Playing Dirty

by Kiki Swinson

  Scott told me that Mr. Santana had agreed with Paul to get me back on drugs so I would fail at representing Chisholm. That would send Chisholm away for life, which, in turn, would have Chisholm’s people after me—to the point where I’d have to leave town or I’d be dead. Both Paul and Mr. Santana would get their way. Scott also told me that Paul had put in anonymous calls to the feds letting them know that judges, DAs, and police officers were taking bribes from me. Paul’s calls had brought down at least four judges and about twenty narcotics detectives in all. No wonder everywhere I went, people were wanting to kill my ass. They thought I was snitching!

  I grew angrier by the minute as Scott unfolded Paul and Mr. Santana’s schemes to bring me down. I was overwhelmed. Two men wanted to fuck me over. They were both using me! I was feeling sicker every time Scott uttered a word, and you know I wanted nothing else but revenge.

  The one thing Scott couldn’t tell me was who had killed Maria, and why. Scott did not know where she came into play in all of this drama, and neither did I. But I was bound to find out. And I also knew that it wouldn’t be long before I did.

  Arriving at Scott’s house, I was tired and my brain was throbbing from all of the information I had just received. Scott showed me around his Tudor-style home, and I thought it was fabulous. He lived like I was used to living…in the lap of luxury.

  “Yoshi, make yourself at home,” Scott welcomed me in. Although I wanted to jump and take his invitation, I really didn’t trust anyone at this point. I had to ask myself, why was Scott helping me so much? He gave me my own room. It was beautiful, decorated in lilac, dark brown, and white. It smelled like lilacs, too.

  When Scott left, I jumped onto the bed and hugged the pillows. After sleeping on a small hard-ass jail cell bed, I thought this bed felt like heaven. The room had its own bathroom. I walked into the marble-tiled bathroom, and when I looked into the mirror, I almost broke down. I looked like a mess. Not only did I need makeup, I needed some moisturizer. The prison soap had dried me the fuck out. I took the longest shower I could stand. The water felt so good all over my body. I kept thinking about my situation and wondering what fucking clues I was missing.

  After my shower Scott cooked dinner. I hadn’t had pasta in weeks. To see and smell real food was so damn good. Scott was a pure gentleman. Over dinner we started talking about my case strategy. Scott planned to get an expert to review the murder video to refute the fact that the impersonator on the tape was me. He also planned to present all that he knew about Paul and Mr. Santana setting me up and trying to destroy me.

  I was so angry with Paul, I told Scott all of his business. I told him all about Paul’s deals with the IRS and all of his bribes of judges. It was Paul who showed me the ropes with bribing, and then he turned on me to make me look like the fucking bad guy. Scott was very interested in everything I had to say about Paul. I also told Scott about Paul’s sexual interludes with other men. Paul didn’t think I knew, but I’d mistakenly come across a video of Paul and a guy that he’d stashed in his safe at the job. Paul also didn’t know I knew where he hid his safe key, and because he was so predictable, I also knew his combination.

  “Scott, you put a lot of information on me tonight. Can I ask you why you’re helping me like this?” I finally asked. The question was burning inside me for so long.

  “Well, Yoshi, it’s basically like this. My firm agreed to help you with the agreement that you help us take down your former boss and his firm,” Scott answered honestly.

  “I knew there had to be a catch,” I said, lowering my head.

  “There’s no catch. We are not charging you for your murder trial or your bail. All we want is every piece of dirt you have on Shapiro and Witherspoon,” Scott said.

  At first, I didn’t think I was going to do it. But after thinking about how Paul was trying to completely destroy me, I opened my mouth and paid the price for my freedom. I was setting Paul up the way he had done me, and I was going to make sure he went down. Now all I had to do was think of how I was going to get revenge on Luis Santana. I was the one who had gotten him off, so it was going to be hard to get any law enforcement interested in chasing him for fear they’d lose. Then again, if I was willing to tell them everything I knew about Santana—all the things that Santana had shared with me under attorney-client privilege—his ass would go down, too. In turn, I would probably lose my license to practice law anymore. But then I figured, why care? If Miami prosecutors got a conviction from my cocaine possession charge, then I was bound to lose my license anyway. So fuck it! If I went down, so did everyone else.

