by W. H. Vega
“It’s awesome, what you’re doing,” Garrick says sincerely, “Seriously. I can’t think of anything that makes more sense than you being a big shot lawyer.”
“Thanks Garrick,” Nadia says, giving him a peck on the cheek. “Hey, maybe I’ll see you around soon? Now that...you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” Garrick says, looking at me pointedly.
Nadia wraps her arms around me, hugging me tight. I close her up in an embrace, wanting nothing more than to keep her there forever. But of course, that could never be the way between us. With one last beautiful smile, she disappears out the front door.
I close it behind her and hurry across to the front windows of my building. Nadia steps into a cab that’s idling at the curb and takes off, back to her infinitely more sophisticated neighborhood. Back to her infinitely better life.
“I can’t believe that’s really her,” Garrick says in wonder. “And shit, man, did she sleep here last night? That’s awesome.”
“Yeah, it is,” I say, “But I don’t think that’s what you came here to talk about.”
Garrick’s face falls. “No...No, man, it’s not.”
“Will you tell me what the hell is going on with you then?” I ask, “Do you need coffee or anything? Or—?”
“Nah, I’m fine. And it’s not anything that’s going on with me...per se,” Garrick says.
“Per se?” I ask, “Aren’t you a fancy son of a bitch.”
“Shut up, asshole,” he grumbles, sinking down onto my shabby couch. “I got some intel this morning that might be...kinda troubling.”
“Spill already, would you?” I press, pulling up a chair opposite him.
“OK,” he says, taking a deep breath, “I heard through some very reliable sources that Skidmore and a few of his other higher ups were arrested last night.”
“What?” I say, feeling the air whoosh out of the room.
“Apparently, the operation has gotten a lot more sloppy since the changing of the guard or whatever,” Garrick goes on, “Security’s been compromised or whatever.”
“What did they get him for?” I ask.
“All kinds of shit,” Garrick says, “Possession, intention to sell...The cops busted in on what might as well have been a board meeting for the whole goddamn ring. Everyone from the top of the food chain got taken in.”
“Well...fucking good riddance,” I say, leaning back in my chair, “Those assholes deserve everything that’s coming to them. After what they put us through when we were kids?”
“I don’t doubt that, man,” Garrick says, “But Trace, I don’t think you’re seeing the bigger picture here.”
“What’s that?”
“As of yet, our involvement with them has gone unnoticed by anyone who might do something about it,” Garrick lays it out for me, “But now? Those guys are going to be shelling out any names they can if it means a plea bargain.”
“No,” I say quickly, “No, man. What the hell would be in it for them, ratting us out? We haven’t worked for them in, like, eight years.”
“Maybe...you haven’t,” Garrick says quietly.
My stomach turns to stone as I stare at my best friend. “Garrick...You didn’t.”
“I had to, man,” he says desperately, “We got back here, and I had no idea what to do with myself. I didn’t have any money waiting, my wife's taking it all, and I've got no place to stay. I just ran one deal for them, that’s all. Just so I could find a place to put my feet up until I found a new job.”
“Christ, Garrick...” I groan, “This could be really fucking bad.”
“I know,” he says quietly. I can tell by the look on his face that the direness of the situation is not lost on him. “I screwed up, Trace. Who knows what those guys are going to do once they’re—”
“It’ll be OK,” I tell him, “Whatever Skidmore and his guys say, you have no idea whether they can prove anything or not. This might just blow over for us, you never know.”
“Since when has anything ever just blown over for us, man?” Garrick scoffs sadly. “I think I’m done for this time.”
“Don’t say that,” I tell him, “Don’t you fucking say that. Whatever happens, we’ll figure out a way to keep you out of trouble, OK?”
“But...how?”
“You forget,” I say slowly, “That we happen to know a very good lawyer, these days. I think I know exactly who we can turn to to save your sorry ass.”
Chapter Twelve
Nadia
Late to Work
I stare up at the staggering monolith that is my place of employment with mounting dread. With all the running around I’ve had to do this morning, I’m a full hour late to work. Some people might be able to shrug off one lapse in punctuality, but not me. Since I started at Brewer, Roberts, and Santos, I’ve never been a minute late to the office. Hell, most days I’m there fifteen minutes before everyone else. And of course, the one time I am tardy happens to be during the biggest case of my career to date.
“Perfect,” I mutter to myself, “Just perfect.”
Hurrying through the building’s lobby, I struggle with my armload of paperwork. After poring over all the information at hand, I’ve made some connections that might lead to some cold, hard evidence. If we could just identify one of the higher ups in the drug ring, I really think we could bring the whole thing tumbling down. They’d never be able to recruit another young man or woman to do their dirty work, risking their lives in the process. I could keep these monsters from ruining any more lives, if I just had one more little hint.
As I step out of the elevator, I can tell that something is up in the office. Our doe-eyed receptionist Kayleen looks frenzied and overwhelmed. Every line on her phone is blinking insistently, and she’s talking a mile a minute to whoever’s on the other side of the present call. When she sees me, she lets out the smallest sigh of relief.
“Excuse me, hold for a moment please,” she tells the caller.
