Like the massive stain left by those thugs you and your Hole in the Wall gang blew away outside the jail. The ones even Kate got a shot or two into? So good of Detective Petersen and Commissioner Ryder to sweep all that under the rug.
Just leaves Hilmer Thurman to deal with, huh?
That drink tastes good. The lemon and the Lillet really make that vodka pop.
You gonna kill me now, Snake?
Thurman isn't going to let you get away with it, you know? He will keep on and on. Just like Jack Lindstrom. What a damn psychopath that guy was. Can you believe he chartered a damn plane to come kill you? Guy pulls off the perfect crime—fakes his own death—yet he can't stop picking at that John Pilate scab.
What a dumbass.
<><><>
“Daddy, where you? Daddy, where you?” Peter giggled, running laps around the base of the oak tree on the edge of the grass, where the cornfields began. His tiny legs pumped in his Baby B’gosh coveralls, hands over his eyes, blond hair waving, cherubic face ecstatic.
Pilate had climbed over his toddler’s head, suspending himself in the crook of the oak while Peter played hide and go seek below.
“Find me, Mister!” Pilate said, laughing in spite of himself.
“Where Daddy?” He shrieked, stopping and dramatically uncovering his eyes. “Where Daddy!”
Pilate stifled his giggles as the boy looked all around him, staggering around like toddlers do, not thinking to look up.
Pilate had to go soon, and he was getting his suit dirty wearing it against the rough bark of the tree. He pushed the thought from his mind.
“Where Daddy!” Peter shouted, laughing.
Pilate watched a moment more, as the boy’s laughter subsided into concern. “Where Daddy.” His voice quieted.
Pilate froze for a moment, feeling a lump in his throat.
“Daddy?” Peter said, the word a lonely accusation, a question and a cry.
“I remember this,” Simon said.
“Daddy!” Peter yelled, distress destroying his glee.
“Hey, buddy,” Pilate said, quietly.
Peter turned his face upward, his mask of concern shattering into excitement and happiness. “Daddy! Where you hiding!”
Pilate hopped from the tree. “Gonna get you mister!” He chased Peter around as the boy shrieked with delight again. He scooped his son up, caroming him around the yard until they both fell in a heap of tickles and laughter.
“I love you, sweet boy,” Pilate said, nuzzling his neck.
“Daddy,” Peter said, hugging Pilate’s neck.
“John?” Kate called from the backdoor. “Better get going.”
Pilate inhaled his toddler’s scent, picking him up and carrying him to inside. "Let's go, mister, we have places to be."
<><><>
A dispassionate, albeit threatening camera stared Pilate in his face like a low-rent HAL from 2001: A Space Odyssey. He squirmed at the head of a long conference table in the bland Lincoln, Nebraska office of the opposition's counsel, Edward Mann.
A gaunt stenographer prepared to record every word of the proceedings, clacking on her stenotype as the attorneys on both sides of the table shuffled papers, passed notes and looked bored waiting for Mann to switch the camera on.
“Stop Dave,” Simon said.
Dryly referred to by John's attorney Magnus Peck as a "sore neck lawyer," Mann was a rare winner of the genetic lottery; Pilate couldn't tell if he was thirty-five or fifty. The guy was handsome, his face mature but almost completely unlined, his head of hair full, with nary a fleck of gray.
"He's had a lift," Simon snickered. "Or at least a lotta facials. Maybe he owns stock in Just For Men."
Pilate’s mind drifted back to the events that led him to this moment. Frechette was Pilate's publishing agent, and he had absconded with more than six hundred thousand dollars’ worth of proceeds from his bestselling book about his brush with murder in Cross Township. He had also taken a few bucks from a couple of other clients, but Pilate held the lion's share of loss.
Frechette had been on the run more than a year, haunting the Caribbean and eventually Central America, blowing stolen cash on booze, young men, and fine living. He slipped up when his mother took ill, and Frechette brazenly—or stupidly—returned to New York to be at her side.
