And leave some sort of message on that phone answering thing.”
After Mary left, Daniels sat smoking and reflecting on days and cases gone by until the afternoon sun began to make the office uncomfortably warm. He then stood and straightened things around the office. He closed and locked the door on his way out. He and Marci would come and get his belongings after dinner and pie.
“Davonte! Man, I am glad to see you,” Ronnie said through the phone on his cell block. “I’ve been waiting for days!” He looked around and saw a couple of the black inmates watching him closely. “Thanks for coming to see me. What’s going on? How is getting me a lawyer going?”
“Just wanted to stop in and tell you I'm leavin’ town, little man,” Davonte said. He was in the detention center's area reserved for visitors, talking on a handheld phone. Behind Davonte, Ronnie could see Damon and Reggie standing with their arms crossed in front of their chests. “Wanted to remind you that the way to succeed in jail is to keep your mouth shut.”
Ronnie looked at Davonte, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I got to go. Just reminding you there are certain subjects that, you know, are off limits. Shit no one needs to know about.”
“Davonte,” Ronnie began, swallowing hard. “You know you can count on me. I mean, we’re friends, right? I got rid of . . . the thing . . . and testified just like you said.”
“You done good. That acting stuff—you’re good at it, I’ll say that. But you just remember to keep quiet,” Davonte said, ignoring the question. “Because, if you was to forget, well, then my other friends—the ones probably watching you right now—they might take offense. You know what I'm sayin’?”
Ronnie stole a quick glance at the two black inmates standing behind him. One of them faked a big smile, the other drew a line across his throat in a slashing motion. “I understand,” Ronnie said, his mouth suddenly dry. “I helped you—”
“And I’m gonna help you, man. Just as soon as I get drafted and get my boys here taken care of.” Davonte smiled. “Right now, those are my priorities—you know what I’m sayin’?”
“But we’re friends!” Ronnie said. “You said if we did this, then when you got off, you’d square me away at my trial! You said you’d testify for me and be in the clear because of double jeopardy or whatever you learned in that class! You said if we did it this way, no one could prove anything against either of us!”
“Well, I’m gonna be busy here for a while. You know, the draft—things like that. Don’t know I’ll be back this way,” Davonte said. He stood. “Now, you just go on back to your cell and think about what I said. I gotta get ready to fly out east to meet with my agent.”
“Davonte!” Ronnie exclaimed as Davonte rose to leave. “Davonte! After you get drafted, you’ll hire me a lawyer—that’s what you said, right? I’ll need you to testify or I’ll get convicted! You got my back, right? Then I’ll get through school and be your agent, just like we agreed, right? Davonte!” Ronnie watched, his eyes filling with tears, as Davonte and the henchmen left the phone room. After they were out of sight, Ronnie hung up and slowly turned around. The two inmates were gone.
The June sun was low on the mountainous western horizon. Sam had gotten the keys to a friend’s cabin, and Veronica had agreed to spend the weekend. They had spent the day exploring local streams—Sam fishing, Veronica handling the net.
“They are so small!” she had laughed at one point.
“They are,” Sam agreed. “But I like where little fish live.”
“I understand.”
Now, he and Veronica were sitting on the deck, reveling in the sun setting over the pine- and spruce-covered mountains. The sound of birds settling in and the creek just yards away added to the beauty. He’d been up and down the steps, checking on the fire. She remained in her chair, without shoes, luxuriating in the late afternoon’s warmth. She was drinking a white wine of some sort, and he was having sparkling water with lemon.
“We’re about ready,” Sam said, looking at his watch and checking the coals. “You want a steak, a burger, or what?”
“Whatever you are having,” she said. “I don’t really care. I’m only here for the after-dinner s’mores.”
“I should have known,” he said. “Well, then, if you’ve no preference, I’m going to toss on a T-bone. I’ll eat the strip; you can have the filet. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds good. As does another glass of wine.”
“I’ve got you covered.”
While he grilled the steaks, they caught up. He felt relaxed and comfortable for the first time in a while, and must have been staring at her wine glass as he listened to her talk about family and friends and work problems, because she suddenly stopped and brought him out of his brief reverie.
