Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 24693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 99(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 99(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
“She doesn’t?”
“Funny, Mr. Tate.” He flexes his fingers. “You think any family member of mine could ever be in the public eye?”
There’s no need for me to answer that question.
“Anyway,” he says, picking up where he left off, “a couple checks I sent to her for books and such were cashed at some check-cashing place with a floating address. I need you to look into it, so I can make sure this person never tries me again.”
“This person” is your daughter… “I’ll get Rachel on that right away.”
“Second thing,” he continues, “there may be some federal racketeering charges coming for my sons soon.”
“May be?” I ask. “Those usually come with an indictment…”
“Let’s just say I have an inside tip,” he says. “I don’t want to see any of my sons in prison for what I asked them to do.”
Then stop committing fucking crimes…
“So, I’ll, uh, have someone ride over with briefcases of everything I’ve heard and things that may possibly come up with a grand jury in the coming weeks.”
I hold back a sigh.
I hate this man as a client, but I love what he represents.
A chance at winning something nearly impossible, a chance at reaching a promise I made years ago. But more importantly, a way to fuck the system over like it fucked me…
“If your sons get indicted by the feds, expect the judge to make them give up their passports until the official trial,” I say.
“Three steps ahead of you.” He pulls the booklets from his jacket and slides them across the table. “Can you push hard to make sure they remain out on bond until then as well?”
“Always.”
An uneasy silence fills the room, and this is usually the part where we shake hands and move on, but I can’t.
There’s something he’s not telling me, and there’s a lot more I’m not telling him.
How much does Scarlett know about what you really do for a living?
I’m tempted to ask him, but he clears his throat before I can say a word.
“You look like there’s something more we need to discuss,” he says. “What do you need from me?”
“I’ll need a team of fifty dedicated to just your cases.”
“Don’t you employ over two hundred people?”
“I have tons of other clients, Lucas.”
“How many are paying you a ten-million-dollar retainer?”
“This isn’t about money…”
“It has to be.” He shrugs. “I’ll pay whatever it costs for you to handle things, and you know it. What am I missing?”
“Give me one minute.” I stand up from the table and walk to the windows on the far side of the room.
Outside, Scarlett is pacing between two lampposts—her hair fluttering in the wind as she bites down hard on her bottom lip.
For a moment, I consider that she might’ve had a reason to feed me deception. Hell, for every lie he gave me, I could counter with ten I gave her, so maybe—just maybe—it makes me a bit of a hypocrite.
Perhaps there’s something we can salvage.
I watch her make another turn, and my chest tightens as she presses her hand against the sapphire charm I gave her.
There’s nowhere we can possibly go after this…
I shut the blinds and turn around.
“I need every single detail, Mr. Lucas,” I say. “I want your phone records, emails, everything you think the feds might use against you.”
“That’ll take hours, Mr. Tate.”
“Then I suggest you get comfortable.” I cross my arms. “Would you like some coffee?”
A slow smile forms on his lips, and he pulls out his cell phone.
“Allow me to make a few calls…”
It’s ten o’clock in the evening by the time he’s finished having various men drop briefcases and files off in my boardroom.
I’ve recorded his every word, listened to his phone calls with his various “business friends,” and after running down my list of questions, it’s obvious he and his sons are guilty as hell of every charge that will come their way.
“I appreciate your time as always, Jameson Tate.” He extends his hand, and I shake it.
“I’ll be in touch, Lucas.”
“Perhaps when you’re done with all this”—he walks to my door and opens it—“you can finally let me introduce you to my therapist.”
“Excuse me?”
“I can tell you still don’t get much sleep.” He points to his eyes.
“I sleep just fine. Four hours a night.”
“I had that problem too.” He pauses. “But not anymore.”
“I highly doubt what keeps me up at night can be cured, but I appreciate the offer.”
He nods and finally leaves.
When I’m sure he’s gone, I secure all the files inside a hidden wall panel. Then I walk down the hall to my office and lock myself inside.
I pull out the case that’s kept me up every night, year after year, because the jury came back with the wrong verdict.
Running my fingers over the words “guilty on all charges,” I stop before I can make this day any worse than it already is.