by Nick Pirog
Chapter 8.
The Wall Comes Down
The Public Defender’s Office was downtown, kitty corner to the charcoal domed courthouse. It was inside a three-story building. Off-white stucco. Those black glass windows that reflect everything.
There was a blond receptionist sitting behind the front desk. I told her I had an interview at 10:40 with Mr. Palace. She smiled and instructed me to take a seat on one of the small couches in the waiting area.
Sitting on the center cushion of one of the couches was a tiny, frail looking woman, her arms hooked beneath the straps of the purse that dangled between her legs. If I were nervous, than this woman was petrified. I shouldn’t say she looked poor, but she did. She’d put on her best outfit for the visit, a blue sweater and white jeans, probably bought from some thrift store a decade earlier. Her black purse was faded to a dull gray and half a roll of duct tape was holding it together.
I took a seat on the couch opposite her.
If I did get this job, the woman across from me would be the archetypal client. Not that I thought the woman was in trouble. She was too nervous. Plus, she just didn’t look like she broke too many laws. She probably went to church twice a week, taught piano lessons for free to the kids in her neighborhood, and stopped for three seconds at every stop sign. No, she wasn’t in trouble. Her son was. (She had a bunch of buttons on her purse. Three looked to have something to do with little league baseball. The buttons a reminder of better days for the woman.) The woman couldn’t afford a lawyer to get him out of whatever trouble he’d gotten himself into. So they sent her here.
I’d gotten in trouble once when I was younger. I’d been fifteen, and two friends and I had sneaked into a mansion that was being built near my house and drank a twelve pack of Keystone Light. Someone called the cops and I’d ended up getting a Minor in Possession ticket. The cop was cool and said he wouldn’t even worry about us trespassing. My two other friends pled guilty to the misdemeanor and did their 20 hours of community service and I’m sure were grounded for a couple weeks.
But not Maddy Young.
My father was outraged. Not at me. Not at his son who had been breaking not one, but two laws. No, my father was outraged the police had the insolence to arrest his son. Five months, three days spent in the courtroom, and thirty thousand dollars later, and the charges against me were dropped.
I was never punished.
But my two friends weren’t allowed to hang out with me anymore. Their parents wouldn’t let them.
“Mr. Palace is ready for you now.”
I snapped out of my reverie, stood, and followed the receptionist through the door and into a hallway. She pointed to the door at the end of the hall and said, “He’s right through there. He’s expecting you.”
I rapped my knuckles on the door and a booming voice said, “Come in.”
I pushed through the door.
Jeremy Palace Sr. sat behind a large desk. He was tall and wide. Not exactly fat. Like an NFL lineman who had moved into broadcasting. His hair was salt and pepper, mostly salt, and slicked backwards. An unlit cigar dangled from his lips.
He took a chomp on the cigar and said, “What can I do for you son?”
His had a thick southern accent. Texas. Maybe even as south as the Delta.
I said, “I’m Maddy Young.”
“Right. Young.” He eyed me for a moment. Took a couple more chomps and said, “You a betting man Young?”
“Um. Sure.”
“You don’t sound sure. Do you like to bet or not? Easy question. Easy answer.”
I tried to think of the right response. Betting wasn’t illegal. Was it? Could you bet here? I had no idea. I decided JP Palace could spot bullshit on Mars. “Yes. I’m a betting man. Mostly college football. NBA. Horses every once in awhile.”
He chomped on his cigar twice more. Pulled it out of his mouth and said, “I knew I liked you.”
⠔
“Who do you like in the Fifth?”
We were sitting in a private box. Just the two of us. JP—he told me to call him JP—had a large tumbler of scotch in his hand. I had a rocks glass filled with the best tequila Highland Park had to offer.
I looked down at the program for a moment. “I like number 7.”
“Jennifer Ranistan?”
“Yep.”
“She’s an Arabian.”
“I never met an Arabian I didn’t like.”
I thought maybe I’d gone a little too far, but then he started laughing, and agreed, “Me neither.” He added, “She’s 80 to 1.”
“Yeah, but it’s a short race and she’s a sprinter. She’s got a good dirt track record and the jockey, Smite, is having a good year.”
