by Jason Rose
“As I said, I don’t know much. I’ve never heard anything bad; that doesn’t mean he’s not a chip off the old block. If you stand next to a fountain of shit, some of it is going to get on you. I think we should take a pass. There are plenty of other clients out there.”
“Look, I’m not saying that I’m going to take his case, but I’m going to hear Adrian out. My dad wouldn’t have made the cover of Family Circle magazine, either. Holding the sins of the father against the son is bullshit and I’m not going to do it.” Sinn might be right. The smart move might be to pass, but I just can’t ignore this gut feeling I am somehow connected to Adrian. At the very least I want to hear him out and learn his story.
“Colt, . . .” Sinn looks like she wants to say something else, to continue the discussion—but she doesn’t, “. . . let’s go home.”
Chapter Eight
We step through the glowing gate, out of the cold Canadian wilderness, back into our civilized Oakland office. Canada is great and all, good beer, clean air, friendly people, at least in the civilized parts; nonetheless, I love America. Give me smog, traffic, lack of civility, and the hustle-bustle of the Bay Area nine days out of ten. The only good thing to come out of Canada recently is Drake, and Drake’s on my shit list for blowing the whole Rhianna thing. I mean, come on. How could anyone fuck that up?
The first thing I notice, as I acclimate myself to our warm seventy-one-degree climate-controlled office, is that Adrian is awake and sitting in a chair at our conference table. He looks better—supernatural werewolf healing must be nice. I guess I shouldn’t complain, I heal fast too—just not that fast. And my healing powers don’t come with the added drawback of turning into a hairy monster every time there’s a full moon—so score one for me. It must be a bitch to clean out his shower drains.
Without even pausing, Wilson acknowledges our arrival with a micro what’s-up head nod, and then seamlessly continues spewing diarrhea from his mouth. He’s in the middle of telling Adrian a sad and true legal story about justice in the South, a story I’ve heard before, a tragic and interesting one, an anecdote for the disparity in the treatment of blacks by our criminal justice system. Wilson’s wry smile tells me everything I need to know about why he is recanting this particular legal sketch to our guest.
“So, this black guy is handcuffed and sitting in an interrogation room in the South, and he begins to realize he’s up Jackson creek without a paddle. The cops got him dead-to-rights and he knows it. They have been questioning him for a couple hours now and it’s clear to him that they aren’t going to let him go. Finally, he looks at the detective who’s asking him the questions and he says, ‘I guess I need a lawyer, dawg.’ Mind you, the detective also knows he’s caught the guy with his hand full of honey, but he’s overexcited and decides he wants all the honeycomb in the tree. The detective does exactly what you’d expect an over-zealous cop with a sugar fix to do. He ignores the request for a lawyer and keeps pressing for another few hours until the suspect breaks down and confesses. After the confession, the detective, feeling satiated, finally gets the guy a lawyer, and as you’d expect, the lawyer kicks up a hornet’s nest, and does everything he can to get the coerced confession excluded from the guy’s trial.”
Adrian nods indicating he understands.
“You do know, don’t you, that if you lawyer-up, the cops are supposed to stop asking you questions and get you your damn lawyer. That’s law enforcement 101. Fifth Amendment and all that. Or is it the sixth? I always get those confused.”
“Yes, I am aware,” answers Adrian slowly, as if speaking to a child.
“Anyhow,” Wilson continues, “the corrupt-ass Southern judge who is hearing the case pours water on the claim by ruling that the confession wasn’t coerced. Says it was legit and exonerates the detective's conduct. The black guy has no choice, he’s in jail, ain’t getting out anytime soon, got nothing to lose, so he appeals, praying he gets a panel of more reason minded appellate judges—ones that actually follow the law. Unfortunately, he gets assigned an equally corrupt panel of Court of Appeal judges who eventually agree with the trial court’s ruling. I swear I am telling the truth, you can ask Colt.” Wilson points in my direction. “The Court of Appeal writes in the opinion, I kid you not, they write, ‘It was not coercion because the defendant never asked for a lawyer, he asked for a lawyer dog, and we all know there is no such thing as a lawyer dog. If he had asked for an actual lawyer, we’re sure the detective would have ceased his questioning, and immediately gotten the defendant one.’ Can you believe that racist shit? Lawyer dawg. Talk about the tail wagging the dog. Fucking corrupt judges.”
