by Diane Kelly
“What is she doing skipping forward and back like that?” Christina said. “Square-dancing?”
The crowd turned on the girl, some of them laughing while others booed and hollered for her to get off the stage. The sexy smile she’d started with faded into an angry, embarrassed scowl.
Her boyfriend turned to the crowd, jabbing an angry finger in the air. “Fuck you! Fuck you all!”
Next to me, Nick sighed. He turned to Tarzan. “This isn’t going to end well. We better get up there.”
As Nick and Tarzan headed toward the stage, the boyfriend took a swing at one of the men jeering nearby. In seconds, the two were engaged in an all-out brawl, pushing, shoving, and swinging their fists, knocking over chairs, tables, and drinks. While the girl on the platform snatched her blouse from the stage floor, Nick and Tarzan each grabbed one of the men by the shoulders and pulled them apart, hustling them toward the exit.
“She’s sexy!” the boyfriend yelled back into the club, still defending his girlfriend’s honor, such as it was.
Nick shot me an apologetic look and told the guy what he wanted to hear. “She’s got it going on, dude. I’d totally do her.”
The boyfriend stopped struggling. “Yeah! She’s totally doable, right?”
Christina turned to me. “Is there some type of logic in that?”
I raised my palms. “The male psyche is beyond me.”
Nick released the guy and he shrugged his shirt back into place before stepping outside.
Even though the man in Tarzan’s grip had also stopped struggling, Tarzan wasn’t about to forgo an opportunity to brutalize him. As soon as the door closed behind the boyfriend, Tarzan kicked it open with his boot and threw the guy he’d been dragging out of it.
The guy slid across the parking lot, the asphalt digging into his hands and tearing at his clothes. “Asshole!” he hollered back, his voice fading as the door swung closed again.
I crossed my arms over my chest and eyed Nick. “This place is called Guys and Dolls, you know. So why are there only dolls onstage? How about some guys?” I wouldn’t mind seeing Nick work some of Channing Tatum’s Magic Mike moves.
Christina backed me up. “It would only be fair.”
Tarzan began humping the air and walking toward Christina. “You want to see my moves, babe?”
“Save it for someone who’s interested, Tyson.” Christina rolled her eyes and headed off toward the bar.
“Aw, come on!” the goon called after her. “You know you want me.” Snubbed, he turned to me. “How ’bout you, Sara?”
Not if you were the last man on earth and my very life depended on it. “I’ll pass, too.”
Nick cut his eyes to Tyson. “You might want to work on your approach.”
chapter twenty-two
Professional Tease
After a cursory frisk from the muscle working the door to the executive wing, I returned to the cash office.
Bernice was still seated inside, though her foot rub had been completed and she now sat with her legs curled up on the chair. “What did you think of amateur hour?”
I slid into my chair. “I think maybe they should leave things up to the professionals.”
“You’ve got that right. Those girls think all they have to do is take off their tops and shimmy. There’s more to putting on a good performance than that.” Bernice picked up her shoes to go.
As usual, Merle reached out his hand for hers. “When are you going to be my girl, Bernice?”
She gave him his usual peck. “Someday, Merle. Someday.”
As I counted tips later that evening, I noticed Christina’s fiancé, Ajay, come into the club with a friend. The two sat at a table in Christina’s area. All three of them played it cool. If I hadn’t known they knew each other, I never would have known, you know?
A few minutes later, Wesley Prescott entered the bar. Aaron watched Prescott from behind the bar as the man made his way into the place. Prescott headed straight for Christina, stepping in front of her as she turned away from a table. They exchanged words, and she pointed to a booth nearby. Before heading to the booth, Prescott ran a hand down her back and over her rump. Nick looked over from his spot along the wall, his back stiffening. Ajay turned away but gripped his beer bottle as if contemplating breaking the glass over Prescott’s head.