“Kayleen, what’s going on?” I ask, “Did someone die or something?”
“Where have you been all morning?” she replies. This is certainly the most touchy I’ve ever seen her.
“I was...I got lost in the case file,” I lie through my teeth.
“The partners have been going nuts waiting for you,” she tells me.
My stomach tightens. I silenced my cell before my dinner date at Trace’s last night, not wanting anything to interrupt us in case things went...the way they did. Naturally, that means that along with alarm not going off, I also wasn’t alerted to any frantic calls from my bosses.
“Well, I’m here now,” I smile gamely, “Is there anything I should know?”
“They caught ‘em,” Kayleen whispers excitedly.
“Who caught who?” I ask.
“The ringleaders. From the case you’re working on. They got busted!”
I have to steady myself against the reception desk. My fingers tremble on the cool surface. “They were arrested?” I ask, breathlessly.
“Yes!” Kayleen all but squeals, “Isn’t that amazing news?”
I’m utterly torn between excitement and disappointment. Of course it’s wonderful that these creeps have been brought in. But all the work I put in toward identifying them just went out the window. Of course, there’s still plenty of work to be done, preparing the case. There’s still more that I can do.
“It’s incredible,” I finally reply.
“Faber!” says a stern voice. I turn to see Mr. Brewer standing impatiently before me. “Where the hell were you this morning?”
I struggle against my tongue-tied blustering. Mr. Brewer is an incredibly handsome, very intelligent man who happens to be allergic to bullshit. I decide to spare him the excuses and jump to the chase.
“They were busted,” I say, clutching my files to my chest.
“Yes,” he replies, letting the corners of his mouth turn up for the briefest moment, “Come on. The others are waiting.”
Mr. Brewer marches me
to my office, where Mr. Santos and Mr. Roberts have convened. They flank my desk, and I try not to think about how they resemble executioners all of a sudden. Of all the freaking mornings to be late.
“Ah, you’ve decided to grace us with your presence,” Mr. Santos says, crossing his arms across his chest.
“What do we know?” I answer, choosing not to take any guilt-bait offered up to me.
“What we know is that four of the highest ranking members of the drug ring in question have been arrested,” Mr. Roberts says.
“What we don’t know is the full nature of the ring and what sort of charges must be brought against these criminals,” Mr. Brewer says, “There were already a slew of charges from the start, but I’m sure there are countless others.”
“We need to know the full scope of this operation,” Mr. Santos says, “So our work is far from complete.”
“We were hoping to get cracking right away this morning,” Mr. Brewer says, “But we were held up by your absence, Ms. Faber.”
I wince at his formal address. The partners always call me simply by my last name unless they’re annoyed with me.
“I apologize,” I say, leveling with them, “I was wrapped up in my research.”
“And yet, it’s the arrest itself that we’re working from, rather than the fruits of your effort,” Mr. Santos says primly.
“Perhaps we sprung this case on you too soon after the Bud McNally affair,” Mr. Roberts suggests, “You didn’t have time to get your mind back in the right place for work.”
“If you think this is too much for you,” Mr. Brewer says, “We can put somebody else on the case. We won’t hold it against you, though it might interfere with a possible promotion in the near future.”
I draw myself up, struggling to stay calm. I can’t let this case slip through my fingers, it’s far too important.
“I assure you,” I begin, “This morning was a one-time slip up. In all the time I’ve worked for you, nothing like this has ever happened before, and it won’t happen again.”
“Good,” Mr. Santos says, “Because we want to keep you on this. Of course, the Feds will take over the bulk of the case, but we think that there are damages to be won for the victims of this crime ring.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I say, “The children and young adults dragged into this mess deserve justice, above all.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Brewer says, “But in order to provide them with that justice, we must know who they are first.”
“I’ve been making some connections from the information we already have,” I tell them, “Filling in the identities of everyone involved.”
“A good start,” Mr. Santos says, “I think we can keep along that line of investigation. We need to keep our focus on discovering who has been harmed by the actions of these people. The prosecution will untangle all the federal charges.”
“We’ve received some help from an anonymous source,” Mr. Brewer tells me, “Some photographic evidence that might be very useful, moving forward.”
“Excellent!” I exclaim, “What are the photos?”
“Someone trailed the ringleader, who goes by the name of Skidmore,” Mr. Santos says, snatching a folder off of my desk. “Here are the images we have to work with. Our notion is that they might provide some more information about the identities of the players involved.”
I take the folder and move to my desk. Sinking down into the chair, I let the file fall open as the partners stand before me. The first image is of a staggeringly tall, broad man.
“That’s him,” I say.
“That’s him,” Mr. Brewer replies.
I move onto the next shot. It’s another photo of Skidmore on his own, moving through the city. I wonder how our anonymous photographer managed to get so close. I turn over image after image of the man, watching as he interacts with different people, ostensibly his associates.
Flipping over a shot of Skidmore on his own once more, my eyes fall on the following photo and freeze there. I feel my blood freeze in my veins as the room spins wildly around me. There’s another man in this shot of Skidmore, a man that I could never mistake.
It’s Trace, in the shot.