  After more thought, I agreed to help Scott destroy Paul and everyone connected to him—that included Luis. I knew he was a very powerful man, and I might have to go into witness protection behind his ass, but, hey, that was the chance I was going to have to take. Hopefully, when all this was over, Scott and I would be able to prove that I had not murdered Maria.

  Not only that, I also need to make a special visit to Ophelia’s house and pay my condolences and help out any way I could. I mean, that’s the least I could do. I was the reason she was murdered. I just couldn’t reveal that information to her family. They would probably hate me for the rest of my life, and that was too much drama for me to have to deal with at this point.

  Getting My Shit Off

  After I agreed to give Scott all the dirt I knew on Paul, he went straight to work. I told Eric Bretner how to get into Paul’s safe to get his IRS records and that sex tape. We sent anonymous letters to every law enforcement agency in Miami, detailing Paul’s bribes and his connections to the drug game. I sent a nice long letter to his wife, I told her all about Paul’s deviant sexual behavior, and I made sure to mention his four tattoos, his birthmarks, and his missing toenail. I wanted her to know that I’d seen Paul without his clothes on. I placed an anonymous call to the IRS detailing how Paul laundered his money through his brother’s wine vineyard in California and through offshore bank accounts. That was just the first day.

  After Eric returned with the tape, Scott made still photos from it and sent them to the local newspapers. Scott also made several copies of the tapes and sent them out to the news media. I couldn’t front—all of this revenge was making me feel more sinister by the minute. I felt like I had been stepped on and I was finally going to get mine.

  Scott didn’t want anything to do with bringing Mr. Santana down. I knew he wasn’t going to get down with me on that one, but I wasn’t going to let that shit go. I called the DEA, Miami-Dade Police, ICE, and any agency I could think of. I detailed the insides of Santana’s house, where he had drugs and how often he threw parties and catered a half kilo for personal use. I told them about the body of one of his soldiers, which Mr. Santana had confided in me. He’d told me that he murdered the guy in front of the guy’s kids because the guy had had sex with a very young girl who’d turned out to be Mr. Santana’s niece. He told me that he had the body chopped and burned. I knew Mr. Santana was a ruthless motherfucker. He said his logic for killing the guy in front of his own kids was because he wanted the guy’s kids to suffer for life, like his niece would.

  I also made a blocked call to Mr. Chisholm’s partner and let him know that Mr. Santana was trying to set up Sheldon to do a bid so he would be out of the picture, and out of the game. I knew that call alone would start an all-out drug war, and I couldn’t care less. I could see Mr. Santana running from the feds and Haitian Mafia. How sweet that would be! That motherfucker would be dead within a week, I was sure of it.

  And as far as Paul was concerned, he was going to be brought to his knees, too. All the shit that came out about him would surely bring that fucking firm down, and humiliation would plague his face. Come to think about it, he might jump off a bridge after we got finished with his ass.

  I got pure satisfaction out of everything I did, and I didn’t feel one bit of remorse. Fuck Paul and Mr. Santana! I thought about how easily I had almost lost everything. I’d let my greed for more and more mon
ey almost destroy me. In the process I lost my best friend and almost lost a fortune.

  Three days had passed and things were still quiet. I hadn’t heard anything from all of the calls and shit I’d made. Damn, what’s going on? I was starting to think. Then Scott rushed into the room where I was staying.

  “Yoshi, you gotta come see this shit!” Scott screamed, excited, grabbing my arms up off the bed where I lay.

  “What! What happened?” I asked, confused. I rushed into the living room with Scott. He flicked on his fifty-one-inch flat screen. The news flashed across it:

  In breaking news, high-profile attorney and part owner of the prestigious law firm of Shapiro and Witherspoon caught on tape with a male prostitute. Mr. Paul Shapiro was found on tape having sexual relations with a male prostitute. When confronted, Mr. Shapiro had no comment.

  “Aaaahhh,” I started screaming and laughing. The shit had hit the fan now. I knew Paul was somewhere about to shit himself.