Christina bypassed Aaron, going to Theo to fill her customers’ drink orders. She flirted with him, smiling, tossing her hair, and leaning her elbows on the bar to expose her cleavage up close and personal, though showing a little boob probably didn’t go far in a room with bare breasts bouncing all about. Theo seemed more responsive tonight, though, as if he were warming up to her.
I wondered how soon she’d be able to make a buy. Nothing would make me happier than to wrap up this case. Working two jobs was not only tiring, but our packed schedules prevented Nick and me from getting much time alone. Here we were, finally free to date, and we couldn’t find a spare night to spend together. Hanging out on Sunday had been fun, but it wasn’t the same as going out for a romantic dinner at a fancy restaurant or dancing in Nick’s arms at a country-western bar.
Josh eased in later that night wearing a jacket zipped all the way up. The front of the jacket appeared suspiciously rectangular. No doubt his laptop was hidden under it. He headed straight for the men’s room, walking rigidly with his arms crossed over his chest to hold the computer in place.
I kept a close eye on Theo’s tips and bar receipts that night, but they included neither of the marked twenties. Rats. I’d been hoping this case would move along a little faster. I’d seen enough boobs to last me a lifetime.
At closing time, I went to the bar to run the totals on each cash register. As I printed out the tape from Aaron’s machine, Christina returned from taking the last of the empty glasses back to the kitchen to be washed. Wesley Prescott had been standing near the hallway, waiting. The instant Christina stepped out of the hall, he cornered her, leaning in close and whispering something in her ear. She smiled at him, but shook her head no and began to walk away. Prescott reached out and grabbed her by the wrist, yanking her to a stumbling stop.
Ajay had already left the club, but Nick was keeping an eye on Christina. I had been, too. Of course we had to be careful when and how we intervened. We already knew Prescott was a john, but we hadn’t yet confirmed whether he might also be a drug mule. If Nick or I got in the way, we might not only prevent Christina from gathering critical evidence, but we might be fired by Geils for interfering with his drug and prostitution businesses. Still, Christina’s personal safety could not be disregarded, even if it meant compromising the case.
Prescott continued to hold Christina firmly by the wrist, leaning in again to whisper in her ear. She shook her head again, though her movements were more subtle.
Nick stepped over to a table near Christina and Prescott and began stacking chairs on top of it. “That amateur hour was something, wasn’t it?” he called jovially to Christina.
Prescott dropped her hand. She took the opportunity to step away from the man, scurrying to the dressing room. Prescott shot an angry glare Nick’s way before heading to the front doors to leave.
Register tapes in hand, I returned to the cash office and finished entering my counts.
A few minutes later when I left for the night, Nick stood at the front door of the club, holding it open for me. “See ya, Sara.” He remained in the doorway, keeping one eye on me and one on the inside of the club until I was safely in my car. I knew he’d do the same for Christina.
I was on my way home when my cell phone bleeped. The readout indicated the call came from Christina.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Prescott got a little rough with you.”
“What a jerk, huh? He tried to talk me into going with him back to his hotel, told me he’d make it worth my while.”
“What did you say to that?”
“I told him I wasn’t sure how Mr. Geils would feel about it,” she replied. “The
n Nick came over and I got away.”
“Have you told Aaron about this?”
“I got off the phone with him before I called you. He suggested I give Prescott just enough hope to keep him interested until we bust this case open.”
“So you’ll be a professional cock tease, then?”
“Uh-huh. Maybe I should add that to my resume.”
I thought of Angelique, of the handprint on her face, of the hopeless, helpless look in her eyes. The mere possibility of Christina being brutalized in that way made me feel sick. She and I weren’t merely agents working together on a mission, we’d become good friends, too. “Won’t it be dangerous to lead him on?”
Christina laughed. “Tara, I work as an undercover DEA agent. Danger is what I do.”
I had to laugh myself. “You’re right. Duh.”
I needed to mentally separate Christina my shopping and drinking buddy, from Christina the tough federal agent. We had a job to do, a job that must take precedence over personal concerns. Still, we were dealing with some bad actors here.
