Her angst receded when she finally spotted her apartment building. As she drove into the underground garage, the angst returned. What if Cornell had followed her home? She pulled her Saab into her parking stall, but could not bring herself to turn off the engine. She double-checked the door locks, then surveyed the area. She didn’t see anything suspicious, but was still too afraid to get out.
She put the car in reverse and drove to her sister’s apartment in nearby Fox Hills.
When Jada opened the door, Angela crumpled into her arms.
“Oh, my God!” Jada screamed. “Why is your face swollen? What happened?”
“Cornell came to my office. He punched me in the face and tried to strangle me, but this maintenance guy—”
Before Angela could say more, the doorbell rang.
“That’s probably Dre,” Angela sniffed. “I asked him to meet me here.”
Jada led Angela over to the couch, then went to the door. “You must be Dre,” she said, giving him a once over. “I’ve been dying to meet the brother bad enough to steal my sister away from Cornell, but not under these circumstances.”
Dre stepped inside. “Is Angela okay?”
Jada glanced over her shoulder in Angela’s direction. “No, she’s not.”
Dre hurried over, but stopped when he was only inches away. He stared down at her bruised and bloated face, then pulled her into his arms.
“Dude put his hands on you?” There was disbelief in his voice.
Angela nodded and gripped him tighter.
“You need to call the police on his ass,” Jada said. “Don’t let him get away with it this time.”
“This time?” Dre glanced at Jada, then turned back to Angela. “Dude put his hands on you before?”
“Yep.” Jada handed Angela an ice pack. “The night she told him she was calling off the engagement.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Anger flooded Dre’s face.
“Because this is my problem and I want to handle it my way.”
“You call this handlin’ it?” Dre was practically shouting.
Angela pulled away from him, sat back down on the couch and pressed the ice pack to her face. “Cornell is a judge. If I report him, his career will be over.”
Jada threw up her hands. “That asshole tried to strangle you and you’re concerned about his career? I’m calling the police right now.”
“Screw the police,” Dre said. “I’ll handle it.”
“No!” Angela said insistently. “I know you’re both concerned about me, but let me try it my way first. I’m going to call Cornell’s best friend. He’ll talk to him. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll go to the police.”
“Come here.” Jada grabbed Angela’s hand, pulled her up from the couch and led her down the hallway to the bathroom. She flipped on the light and positioned Angela in front of the mirror. “Take a look at your face.”
Angela gasped. The severity of her bruises shocked her. The left side of her face was twice its normal size. A purple patch had already formed underneath her eye. She had several red welts on her neck. Dre stood in the doorway, steaming. Her eyes met his in the mirror. He was obviously upset that she hadn’t confided in him.
Jada turned her around and hugged her. “Have you forgotten about all those domestic violence cases you handled when you were a D.A.? If a man hits you once, he’ll hit you again. How many times did you tell me that?”
Angela brushed past both of them and went back to the living room.
“I have something I want to give you,” Jada said. “I’ll be right back.” She dashed out of the apartment.
When Jada returned minutes later, she placed a small black pouch on the coffee table.
Angela stared at it. “What’s that?”
“A Smith & Wesson thirty-eight,” Jada said rather calmly. “If you’re not going to report Cornell or even get a restraining order, you at least have to protect yourself.”
“A gun! Are you nuts? When did you even get a gun?”
“I’ve had it for years. I keep it under the seat in my car. I take it with me into the shop every morning and I put it back every evening. Too many beauty shops in L.A. have gotten robbed. I’m not about to be a victim. And before you ask, yes, it’s registered and I also took classes at the shooting range so I know how to use it. And I didn’t tell you or Mama because I didn’t want to hear any flack.”
“Get that thing away from me,” Angela cried. “If Cornell bothers me again, I promise I’ll get a restraining order.”
“Screw that,” Dre said. “You need a gun and a restraining order.”
Jada sat down next to Angela and took her hand. “Dre is right. How many women have you seen on the news who died holding restraining orders in their hands? A piece of paper won’t stop a crazy man.”
Angela defiantly shook her head. “No! I’m not going to—”
“You’re a prosecutor,” Jada said, cutting her off. “You could probably get permission to carry a concealed weapon.”
“Not without explaining why I wanted it.”
Dre reached down and squeezed Angela’s shoulder. “I really think you should take the gun. Dude came at you twice already. No tellin' what he’s going to do next.”
Angela stared up at Dre, then turned to her sister. “It’s not that simple! I can’t just walk into court and walk out with a restraining order. Cornell will definitely fight it, which means he’ll make counter accusations and create a whole lot of drama. I’d rather not escalate it to that level if I can help it. And it’s not just a matter of Cornell being charged and kicked off the bench. The media will pick up the story because it involves a superior court judge and a federal prosecutor. I’d prefer not to have the particulars of my failed relationship highlighted on the local news. Just let me handle this my way. Cornell isn’t himself right now. He just needs some time for the breakup to sink in.”
“Well, it better sink in fast,” Jada said. “Because if he brings his behind over here, he’s gonna get a bullet in his ass.”