  “After this hit the news, our firm’s phones were ringing off the hook with clients from Shapiro and Witherspoon that wanted to hire us instead,” Scott said, smiling brightly.

  “Wow, business is going to be booming for you,” I said somberly. I missed getting those big retainers and big paydays.

  “Yes! Thanks to you, Yoshi. Now, do you see why we are not sweating you for representation fees? We were going to get paid anyway, using you and having you as a client,” Scott returned.

  When he said the words, my heart sank. He had used me just like everyone else. Although I was happy to be free for now, shit was just getting crazier by the moment. He jumped up and down at the mere thought of how his career was about to take off to the next level. I sat there stoically, pure disgust written all over my face.

  Several minutes later he popped a bottle of Moët to celebrate, but I was still not in the mood. I returned to the room I was staying in and promised myself that the next day I’d get a hotel room and just wait for my trial. While I was in the room, I pulled out my checkbook and wrote out a check in the amount of the bail Scott’s legal partners had put up for me. Sick to my stomach, I pondered ways to get away from all this havoc after I was exonerated from all my charges.

  Scott and everyone else probably thought that I was going to come on board with their firm, but they had another thing coming. I was getting the hell out of here. I had made my mind up that I was packing my bags and I was moving north, never to come back to this godforsaken place. I knew my family on my father’s side would welcome me with open arms. And who knew, perhaps I might be able to open up a small practice there in Virginia. Where they lived was a small, urbanlike city, so they might need my expertise.

  I knew one thing, if I decided to open up a practice in that state, I was going to have to keep it low-key. I couldn’t dare let anyone from around here find out where I was, especially Sheldon’s and Santana’s people. After what was about to go down, my best bet would be to stay behind the scenes, at least for a couple of years. Maybe longer, who knew?

  Fucking Shit Up

  As soon as Scott left for work the next day, I scribbled a note and left. I didn’t want to make him angry, because I still needed him for my trial, so I just let him know that with everything that had happened, I needed some time alone. I pinned my hair up and put on a huge-brimmed sun hat that I’d purchased after my release. I covered my eyes with a large pair of black Valentino shades and threw a silk scarf around my neck. I took a taxi from Scott’s place to the South Beach Ritz-Carlton on Lincoln Road and checked in under my mother’s maiden name. I still carried all of the credit cards I had opened in her name when I was in college, ones she never knew about.

  “Would you be needing turndown service, Ms. Aoki?” the Korean concierge asked me.

  “No thank you,” I said, in the best Korean I could muster.

  Inside, the room was gorgeous, just like I knew it would be. I’d had several fuck-and-go sessions with judges in this very hotel. I felt some kind of sick connection to the Ritz, and besides that, it made me feel like Yoshi Lomax again. Once inside the room I did all of the things I was hesitant to do at Scott’s house, like masturbate myself into orgasm. Shit, I needed to come because I was backed up for miles.

  After I was done, just out of curiosity, I dialed Paul’s office. When a man answered, I asked for Paul. “He’s no longer with this firm” was the man’s response. Then I decided to call my old office line and retrieve my messages. There were more than twenty-five messages—the maximum the system could hold—and they were all from Sheldon Chisholm or one of his men.

  In the last message, Sheldon said, “Ms. Lomax, I just want to let you know that I’ve been keeping up with what’s been going on with you. Too bad, you done fucked around and got a murder beef like me.” He let out a sinister laugh. “I guess now you see what it feels like to be behind bars. And now that I know you’re released on bail, I want you to either make arrangements to have my money refunded or find me a lawyer. Shit is getting really critical right now. So…if me or my family doesn’t hear back from you in the next twenty-four hours, something drastic is going to happen.” His chilling words sent a shiver up my spine. Between my murder charges and Sheldon’s threats, it seemed like leaving Miami was the best solution I could have ever envisioned.

  After I heard the rest of my messages, I flopped down on the king-sized hotel bed and stared at the ceiling. I knew people said running from your problems was the cowardly thing to do…but in my case, what fucking choice did I have? It seemed like everyone who admired me was now my enemy. And the ones who envied me were waiting patiently for my downfall, and I couldn’t let them have the last laugh. My pride wasn’t gonna let it go down like that. While I was thinking back on my past mistakes, my train of thought was broken by the hotel telephone.