It was hard not to worry.
chapter twenty-three
Jury Selection
Eddie and I entered the courtroom Tuesday morning to find a sturdily built black female bailiff sitting in the witness box, reading the comics page from the Dallas Morning News. The court reporter sat in front of her machine, texting on her cell phone.
Ross O’Donnell and Agent Ackerman stood at the prosecutor’s table talking with Nancy Brunwald, Jacqueline Plimpton, and Harold Needham. Well, perhaps “talking” wasn’t the right word. Mostly Ross and Ackerman listened as the suits begged Ross one last time to let their innocent clients off easy.
Innocent, my ass.
Extra tables and chairs had been brought in to accommodate the four defendants and their counsel. The Tennis Racketeers sat at the defense tables, casting each other accusatory glances. The former tennis partners had turned on one other now, any love they’d once shared lost the instant they’d been served their arrest warrants. How’s that for a tennis pun?
The defendants’ wives sat a few feet apart in the front row of the gallery. All were impeccably dressed in demure Chanel or Donna Karan suits. Though the women held their chins up, it was with a false confidence belied by the death grips they held on their Gucci and Louis Vuitton handbags and the look of terror in their eyes. They feared they’d lose their husbands, their providers, their Neiman Marcus credit cards. Dear Lord, if their husbands went to jail, they’d have to get off their surgically enhanced butts and get jobs! The horror!
Eddie and I made our way to the prosecution table. A knock sounded on the door that led from the judge’s chambers into the courtroom and the defense attorneys scurried to their places next to their clients.
The bailiff folded her comics and stood. “All rise,” she bellowed in a masculine voice.
Judge Trumbull swept through the door, her black robe billowing out behind her as if she were a dementor from Harry Potter. The gray-haired, loose-jowled woman climbed to her bench, plopped down in her chair, and motioned for those in the courtroom to take their seats. Eddie and I slid into chairs next to Ross and Ackerman as the judge picked up the file from her desk, opened it, and took a few minutes to peruse the documents inside.
Before I’d joined the IRS, I’d assumed judges and prosecutors spent a lot of time preparing for trials. Since I’d become a federal agent, however, I’d learned that both judges and prosecutors bore enormous caseloads and tried most cases by the seats of their pants.
The bailiff fanned herself with the comics. Her skin had turned clammy, her shirt dotted with sweat spots. Uh-oh. Looked like the woman was experiencing a hot flash. My suspicions were confirmed when she walked over to the thermostat mounted on the wall behind her and turned the temperature down a few degrees. Thank goodness I’d worn a jacket.
“Okeydoke.” Trumbull closed the file and looked down at the counsel tables. “We’ve got four men charged with fraud, racketeering, and tax evasion. Any chance we can settle this?”
Plimpton stood. “We generously offered to negotiate a plea, but the agents were absolutely unreasonable and entirely refused to cooperate.”
The lawyer really liked her adverbs, huh?
Trumbull raised a brow at the prosecution table. “Being stubborn, are ya?”
She knew better. Eddie, Ross, and Ackerman must have appeared in her court hundreds of times over the years. I’d appeared before her several times myself since joining the IRS last spring. As busy as we were, we couldn’t afford to be unreasonable.
Ross noted the defendants had bilked banks and homeowners out of millions of dollars and cheated the government out of millions more in taxes. “They’ve offered to serve only nominal jail time and pay small fines.” Fines they’d pay with the funds they’d bilked. “Justice would not have been served by accepting the offers.”
“Can’t say as I blame you for refusing, then.” Trumbull twirled her ballpoint pen between her fingers. “Any pretrial motions?”
Plimpton demanded a change of venue. “It would be impossible for my client to get a fair trial here in Dallas. The local media have spread malicious lies and misreported facts to sell papers and attract viewers.”
Eddie and I glanced back at the reporters. From the sour expressions on their faces, the woman had done nothing to ingratiate herself with the media. Not a smart move.