He nodded and said, “Let’s do it.”
If you’re curious how I was so well versed in horse racing jargon, I should mention that I wasn’t a novice when it came to the ponies. There were a few things my father and I did together. I can’t say I ever tossed a baseball or football, or any ball for that matter with him. Heck, I barely even saw him. When he wasn’t out gallivanting with my mother on this island or this continent, he was zipping around the globe, trying to accrue another million dollars to his already substantial fortune. I can count on both hands the number of times my father and I did something together. And eight of those times we went to the horse track.
When I was five, I could name every bet you could make, Win, Place, Show, Quinella, Exacta, Trifecta, Superfecta, Pick 3, Pick 6, Daily Double, Jackpot.
It was a sense of pride for my father, and every time we would go to the track, he would invariably introduce me to one of his business associates and say, “Tell them the bets, Maddy,” and I’d reel them off faster then my ABC’s.
JP and I decided to bet Jennifer Ranistan to Win.
The odds appeared on the large board centering the track. Our bet had moved Jennifer Ranistan down to 70-1, but it was still a great bet. If she won, we would win $140 on a two-dollar bet. Since we each bet $100, we would each win $7,000.
A minute later, the race started.
Two minutes later, JP turned to me. He wasn’t pleased. He said, “Did you by chance see what happened to Jennifer Ranistan?”
“You mean before or after she broke both her front legs?”
“Before.”
“Oh, when she bucked off her jockey?”
“After that.”
“You mean when she ran backwards for a quarter mile, then sat down.”
“Yeah, that.”
I nodded. I had seen that.
We continued this for another two hours. We did not win a single race. We did drink a lot. I lost over two thousand dollars. JP did not ask me a single question about law.
⠔
JP said he would call me in the next couple days. I’m not sure if this meant he wanted to go back to the track or if his call would have anything to do with a position as a public defender. He asked me what my cell phone number was and I made up some garbage about switching phone companies and that I was getting a new phone the next day. His face called bullshit and he told me to call him ASAP with my phone number.
An hour later, I had a jPhone 2S.
I dialed JP’s office. My first call. The receptionist answered, I told her who I was, and she took down my cell phone number. The call lasted all of fourteen seconds.
I had one more call to make.
I took a deep breath and dialed the number I’d had memorized for nearly a week.
The phone didn’t ring. Instead, I enjoyed the song while my party was reached. It was some catchy country tune. I stomp my foot to the beat for ten seconds, then she picked up.
“This is Abby.”
⠔
We decided to meet at a pizza place in two hours. I played with my new phone for a good hour, messing with all the ringtones, downloading a bunch of ridiculous apps, a few games, and linking my phone up to my e-mail and Deadbook. Then I spent an hour
getting ready, looking at myself in the mirror twelve times, and changing three times. I ended up going with jeans, a long sleeve black thermal, and a charcoal T-shirt.
I arrived at Pizza Dock five minutes late. There were a bunch of people standing around the bar and I spotted Abby leaning over a couple of people, ordering a drink. She was wearing black leggings, high brown boots, and a purple T-shirt. She was leaning forward and her shirt was pulled halfway up her little butt.
It was a good view.
As I was approaching, she turned. She was rocking a fro-hawk. She smiled, handed me a beer and said, “What’s up?”
“What’s up with you?” I’ll give my opening a four.
After an awkward moment, she said, “This place is great. You’re gonna love the pizza. Really thin crust.”
“I like really thin crust pizza a whole lot.” Did I say four? How about a three.
Abby raised her eyebrows and said, “You want to grab a table?”
There was a table nearby and I reached out and grabbed it with my hand and said, “Got one," as if I'd just nabbed a seventy-pound marlin.
She didn’t laugh. She did, however, tilt her head to the side and say, “I think there’s a table over here.”
While I lead us to an empty booth, I gave myself a little pep talk. Um, hey there Maddy, it’s Maddy, could you do me a solid and stop acting like such a dipshit. Thanx.
After taking a seat at a small square table, Abby said, “Sorry, I didn’t laugh at your table thing. I have this problem where I only laugh when stuff is funny.” She tried to keep a straight face but it buckled at the last second, sending her into a fit of laughter.