She pointed at her glass. “Does this bother you?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Wine isn’t worth the trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I drink with a purpose: to get loaded. I can get drunk on wine, but it gives me a roaring headache, and liquor is quicker. If you were drinking whiskey or vodka it might trigger me a little, but wine? No.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Not tonight. I’ve been talking with a sponsor and attending some groups online and meeting with my counselor,” he said. “You know, except for when I was deployed, I’ve spent the better part of my adult life about half in the bag. It was a good run, but it’s time for me to find another way to deal with things. I’m getting comfortable with the idea. How do you take it?”
“Medium.”
“We’re ready, then. Let’s eat.”
After dinner, she made s’mores outside while he tended the fire. She had more wine, the elevation soon took its toll, and back inside the cabin she fell asleep on his shoulder on the leather couch. Without disturbing her, he managed to grab the remote and turn on the television. “Thank goodness for satellite,” he said quietly.
“Hmm?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Rest.”
He found the channel he was looking for and watched as dozens of young men from around the world were selected to play for teams in the National Basketball Association. Sam drank soda and watched the video of families from around the world as they waited for or received the once-in-a-lifetime call and listened as the commentators discussed the possible choices for the next few teams. At one point, Davonte was mentioned, video highlights were shown, and the announcers commented on his physique, athletic ability, and potential. Later, the feed was switched to show him surrounded by family and friends, phone to his ear. As the camera panned over his mother, she smiled shyly; Reggie and Damon then folded their arms and stared
intimidatingly at the camera as if on cue.
Still later, after the last name was called, Sam shook the melting ice from his glass into his mouth and crunched it. Veronica stirred on his shoulder. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“Davonte didn’t get drafted,” he said. The live feed showed Davonte with his head in his hands. This time, as the camera panned, Reggie and Damon rose and stalked off. Sharon put her arm over her son’s huge shoulders. Sam chewed more ice.
“Well, that’s disappointing,” she said, yawning. “What do you call it again? When they play one year and then leave?”
“One and done.”
“Well, there you go,” she said, and repositioned her head on his shoulder. In a moment, she was again fast asleep.
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The story continues in False Evidence, Sam Johnstone Legal Thriller #3.
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FALSE EVIDENCE
After a fall-out with his business partner and a breakup with his girlfriend, lawyer Sam Johnstone thinks a long vacation might be just what the doctor ordered.
Before he can quit town Sam gets a call from Lucy Beretta, the wife of the missing local college president. With a shocking accusation against an acquaintance and a plea for protection, Lucy derails Sam's plans for a quiet escape.
But when her alleged attacker turns up dead, Lucy is charged with his murder—and Sam is appointed to represent her. As he struggles to prepare his defense, Sam discovers that Lucy is lying—about a lot of things. The facts are not in her favor, and to make matters worse, Lucy is also a suspect in her husband’s disappearance.
If Sam is successful, a guilty woman may go free—and if he’s not, he will have failed at his job. Facing a client who can’t seem to tell the truth, an aggressive prosecutor eager for a conviction, and an ethical dilemma of epic proportions, Sam faces his most challenging case yet.
Click here to purchase False Evidence now
False Evidence
Click here to purchase False Evidence now
FALSE EVIDENCE
Click here to purchase False Evidence now
About the Author
James Chandler spent his formative years in the western United States. When he wasn’t catching fish or footballs, he was roaming centerfield and trying to hit the breaking pitch. After a mediocre college baseball career, he exchanged jersey No. 7 for camouflage issued by the United States Army, which he wore around the globe and with great pride for twenty years. He holds a Bachelor's degree from Eastern Oregon University and a Master's degree from Marshall University. James earned his Juris Doctor after attending night school at the George Mason University School of Law. When he isn’t working or writing, he’ll likely have a fly rod, shotgun or rifle in hand. James and his wife are blessed with two wonderful adult daughters and one grandson. He loves to hear from readers and can be reached at james@james-chandler.com.