I stare at the photo, bewildered. My mind scrambles to supply me with a million different narratives that absolve Trace of his guilt-by association. This is probably just a coincidence. Maybe they’re neighbors. It’s not necessarily related to the case, after all. Fervidly, I flip through one shot after another, each one featuring Trace. As I go on, my dread is realized. The conversation captured in these photos is far from casual.
“Faber?”
I look up sharply and see the partners eyeing me. I’d almost forgotten they were in the room with me.
“Yes. Sorry,” I reply.
“Seems to be your refrain this morning,” Mr. Santos grumbles.
“Do you recognize any of the men in these photos? From your research of course,” Mr. Brewer asks.
“I...” my words fail me for a moment, before falling from my lips, “No. No, I haven’t seen any of these people before.”
I watch as my blatant lie is swallowed by my bosses. Sated, they move to leave to me to my work.
“Stay on this, Faber,” Mr. Roberts says, closing the door behind him.
A rush of air leaves my lungs the moment I’m alone. Frantically, I flip back through the photos of Trace and Skidmore. This can’t be happening. How could this possibly be? Trace would never get mixed up with the likes of Skidmore and his cronies. Their entire business model rests on the backs of vulnerable children. Children like me and my foster siblings. There has to be an explanation here, something that I’m not seeing.
I jump as my desk phone begins to ring, and scramble to pick up the receiver.
“Yes, Kayleen?” I prompt.
“There’s a man on the line for you,” she replies, “A Mr. O’Conner?”
I brace myself against the desk. “Yes, put him through,” I tell her.
The line clicks, and Trace’s voice filters through the line. “Nadia,” he begins.
“You can’t be calling me here,” I say sharply, panic beginning to rattle me.
“You weren’t picking up your cell,” he protests. “I need to talk to you about something.”
“What a coincidence,” I say, “I need to have a little chat with you myself.”
“Are you angry with me?” he asks, taken aback.
“Meet me by the lake, where we parted ways last time,” I tell him, “We can’t have this conversation over the phone.”
I slam down the receiver and gather my things, sliding the new photos into my tote bag. Trace needs to see for himself the world trouble he’s gotten into. I slip through the office, praying not to be intercepted by the partners. Luckily, I make it back to reception and push the elevator call button a dozen times.
“Where are you going?” Kayleen asks.
“Just scouting out some information,” I reply vaguely as the elevator arrives. “Be back in a minute.”
When I finally arrive at the park, Trace is already there waiting for me. For a long moment, I stand at a distance. I want to savor these last moments, where this new information doesn’t hang between us. But of course, it can’t last.
“Nadia,” he says as I approach him. The wind off the lake tousles his hair, and I can’t help but appreciate how stunning he looks framed against the horizon. “Is something wrong? You sounded so upset on the phone. I hope I didn’t—”
Unable to speak, I shove the folder containing the photos into his hands. He looks at me quizzically and peers into the packet. Upon seeing the very first picture, his face turns to stone. Every gorgeously built muscle in his body tenses up. Suddenly, the potential energy locked in those muscles frightens me. I’ve only seen Trace truly angry once, the night that Paul attacked me. But now, looking over these pictures, that anger is making itself known once more.
“Keep going,” I say quietly.
Trace flips through the pictu
res, growing more agitated by the second. I hold my breath as he finally comes across his own visage in the collection. The anger seething within him is met suddenly with something that looks like horror. He stares at the shot of him and Skidmore, his jaw hanging open.
“What...” he finally manages to say, “How could...This isn’t...”
“I’m going to need you to be a little clearer than all that,” I tell him, wrapping my arms around my waist.
Trace staggers over to the nearest park bench and sinks down onto the cool metal frame. I perch beside him, watching as the enormity of the situation washes over him. At the very least, he sees what a predicament he’s in.
“I know that this isn’t what you want to hear,” Trace begins, his voice hoarse, “But this isn’t what it looks like.”
“Really,” I reply, “Because it looks like you in a rather heated conversation with a known drug kingpin.”
“Kingpin’s a bit much,” Trace scoffs, “Skidmore thinks he’s far better at running the ring than he actually is.”
I stare at Trace, baffled and gutted. “Why the fuck do you know anything about this operation?” I demand, “Are you—?”
“No, of course not,” he says hurriedly, reaching for my hands. I pull them away from his grasp, unable to submit to his touch. “Nadia,” he goes on, “I know Skidmore, but hardly in the present tense. Those photos? That was the first time I’d seen him since I was eighteen.”
“Why did you know him at eighteen, then?” I press, blinking back tears.
“I...” Trace flounders, “When Garrick and I got out of juvie, we didn’t have a lot of options...”
“Oh my god,” I breathe, “You were...recruited by him?”
“Just for a year or so,” Trace goes on, “After that, we figured out it wasn’t worth the money, good as it was. We watched far too many mules get killed to stay in that game. Skidmore was a low-level player back then. But...Why the fuck are we even talking about this? What does Skidmore have to do with you?”
“It’s the case I’m working on,” I tell him.
“Christ,” he breathes, leaning back against the bench, “Jesus H. Christ.”