“Sorry, I’ll try to do better.”
“Please and thank you.” She added, “I like that shirt on you. You look good in that color.”
“Thanks. I took a skin tone test online. Said I should wear grays, light blacks, charcoals, and tinted whites.”
“Reall—“ She laughed. “That’s more like it.”
“It takes me a while to warm up.”
She laughed again.
I gave myself that point back.
She leaned forward and I noticed her brown eyes carried little yellows flecks. I was visualizing myself picking those flecks like daisies on a prairie when she screamed, “Okay, so I can’t wait any longer. You have to tell me everything about Joni.”
Right. Joni. The whole reason we were here. “Well, I had two classes with her.”
“What classes?”
I told her.
“Is she dating anybody?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Did she talk about me?”
“Not to me, but I heard her talk about you to other people.”
“Was she sad when I died?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer this question and luckily my cell phone rang. That or a train was coming.
Abby said, “Um, something is Choo-chooing.”
“That would be my phone. Sorry, I have to take this, it’s about a job.”
I pulled my phone out of my pocket. I expected the call to be from JP. It wasn’t. It was a Deadbook notification. Someone had sent me a message. For a split moment I forgot the gorgeous brunette across from me. Perry must have finally responded to my incessant messages. I thought back to those three words.
You didn’t die.
I clicked on the link. The message wasn’t from Perry. It was from a new friend. Berlin. The message said, “HELP!”
⠔
Abby asked, “Which way?”
Luckily, I had Berlin’s uncle’s address memorized. I pointed to the right and said, “Take a right and then your third left.”
Five minutes later, Abby pulled her mini blue sedan up in front of a small one-story house. The neighborhood wasn’t a dump, but it was a bit seedy. We weren’t talking stockbrokers and dental hygienists. It was blue-collar housing.
Abby said, “This is it.”
I said, “Stay in the car,” and jumped out.
I wouldn’t say I was in a blind rage, but something close to it. I ran up the small drive and banged on the front door. Nothing happened. I tried the door. It was unlocked. I pushed through the door into a cramped hallway and yelled, “Berlin!”
I could hear voices coming from my left and turned that way. I entered what looked to be a well-kept living room. A large TV blared. Berlin was sitting on a chair. There was a man standing over her. He was wearing a cut off T-shirt and small jean shorts. He had a thick mustache. He was holding a beer in his left hand.
Berlin saw me and her eyes lit up. She said, “Maddy!”
By this time I was already charging her uncle, who had turned, his eyes open wide with fear.
I took three large strides then laid my shoulder into his stomach and sent him flying against the back wall.
Berlin was screaming behind me, but I couldn’t hear her. All I wanted to do was inflict as much pain on this pedophile as humanly possible. I stood up, grabbed a nearby lamp, and brought it crashing down on the head of her stirring uncle. He went limp.
I stood up and shielded Berlin from the man who had done God knows what to her. She was trying to get to him, probably give him a couple good kicks to the head.
“What are you doing?” she screamed.
I held her head to my chest. “Saving you.”
“From what?”
“From your uncle.”
She took a deep breath and pointed to the man on the floor, “First off, that’s not my uncle. That’s Larry. He lives down the street.”
Uh-oh.
“Second, I was fine.”
I shook my head. “Then why the message. Why, ‘HELP?’”
“Did you open it?”
“Open what?”
“The message. ‘HELP’ was just the title.”
I felt my eyebrows furrow.
“You didn’t, did you? I titled the message HELP! Then in the actual message I say, ‘Help, I’m bored. Please take me to the movies sometime soon.’”
Holy crap. “But you said that you hated your uncle.”
“I do. He’s boring. He’s like a geologist. All he talks about is rocks.”
I looked down. Larry was starting to move. Blood dripped from a gash on his forehead.
I asked, “Where is your uncle now?”
“At some conference in Utah. He’s having Larry check on me every couple hours.”
“What’s going on here?”
Berlin and I turned around. There were two police officers standing in the doorway. One of them took a step forward. He pointed his gun at me and said, “You mind taking a couple steps this way.”