Ross objected. “The victims who will be testifying live here. Moving the trial would cause them unnecessary inconvenience and expense.”
“Tell you what,” Trumbull said. “We’ll interview the jurors, find out what they’ve heard, and if it seems there’s been undue influence by the media coverage I’ll send the trial to El Paso.”
The change of venue tabled for now, Brunwald moved that the trials be separated. “My client was himself a victim. He will suffer prejudice if he’s tried along with the wrongdoers.”
Immediately Plimpton and Needham jumped in, making the same argument on behalf of their clients. Vanderhagen simply sat and observed, still betting on a lenient sentence.
Ross argued that the evidence against each defendant was interrelated and that the witnesses would be the same in each case. “Holding separate trials would be an inefficient use of the court’s time.”
“If there’s anything we don’t have enough of around here,” Trumbull said, “it’s time. Motion denied.”
Plimpton’s eyes flashed with fire. “You realize that decision gives me grounds for appeal.”
Trumbull leaned forward across the bench. “Are you threatening me?”
“Of course not.” Plimpton offered a smug smile. “I’m simply stating a fact. Another fact is that I graduated third in my class from Harvard Law.”
The court reporter typed “Harvard Law” with an exaggerated flourish, casting a sidelong glance at the attorney.
“Third, huh?” The judge tilted her chair back and lifted her feet, clad in the ugliest pair of earth shoes imaginable, to her bench. “Well, let me throw a fact back at you, sweetie. I graduated first in my class from the school of hard knocks and I take no guff in my courtroom. You will stop acting like a snot-nosed brat or I’ll toss you out on your skinny Ivy League ass.”
Cowed, the woman took her seat. I fought a neener-neener.
Needham requested the jury be sequestered during the trial.
Trumbull chewed on the end of her pen as she mulled over the request. “Sequestering is expensive. How long do you expect this trial to take, Mr. O’Donnell?”
Ross glanced down at Ackerman, Eddie, and me, and we put our heads together to come up with an estimate of three days, give or take.
“I suppose I can send the jurors over to the Hilton for a few nights.” The judge made a note in her file. “Ready to pick a jury?”
When the lawyers murmured their agreement, the bailiff walked to the courtroom door and held it open while three dozen people of various shapes, sizes, and colors entered the room and took
seats in the gallery.
Eddie pointed to an elderly woman wearing a sweater jacket over a faded floral housedress, her gray hair rolled up in pink sponge curlers. “Isn’t that what’s-her-name from the Mendoza case? The mean old lady with all the cats?”
Sure enough, Ernestine Griggs sat in the front row, a scowl on her face. She was none too happy that jury duty had taken her away from daytime television. Next to Ernestine sat a diminutive Asian man in wire-framed glasses. His face contorted like a reflection in a funhouse mirror and he sneezed in rapid succession like a machine gun. Ah-choo-choo-choo! Ah-choo-choo-choo! No doubt he was allergic to the pet hair that had hitched a ride on Ernestine’s housedress. He pulled a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose.
Ernestine waved a hand at the man. “Move. I don’t need to catch the bird flu from you.”
“It’s allergies,” the man replied.
She waved him away again. “I don’t need to catch your allergies, neither.”
Rather than explain that allergies were not contagious, the man stood, squeezed past several other people, and took a seat at the end of the row.
Once the pool was seated, Trumbull explained the jury interrogation process. The procedure was called voir dire in French and, though pronounced vwahr dear in most places, in Texas we went all-out redneck and pronounced it voy dar. When Trumbull finished, she gestured to Ross. “Let’s roll, Mr. Prosecutor.”
Ross stood at the top of the aisle and introduced himself to the jury. He then introduced Ackerman, Eddie, and me, explaining that we had performed the investigation and thus would be key witnesses in the case. We stood and gave the jurors a raised hand in acknowledgment.
Ross asked the jurors whether any of them knew the defendants, whether any felt they could not be impartial, whether any worked in the banking, mortgage, or construction industries.