  Shocked, I sat up and stared at it, contemplating whether or not to answer it. “Who the fuck could that be? No one knows I’m here,” I reasoned, and snatched up the receiver.

  “Ms. Aoki, this is the front desk. Would you like in-room meals? We forgot to ask you during check-in,” the pleasant voice on the other end said.

  I took a deep breath…a sigh of relief and answered yes.

  After two days I had become a master at disguises. I’d tried several different ones before I was comfortable going outside. So far, I learned that Paul was forced to resign from the firm. In addition to that, he lost his stake in the firm, and was under investigation by the IRS, DEA, and the local police. Every day his name appeared in the newspaper, right alongside the reports of the dead bodies of Mr. Santana’s people and Sheldon’s people. There was definitely a war raging between the two.

  I was feeling bold and confident in my disguises and decided I would head out once more. I got dressed, again, with a different wig, dark shades, flat heels—something I never wore—and blended in with the Miami crowd. I rented a simple little sedan, and first I visited all of my banks. I had to get my stashes together; I knew I’d need the money to live off. I wasn’t planning on sticking around much longer.

  After I visited every bank and my safe-deposit boxes, I started to head back to the hotel, but something was drawing me toward Paul’s neighborhood. It was like some force beyond me was pushing me—I wanted to see that bastard’s face in misery, I hoped. It was a fairly long drive and all the way there I pictured myself walking up to Paul’s house, ringing his bell, and slapping the shit out of his face. I knew I couldn’t do that, so I planned to settle for just watching outside of his house and waiting to see that bastard. He probably looked old and fucked-up right now, I said to myself, knowing that his stress level was probably through the roof with all the shit that Scott and I had made happen in his life.

  Before I knew it, I was outside Paul’s estate. I parked my car almost five huge houses away and still had a great view of his place; that was how big it was. For the first twenty minutes, there was no sign of him or his wife and kids. I watched his neighbors walking their little dogs, taking their kids to
school, and power walking or jogging through their quiet neighborhood. I stared at Paul’s house, wondering how my life would’ve been had I chosen to have a family. Me as a mother? Shit, I knew I was too self-centered for that. Sure, having a rich husband would not have hurt anything, but who the fuck wanted to be tied down?

  Lost in my own thoughts, I finally saw something or someone stirring in one of his front windows. I pulled my dark shades down so that they were just resting on the tip of my nose—I did this so I could see better. It was Paul, and I had a perfect view of the window to his office. He walked past the window again, this time with something in his hands—it looked like the telephone. He was moving back and forth so fast, I sensed that he was pacing. That kind of made me feel good because it sent a clear message to me that he was pacing because he couldn’t rest easy, which was exactly what I fucking intended. I was so busy watching him move back and forth, I didn’t immediately notice his wife coming out of their front door. There were two people with her, a man dressed in all white and a woman dressed in black and white—her hired help, I assumed. The man tugged a large suitcase out the front door and then several more. The woman was helping the children out the door, fussing over them and seemingly preparing them for a long trip. Paul’s wife didn’t seem to be speaking much, just hustling in and out of the house. I looked back to the room where he was, and now he was standing in the window as he watched his wife and kids. It wasn’t hard to tell what was going on.

  “She’s finally leaving his ass,” I whispered. It had taken a few weeks, but it was finally happening. I had come just in the fucking nick of time to see it go down. My insides were hot with excitement; this was good for Paul’s ass. I gritted my teeth so hard, I was taking pleasure in watching this. Paul’s silhouette in the window was very still and his arms were by his sides. I could see that the kids were visibly upset, probably crying. White kids have always thought divorce was the equivalent to the end of the world, so this was probably tearing them up. I didn’t feel bad at all—shit, I grew up without a father, they would live. The male servant came out of the house with the last set of bags and he bent down to tell the children something. It seemed like a long good-bye because, one by one, the children threw their arms around the servant’s long neck and gave him a hug. He closed his eyes and gave each of the children a long squeeze. The female servant just stood aside with a tissue and blotted her eyes.