His mother’s illness was an FBI ruse: they posted fake news stories about how Mrs. Frechette wanted to see her son one last time before she passed. When he arrived at the nursing home, his mother, in fine health, was indeed glad to see him, as were two FBI agents.
So began the criminal proceedings, which upon sentencing will likely give Frechette a few years in the pokey.
But there was still the matter of Pilate's money. Frechette claimed he spent it all. Pilate sued him, and reluctantly gave interviews to the media—a few of them angry, sarcastic and fueled by vodka.
Frechette countersued Pilate. For libel.
Mann stood, switched on the camera and stated the time. "We're going on the record and we'll try and turn the video recorder off any time we take a break. If you would like to administer the oath, we'll get started."
Pilate swore to tell the truth. That out of the way, Mann proceeded.
"If you could sir, start out and give us your name."
"John Xander Pilate."
"Thank you, Mr. Pilate. Now, as it relates to your ability to give testimony today, do you know of anything, medical condition or otherwise that will interfere with your ability to understand the questions that I'm asking you and to give us complete and truthful answers?"
"No."
"For instance, you don't have any medical condition where you're on some kind of prescriptive drug?"
"I am on prescription drugs, not of such that it would affect my mental capacity."
"Do you see a psychiatrist?"
"Object. Not pertinent," Peck said.
"What if I do? Why is that any of your business?" Pilate asked, his voice rising.
"Mr. Peck, it is pertinent,” Mann said, his voice calm. “Now will you advise your client to answer my questions and cooperate?"
Peck nodded. "John, answer the question."
Pilate glanced sideways at his attorney, then back to Mann. "Yes, I do from time to time. I also take antidepressants and a statin drug for high cholesterol. My junk still works on the rare occasion I get to use it, so I don't take any blue pills yet. Satisfied?"
"Why do you see the psychiatrist?" Mann said, his face betraying a faint smirk.
"What?"
"For what reason? What is your diagnosis?"
"I'm not answering that," Pilate said.
"You're under oath."
"Tough," Pilate looked at Peck, keening for a lifeline.
"Eddie," Peck said. "I'll object to the scope of the notice. My client is not under a doctor's care for any condition that would affect his judgment or this testimony. I somewhat doubt he would be in a position of leadership in law enforcement if he were. So, if you are trying to go down the road that he is mentally unstable, we'll stop this deposition right here and now and go call the judge."
"Really, Magnus?" Mann said, smirking. "Subparagraph two asks—"
"Which is different from your question, which was related to the purpose of this deposition."
"Don't lecture me, Magnus. I can just keep asking until you answer me," Mann said, a smile creeping across his face as he leaned back in his chair.
"Try me," Peck said, folding his arms in front of him on the table.
Mann smiled.
"Okay, Mr. Pilate, by whom are you currently employed?"
"I'm self-employed," Pilate said.
"And previously?" Mann said, looking at a yellow legal pad.
"Previous to?"
"Previous to being self-employed."
Pilate sighed. "I was the constable of Cross Township."
"And where is that?"
"Where?"
"Cross Township,” Mann smirked again, favoring Pilate with hi
s charming, boyish countenance. “Oh yes, the quaint southeast corner of our fine state.”
"If he weren't such an asshole he could be likable," Simon whispered.
"Nebraska," Pilate said.
"Thank you. This will move more quickly for you if we can just stick to the facts."
"Happy to," Pilate said. “If you do the same.”
"So, constable. That a law enforcement position?” He rubbed his chin.
“Yes, though not really a police officer. More of an armed code enforcement deputy.”
“Armed?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, well, the world knows full well about your adventures with firearms.”
“Object to—” Peck started.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mann shrugged. “Just that it is well documented you have been involved in numerous violent incidents.”
“Law enforcement often involves violence,” Pilate said.
“Oh, I know,” Mann said, leaning back in his chair. “I was talking about before your term as an armed code enforcer.”