Adrian looks at Wilson for a moment as if considering a response and then asks, “What did the guy do?”
“What?” asks Wilson.
“What crime did he commit?”
“I don’t remember,” answers Wilson. “Why does that matter?”
“What did he do?” Adrian repeats this time slower and more forcefully.
“I don’t know, I think it had something to do with a child. That shouldn’t matter.”
“A child?” Adrian shakes his head in disgust. “Then it’s good the court didn’t find a violation of that scumbag’s rights. He can rot in prison; it’s where he belongs,” says Adrian.
“What?” says Wilson, a bit of anger flashing through his typically relaxed demeanor. “You think that’s good?”
“Yes. Justice was served,” answers Adrian.
“No, it wasn’t. The cop got away with abusing the guy’s rights,” replies Wilson.
“It sounds like that cop got a child molester off the street to me. The bastard confessed. The guy was guilty. That cop is a hero,” answers Adrian, with the kind of conviction in his voice I imagine Stalin had when facing down the Nazis in World War II.
I can tell from the stunned look on Wilson’s face and the redness gathering in his cheeks, that it’s probably time I intervene before my office turns into a fighting octagon.
“You’re a fucking raci—.”
I step between the two and put my hand on Wilson’s chest, interrupting him mid-sentence. “Adrian, I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. Back in Canada, I think you were telling me you needed our help.”
Wilson shrugs and sits down in a chair and puts his feet up on the table. One quality I admire about him the most is his ability to let things go, at least usually. His temperament is like an expensive German-engineered sports car; it’s powerful, quiet, and yet refined. It can just as easily go from zero to sixty as it can go from sixty to zero, both in about two point three seconds, assuming he’s properly fueled, meaning not liquored up.
Adrian glances around the room at my team; his gaze lingers for a beat longer on Sinn and Josie than on Wilson or myself. Clearly, he isn’t the type who likes to air his dirty laundry in front of strangers, particularly pretty female ones. I can see the hamsters furiously churning away behind his piercing green eyes as he decides how to react to this uncomfortable situation. So far, I’ve only seen him act with aggression. Putting him on the spot like this will hopefully give me more insight into the type of leader Adrian is. Does the son follow in the father’s footsteps? Or does he walk his own path? That’s a question I often struggle with. As much as I hated my father at times, and never wanted to be anything like him, he was my dad, and some of his traits, good and bad, attached themselves to me. Even now, I can’t escape him; every time I look in the mirror, I see his reflection. How much of what we are is determined by our genetics? And how much is free will? As much as I want to tell myself I am my own man and I make my own choices—do I really? Sometimes, it sure doesn’t feel like it.
Adrian lets out a defeated sigh and having decided to share, begins his tale. “Someone is trying to shame my family and unseat me, which could be catastrophic for my people.”
“Said every dictator ever,” remarks Wilson, as he takes a sip from a tarnished silver flask, hidden in his jean-jacket pocket.
Adrian gla
res at Wilson.Before the tension can rise any further, I redirect the comment. “While indelicate in its delivery, my investigator raises a legitimate concern, one we need to know the answer to before we can agree to help you. It may sound naive, but money doesn’t play any role in our decision-making process, at least when it comes to taking on a new client. Sure, we expect to get paid for the services we provide; we have to keep the lights on, although, in certain situations, where the client can’t pay, we will take a case on pro-bono—”
“—I doubt that applies to you rich—”
“—Wilson, shut up.”
“Sorry, boss.”
“As I was saying, this firm tries at least, to take on clients we believe in, cases that make the world a better place. Please don’t be offended if we ultimately decide that we cannot represent you. You shouldn’t take it personally. Our moral compasses are probably totally out of whack. It’s pretty obvious my investigator”—I gesture towards Wilson—“is barely a full-formed human being. I apologize for his outburst. What I am trying to say is that I want to hear you out, but I also want you to know there are other law firms, other Advocates out there, who might be in a better position to help you.”