“I want you to stay with me until this blows over,” Dre said.
“No, I’m going to stay here. If Cornell thought I was living with you, that would really set him off.”
This time Dre went off. “I don’t give a shit about settin’ him off! You can’t let that dude run your life!”
Angela closed her eyes and pressed her palm to her forehead. “You guys have to let me do this my way. If Cornell’s friend can’t get him to back off, I promise I’ll go to the police. But I’m not taking that gun.”
CHAPTER 56
Becker raised his champagne glass high in the air. “Let me be the first to officially congratulate our esteemed chairman, Lawrence Adolphus Erickson, and wish him well. Give ’em hell in Washington, big guy!”
The conference room on the twenty-fifth floor of Jankowski, Parkins broke into loud applause. The belated going away party had been Becker’s idea. The place was packed with lawyers, law firm clients and a few local politicians. Everybody in the room was now anxious to rub shoulders with a man who was on a first-name basis with the President of the United States.
Becker stepped aside so Erickson could take center stage. “Alright, alright,” he said, gripping the microphone. “This is not a permanent good-bye. President Bancroft has just over three years left in his second term. So I’m only taking a short leave of absence. And mark my words, if I don’t get my corner office back, I’m suing everybody in here.”
The room vibrated with laughter.
“What my colleague here neglected to mention,” Erickson continued, “is that I corralled him to come along with me. I’m really a novice in the world of politics so, thank God, I’ll have Roland Becker watching my back. This is the most loyal guy I know. And the most ruthless. That’s precisely the combination I’ll need in Washington.”
Erickson threw an arm around Becker’s shoulders, which set off another long round of applause.
After Erickson thanked practicall
y everyone in the firm, Becker found his way to the back of the room. He still had misgivings about the move to D.C. He wanted to run the firm, not be second-in-command at the Justice Department in a lame duck administration. But Erickson was right. When he returned from D.C., he’d be in an even better position to take over the firm because of his political connections.
Becker watched the long line of people waiting to personally congratulate Erickson. Since their arrival in Washington, it was much the same. All the attention was focused on Erickson. Being Deputy AG was almost like being an associate again. He was too old to be holding someone else’s briefcase. But he had already accepted the job, so there was no backing out now.
“Why the sad face?” Tom Franklin, one of his law partners, sidled up beside him and slapped him on the back. “You having regrets about leaving us?”
Becker grinned. “Not at all. I’m pretty excited about the venture,” he said, always willing to put on the right face.
“Man, who are you kidding?” Franklin raised his wineglass to his lips. “You aren’t going to see any real action. Erickson’s going to be front and center and you’re going to be stuck in the background doing his paperwork. I couldn’t believe you took the job. I heard you’ll barely be making two hundred grand. I wish I had friends as loyal as you.”
Becker didn’t respond because he wasn’t quite sure what to say. He mustered up a stiff smile and walked out of the room. He had just opened the door to the men’s room when he heard words that stopped him in his tracks.
“Becker has no idea that Erickson is royally screwing him over.” Becker knew the speaker’s voice well. It was Max Ito, a senior associate who regularly worked on Becker’s cases. “I heard that when the Management Committee met to discuss Erickson’s successor, they wanted Becker, but Erickson told ’em he needed him in Washington.”
“That’s really messed up,” the second man said. Becker did not recognize his voice. “Erickson acts like he can’t take a piss without having Becker around to unzip his pants.”
“Erickson actually told ’em to take Becker’s name off the list,” Ito continued. “Said he didn’t have what it takes. Becker’s spent the last twenty years kissing Erickson’s ass. You’d think he’d support him. Can you believe that shit?”
The second man chuckled. “I can believe it. The moral of that story is, don’t trust anybody around here with your career because everybody is out for themselves.”
Becker took a step back, allowing the door to quietly close. He wobbled down the corridor, blinded by rage. He couldn’t believe Erickson would betray him. Not after everything he’d risked for him.
Becker looked up to see the slightly intoxicated Attorney General approaching from the opposite end of the floor.
“Ready for a fun ride, old buddy?” Erickson asked, clutching him in a fatherly embrace. “We’re going to make a great team in Washington.”
Anger swirled deep in Becker’s gut, but somehow he managed to summon up a phony smile. Erickson hugged him so close that Becker could almost taste the scotch on his breath.
“Yeah,” Becker said, finally pulling away, “we’re going to be quite a team.”
CHAPTER 57
Waverly finally made the decision to call his former attorney. Maybe Mancuso could use her contacts to find out exactly what might be in store for him. Did the two prosecutors have any real evidence that his clients had been murdered or were they just trying to scare him?
Waverly arrived at Mancuso’s swank office an hour after making the call. She sat there, statue-like in her pink sweater as Waverly recounted the details of what had led him into the viatical business. He even disclosed his forced business arrangement with Rico and Goldman Investments and the money laundering that followed. He left out the part about the bribe that got him his viatical license.
Mancuso actually whistled when he was done. “This sounds like something out of a movie.”
“Well, maybe when this is all over you can negotiate the movie deal for me. Right now I need more than just legal advice. You have a reputation for having behind-the-scenes connections. I need you to use your resources to find out what’s going on.”