Peck started to speak again.
“Before?” Pilate said.
Mann nodded. “Yes. Before that.”
“Oh, so before I saved twenty kids in a classroom of students being held hostage without firing a shot?”
“Let’s move along,” Mann said, leaning forward again, slipping on his glasses and perusing a legal pad.
“Nice job, John. If not a little vainglorious,” Simon said.
“Mr. Pilate, why were you fired as constable of Cross Township?" Mann said, dispassionately, his eyes regarding Pilate.
"Object to the form. Argumentative," Peck said, his voice dry and detached.
"Answer the question, please," Mann said.
"I was not fired as constable. I resigned."
"Why? Or is fired just a writer's term for resigned under duress?"
"Object to the form. Argumentative. This has nothing to do with—" Peck started.
"I am establishing the financial and professional status of Mr. Pilate," Mann said, his eyes remaining on Pilate.
Pilate looked at Peck, who wordlessly looked down to his legal pad.
"Mr. Pilate?"
"Yes?"
"Answer the question?" Mann said, eyes migrating to his notes.
"Could you repeat the question? I'm confused."
"You're playing with him, John," Simon said. “You already know this is going to bite you in the ass. Same old, same old.”
"Why did you resign your job?” Mann said, icy. “Was it because you no longer needed the money or because you had just presided over the murder of more than a dozen people?"
"Object to the form, argumentative,” Peck said. “Has nothing to do with—"
"Magnus, this is my deposition," Mann said. "I'll thank you for letting me conduct it." He turned from Peck to Pilate. "Now do you understand the question? Do you understand the word fired or is that not in your highfalutin college professor vocabulary?"
"I don't know. I understand it in general but perhaps not in your context. Guess I'm not up on my sore neck lawyer vocab," Pilate shot back.
Peck whistled silently to himself.
Mann's face reddened.
"Okay, well if there's anything else here, any other terms I use that confuse you, just make sure you point that out to me and we can try and avoid that, okay?" His tone cooled. "I understand that in certain states of mind it's easy to get confused."
"What the hell does that mean?” Pilate demanded.
Mann smiled. "Well, if you are under a psychiatrist's care, for example, you might get confused. Medication tends to make some people foggy."
"Object—" Peck said, his lawyerly dispassion evaporating.
"Just ask your damn questions," Pilate said, his eyes looking into the camera lens.
"Open the pod bay doors, HAL," Simon said.
"Do I need to repeat the original question?"
Pilate inhaled and did his best not to look rattled. He breathed out. "I resigned because I had no desire to continue a career in law enforcement. I only took the job because your client robbed me blind to fund his trips to an assortment of resort hotels that cater to his flamboyant lifestyle.”
Pilate flicked his eyes to Frechette, who looked away with a dramatic flip of his head to the right.
"If you were, quote, robbed blind, unquote, then how could you leave a job? How are you supporting yourself and your family?" Mann said.
"My wife works," Pilate said.
"I see," Mann said. "So, she is head of household?"
“What?” Pilate said.
Mann looked up at Pilate over his reading glasses. "For tax purposes?"
"Give me a break."
"But you freely admit that you have a contract with Mr. Frechette, do you not?" Mann said, looking down his nose through reading glasses at Pilate.
"That's not in question," Pilate said.
Without looking up, Mann stated, "Please advise the witness to respond to the question. We need a simple yes or no."
Peck cleaned the frames of his glasses with the pointy end of a folded Post-It Note. "Noted," he said, not looking away from his spectacles.
"Yes, I had a contract with the embezzler in question," Pilate said.
Mann sighed.
"You know, Mr. Pilate, some folks think you're some kind of hero, but I don't. My client doesn't. They just see that you had a contract with him, wherein he is allowed to share in the profits of the book that he helped publish, you sued him, slandered him and are using your fifteen minutes of fame to try to destroy his character. Character assassination, just the way you assassinated those people—"
"Object to form," Pilate's attorney said. "You want to ask questions or grandstand, Eddie? We can end this right now if you want to abuse my client."