Adrian nods. “Of course, I get it, I could just be a spoiled brat, or a tyrant trying to hold onto my crown for my own selfish reasons. I assure you—that isn’t the case.”
I shrug indifferently with my palms to the sky, not wanting to seem like I’m making a judgment, while still signaling I appreciate that he understands my concerns. “Could you tell us what’s going on and why you believe it is important for you to remain in power?”
Adrian nods again. “It’s not about power, it’s about protecting my people. Community and pack acceptance is important to wolves, maybe more so than any other Concordat race. Wolves at a base instinctual level crave strong leadership. While there are some outliers, most wolves feel incomplete if they aren’t part of a pack that is led by a strong Alpha. This instinct has, throughout history, been my people’s Achilles heel. It has left us vulnerable. Wolves have on several occasions submitted to corrupt Alphas or even allowed non-wolves to become Alphas and control our packs. Wolves have at times become servants, soldiers, even slaves to those that would use us for their own evil ends.”
“Non-wolves?” I ask.
Adrian glances over at Sinn. “Yes, vampires, spiders, many species, even humans, have enslaved wolves throughout the centuries and forced them to do horrible things.”
I nod, signaling he should continue, not really knowing what else to say. With the topic of slavery, I don’t think there ever is a right thing to say, other than it is morally reprehensible and evil—the foulest behavior of sentient beings. I have always felt awkward when the subject of slavery is raised because I straddle the line. My mother was white and my father was black. I have never felt comfortable discussing the topic. I never know if I am supposed to express my outrage for the horrors committed on people with the same skin color as my father or profusely apologize for the inhuman actions taken by people with the same skin color as my mother.
Here, as a human, even though I know none of the specifics, I find myself solidly in the wrong. There is no straddle, and I feel unconstrained guilt for the atrocities committed by humans onto wolves. Merely hearing that humans enslaved werewolves, knowing no other details, is enough for me to know it was wrong and to cause guilt to seep into my conscience. It’s funny how the mind works, particularly with guilt.
“There are many werewolf packs spread out amongst the continents of the Americas,” continues Adrian.
“Wait, Americas?” I ask, happy to be moving on to a guilt-defusing topic, “I didn’t think there were any wolves in South America?”
Wilson purses his lips, projecting disbelief in my statement.
“What? I saw it on the nature channel.”
“You’re correct,” answers Adrian. “Or the nature channel was; wolves aren’t native to South America—although there is a fox that is very similar to a wolf. However, over the centuries, some Northern American and European werewolves have colonized South America. The Vukodlak, or Vuko for short, immigrants from Eastern Europe, comprise the largest pack in South America. The Lobos, Northern American immigrants, control most of Mexico and Central America.”
I stroke my chin, a tic that often presents itself when I am learning something new. When I woke up this morning, I didn’t realize I’d be going on a trip to Canada, cutting a werewolf in half with a sword, and getting a history and geography lesson from a Wolf-King. Had I known, I would have slept in. I also would have brought the journal into the office, the one sitting on my bedside table. The one I’ve been scribbling notes in about Concordat citizens and supernatural creatures. My family kept several journals of incalculably valuable information about Concordat citizens, which Sinn passed down to me. Although I’d never kept a journal or a diary myself, after paging through my family’s diaries, I felt an obligation to do the same, and have jotted down every interesting bit of information about this new world I find myself in and the monsters that hunt in it.
After a short pause and a sip of coffee, Adrian continues his lecture. “Packs vary in size, some small, some large; there are also the lone wolves. While all of these packs and individuals have their own territories, and to a degree are free to self-govern, three centuries ago, the Americas’ wolves, tired of serving others, joined together and formed a centralized government, a werewolf council, which sets global policies for all of Americas’ wolves. With a strong centralized government, wolves were finally able to protect each other. Whereas in a separated werewolf nation, individual packs and wolves could be killed or enslaved by humans or other Concordat citizens, together we are strong. No Americas’ wolf has been enslaved by another race in over three hundred years.”