Mancuso was a rich lawyer precisely because she was a smart lawyer. Her first question was the most obvious one. “You were disbarred. How’d you get a viatical license?”
Waverly looked down at his hands and fingered his wedding ring. “We paid a bribe to somebody at the Department of Insurance.”
Mancuso raised her eyes toward the ceiling. He thought she was about to start lecturing him and, if she did, he planned to get up and walk out.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” she said after a long silence. “But I’m not sure I can be of much help. You don’t have anything to bargain with. Any deal I might be able to make would require you to lead the police to this Rico character, but you’ve never even met the guy.”
Waverly began to wonder if reaching out to her had been a mistake. He didn’t need someone to tell him he was screwed. He already knew that. At least this conversation, unlike the ones with Vincent and the Live Now executives, was protected by the attorney-client privilege.
“If I were you,” Mancuso said, “I’d put a kibosh on brokering any more deals. The feds are probably watching you.”
Tell me something I don’t know.
“I’ll make some calls,” Mancuso said halfheartedly. “See what I can find out.”
“Thanks.” Waverly stood up.
“I’ll need a retainer,” she said.
Waverly sighed. “How much?”
“I’ll cut you some slack since you’re in a pinch. Thirty thousand should cover things for the time being.”
That’s what you call slack? Waverly pulled out his checkbook, wrote in the amount and handed it to her. Too bad it was going to bounce.
He drove home to his big empty house and headed straight for the liquor cabinet. Out of brandy, he turned to vodka. In no time, he’d fallen asleep on the couch in the family room.
When he woke up early the next morning, he realized that the five-thousand dollar couch their interior designer had picked out was not intended for sleeping. His back felt like he’d been lugging around a slab of cement.
Waverly sat up and clicked on a lamp. When he tried to check the time on his watch, it took several seconds for his eyes to focus. It was much earlier than he’d expected. Just after four in the morning. He looked around for the vodka bottle. He found it underneath the couch. Empty.
After lying around for another hour or so, some internal force kicked in that told him this situation could not be handled like the rest his life. This time, he would have to be the one to make things right.
Despite what many people thought, for the most part, the legal system worked. Sure, there were those occasional 60 Minutes stories about some innocent guy who served half his life in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. But those cases were the exception. Prisons were packed with people because they were guilty and that was exactly where they needed to be.
Waverly wasn’t guilty of anything except wanting to protect his family. He certainly had nothing to do with the deaths of Claire Erickson or Jerry Billington or anybody else. He would go to the police and tell them that. Justice would prevail. Why was he even worrying? So what if he laundered a little money. He did it under duress. He would tell the police everything he knew about Rico and cut a deal that would keep him out of prison.
Waverly hobbled over to his kitchen drawer, found a notepad and pen, then shuffled back to the couch. He would analyze his situation like the real lawyer that he used to be. Screw Mancuso and her thirty-thousand-dollar retainer.
He drew a line down the middle of the page and wrote pro at the top of one column and con at the top of the other.
He started his analysis with the prosecution angle. It was always best to know where your opponent was coming from. In the worst case scenario, what were his crimes? Money laundering was the one crime that Waverly couldn’t
deny. He would have duress as a defense which might buy him some sympathy with a jury. No, there would be no jury. He could not, would not, put his life in the hands of twelve incompetent strangers with their own agendas and motivations. If he couldn’t cut a deal, he’d waive his right to a jury and take his chances with a judge.
Maybe he could keep himself out of prison by turning state’s evidence against Rico and whoever else was involved. The most serious crime he might face would be accessory to murder if Rico had indeed killed Jerry Billington or anyone else. Another investor had purchased Claire Erickson’s policy, so those prosecutors would not be able to connect Rico to her murder. If she even was murdered. A competent prosecutor, however, could easily use circumstantial evidence to make it appear that Rico and Waverly had been working together.
Waverly stared at the notepad, then tossed it onto the coffee table. This was a useless exercise. He wished he had something to drink. He would wait to hear what Mancuso found out, provided she wasn’t too pissed off about his check bouncing. He just hoped she could help him cut a deal. They always wanted the big fish, not the little guy.
But Waverly also knew that prosecutors liked making examples out of lawyers. A lawyer gone bad deserved exactly what he got. The L.A. Times article proved that. They would make him the poster child for corrupt attorneys.
Waverly closed his eyes and tried to think. The ringing of his BlackBerry startled him. He pressed ignore and it stopped ringing. He did not want to hear another threat from Rico. Whether he produced the money or not, he was probably next on Rico’s hit list.
In the meantime, he had to protect his family. He would call Quincy and tell him to disappear until all of this was over. First he needed to let Deidra know that her life was also in danger.
When Waverly dialed her cell phone, she picked up in a half-slumber.
“Deidra?” The cowardice in his voice was embarrassing even to him. He should just demand that she come home. She had taken an oath to stick with him for better or worse, richer or poorer. She owed him loyalty more than anything else. He’d done all of this, mistakes and all, for her.
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