"Don't tell me how to handle my deposition, Magnus," Mann said, his voice rose. "This is my deposition, and I will ask the questions here."
"You have ways of making me talk, eh?" Pilate affected a bad German accent.
Peck shot him a look that said, "Shut the hell up, John."
Mann's face darkened. Pilate looked past him to Frechette, who, despite the tan he cultivated while on the run in Central America managed to look ashen.
"Mr. Pilate, I can stop now, call the judge and explain to her that you are purposely obstructing these proceedings."
"What will happen then? Will she fine me for contempt? Maybe take all my money? Too late for that. Your client did that when he stole all the profits from my book."
"Okay, everyone, let's just—" Peck said.
Pilate felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. The deposition grilling had made him sweaty and sticky in his suit; his hand moistened just reaching into his breast pocket to stop the notification.
"You need to take that?" Mann said, raising an eyebrow above a red rope binder.
"No, it can wait," Pilate said. "Probably nothing important, except maybe my kids or wife calling."
"Oh yes, well maybe you should take it, considering."
"Considering what?" Pilate said, a tremor in his voice.
Mann shrugged, dropping a notepad on the conference table. "Just that your... um, lifestyle seems to put your family in danger quite a bit, leaving them to fend for themselves," his voice dropped to a whisper. "Some might say that's kinda cowardly."
"You son of a bitch," Pilate said, lunging at Mann.
"John, no!" Peck yelled, reaching for him, knocking over a bottle of water and dousing his notes.
Mann held his hands in front of his chest, palms facing a red-faced, snarling Pilate, who stopped an inch from Mann’s face.
Pilate backed off and sat down slowly in his chair, loosening his collar.
"We need a break, here," Peck said, his voice rattling.
Mann smiled, smoothed his tie and leaned over the recorder. “We are off the record. It's three p.m.” He turned it off and followed the stenographer out of t
he room, Frechette in tow.
Peck cleaned his glasses and remained silent.
"I'm not sorry."
"John, this isn't about being sorry. It's about that gimcrack ambulance chaser getting you all wrapped around your own axle to get what he wants for Buddy Boy."
"Fuck that," Pilate said, reaching for a bottle of water.
"John, this is stressful, I know," he said.
"No, it's a pain in the ass. You know what's truly stressful? Nearly getting your ass shot off. Having people come after your family," Pilate said. "Losing your family," he added, his voice breaking.
"John, you're all in. You need to chill out for a bit. Let me get a continuance on this—"
The door to the conference room swung open, with Mann, Frechette, and the stenographer theatrically striding to their seats.
Mann leaned over to the camera, turned it on and said, "It's three-thirteen p.m., we are off the record." He turned it off, wordlessly packing his red ropes, legal pads, and the camera into bags.
"We done?" Peck said, failing to conceal the surprise in his voice.
"For now," Mann said, cool and emotionless.
Pilate stood up quickly. Mann didn't flinch, though Frechette started and gasped.
"We'll be in touch," Mann said, making eye contact with Pilate and Peck, smiling as he walked out.
"What the fuck was that?" Peck said. "He ended the deposition with pages of questions on the table."
"Is that unusual?"
"You bet your ass."
"Does that mean we're done?"
Peck shook his head. "No, probably he's just done for today. And unfortunately, we now have video of you losing your mind he can show the judge or maybe a jury down the road. Sorry pal, not your best moment."
"Freaking great." Pilate whipped off his sweaty suit jacket and dropped it on the table. It made a clunk sound as it hit the table, reminding Pilate that his phone had rung earlier. He fished it out and read "Missed Call: Taters Malley."
“Him again?” Simon said.
Chapter Three: Liquor By the Drink
Are you really going back outside to that ridiculous door bar of yours? Who makes an old front door into a backyard bar?
Pilate's Rose Page 2