“Why do you keep saying Americas’ wolves and not American wolves?” asks Joycee.
“Because the term American has become synonymous with people of the United States. And we’re not people, and we’re not all from the United States.”
Joycee nods.
“In the Americas, five bloodlines or pack families, the Varulv, Nesh, Lobo, Vuko, and Mahi, have risen to leadership positions. A single member of each of these four packs serves on the Americas’ werewolf council. Thepack leader of my family, a Varulv, has served as the leader of that council for all three hundred years of its existence.”
“Which makes you the King Wolf,” mutters Wilson.
“I don’t like that word,” replies Adrian.
“King or wolf?”
“King. It implies I lead solely because of the blood running through my veins.” Adrian’s voice deepens, “I lead because I earned it. Because I am the Lycanthrope.”
“Conceded much,” quietly coughs Joycee. Unfortunately, half of the room has a supernatural hearing and the other half still heard her.
Adrian gives Joycee a murderous look and Joycee stares uncomfortably at the floor.
Call me old fashioned, I don’t like it when men try to intimidate women. “Adrian,” I say, trying to get the conversation back on the rails, “don’t take this the wrong way, but you do kinda’ sound, at least at times, like . . . how can I state this delicately?”
“A douchebag,” volunteers Wilson from his laid-back perch. I shrug partially in defeat and partially in agreement. Not the word I would have chosen, as I’m trying to diffuse the situation. I was thinking ‘dick,’ but I can’t argue with its accuracy.
A low growl escapes Adrian’s throat.
Sinn, who’d been quiet up to this point, steps towards Wilson, getting just close enough to shove his feet off the table with one hand. Not a violent shove, but it sure wasn’t gentle. “What Adrian is trying to explain to you morons is that a werewolf’s status in a pack is determined by more than just blood—it’s determined by fighting prowess. Once every few years, there is a gathering of all of Americas’ packs during which any member can challenge for leadership or a spot on the Amer
icas’ werewolf council. The council’s leader is simply referred to as the Lycanthrope—although outside the council he is called King of Americas’ Werewolves. Adrian’s family has held the title for three centuries, because they are the strongest.”
Adrian nods respectfully to Sinn. “Yes, I am the seventh consecutive Varulv to earn the title.”
“Okay, you’re a badass, King of the dog-fighting pit. What do you need our help for?” asks Wilson.
“Uh, um,” I loudly clear my throat signaling to Wilson it’s time to shut up and let the grown-ups talk. “What my colleague is so inelegantly asking is what could we possibly do to help someone like you?”
Adrian hesitates for a moment, his face becoming unreadable—a smooth plaster-of-Paris mask. “My father was possessed or drugged, resulting in the death of several humans and . . . my daughter . . . in a hotel in Massachusetts.” His knuckles turn white as he digs his nails into his palms. “He used an ax. Afterward, he just sat there, holding my dead baby girl, rocking back and forth. He hasn’t spoken since the attack, not a single word. It’s as if the man I knew, my father, is gone. He didn’t even resist the human police when they arrested him. The police claim he confessed to the slaughter—that’s a lie. My father loved his granddaughter. He wasn’t a perfect man, but he would never have intentionally hurt her. He loved her more than anything. My father would not have done this willingly and he never would have used an ax. My father believed killing was a sacred right of the wolves; claw and fang are the tools of a wolf. It is disgraceful to kill with the tools of a mere man. The whole thing makes little sense. He would not have done this.”
I make eye contact while I listen, and try to show empathy and understanding, but how can anyone who hasn’t lost a child, or even been a parent, pretend to understand what it is like to have their child murdered? As far as his father goes, I think I’ll reserve judgment regarding his guilt or innocence until I know more of the facts. If my experience with the public defender's office taught me anything, it was that some people have a darker side, one they often hide from those they love. Some people are monsters and are capable of unimaginable horrors, even the murders of those they love most.