Page 34 of The Enforcer
While the guys are notorious dealers, they’re not stupid. Prez acted when the initial tip was called in, something many others wouldn’t have done as they would have assumed they were in the clear when the cops didn’t find anything in the clubhouse. Because of his foresight, my family is free and the DEA look like fools for shutting down a charity event on a false claim.
During the course of our conversation, I asked Agent Schwartz where they got the proof that there was going to be a large amount of drugs packed in saddle bags and trucks the road captains from other clubs and Reaper drove. I want to know what, if any, evidence he really had in case I need to file a suit against someone. He told me he would have to check with his superiors to make sure he could divulge that information. Hopefully he can so I can figure out what to tell Prez and see where he wants to go from here.
After I finish that phone call, I have another to return to Perry Clark and his family. Perry is interested in joining the military, but his criminal background check keeps getting flagged for a felony. Even though the charges were dropped, it’s still cropping up as a felony case pending and they want to know why. I assure them I’ll get to the bottom of it. When the case was over, those charges should have been dismissed immediately, scrubbed from his record. Maybe it was a mistake or an oversight, but it needs to be gone now.
Hanging up with them, I pick up the receiver again, calling Judge Moss’s office to see what can be done about removing the flag from Perry’s record. The judge isn’t in, so I leave a message with his receptionist, asking for a call back at his earliest convenience. I’m not sure when that will be since he’s a judge and has a busy schedule, but she promises to pass along the message anyway.
I thank her, hoping he’ll call me back sooner rather than later. The kid is trying to move on with his life and serve his country—he deserves for this not to hold him back.
Once that phone call is complete, I sit back in my chair, blowing out a long breath. It’s not even ten am and I already feel like I’ve done a full day’s work.
A buzz coming from my desk phone snaps me out of my brief reprieve and I pick up the receiver, keeping the note of exhaustion and irritation from my tone. “Astor,” I say by way of greeting, since this is an in-office call.
“Mr. Astor,” a feminine voice drifts through my ear, “your interview with Mr. Clinton is in fifteen minutes. He asked for me to give you a courtesy call.”
Fuck, time got away from me. I knew when the interview was—I’ve been anticipating this interview since it was offered to me—but I thought I had a little more time to rest. “I’ll be there shortly. Thank you.”
I hang up and, after pulling on my jacket, head upstairs to the partners’ floor.
All the partners are on the fifteenth floor, high in the sky where the views are spectacular. As I step off the elevator, I imagine myself walking these floors every morning, having my own corner office with a private bathroom.
Pulling the glass door open, I approach the receptionist’s desk. She looks up at me with a smile. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m Shane Astor. I have an interview?” I pose it as a question, even though I know I have an interview. I’m just fucking nervous.
She taps a few things on her keyboard and nods. “Yes. If you go through the double doors, make a right and you’ll see a group of conference rooms. Knock on the door of conference room five and they’re inside.”
I dip my head in thanks and follow her directions, stopping just in front of the double doors of conference room five. Expelling a long breath, I shake out my arms, trying to hype myself up to crush this interview.
Becoming a senior partner is something I’ve wanted since I got hired at this firm. It would be a big boost to my career to hold such a prestigious title. It would not only show my determination but validate my hard work by getting this position in less than ten years. That alone would bring me clients and earn us more money as a firm. It’s a big deal for me and I hope I don’t fuck it up.
When I’m ready, I knock on the door. A deep baritone voice tells me to come in and I inch inside, trying to radiate as much confidence as I can. I have a seat in the empty chair across from three of the partners of the firm.
Mr. Clinton nods at me in acknowledgment. I return the nod, then say, “Good morning, gentlemen. Thank you for having me.”
“Mr. Astor,” one of the other attorneys, Mr. Bridge, says, shuffling some papers, “Garth told us you’re the only person to question why we wanted to only represent clients that are for sure wins.” I dip my head, but don’t answer verbally. He already knows it’s true, so it’s no need for me to confirm. “As you know, we’ve been trying to find those that are willing to be honest and not be yes men and women. That’s a trait that will serve you, and us by extension, well.”
From there, the interview is spent with the partners asking me a multitude of scenario-based questions. I’m not sure how many are correct or if they would handle them differently if they were in my shoes—or asked these questions if they were interviewed—but I answer them honestly, even if it’s not the most popular route.
I think the interview is going well—I get more grunts of agreement or nods than I do anything else. I can’t wait to tell Zeke how I fucking killed it today.
It’s not lost on me that, during one of the most important interviews of my life, Zeke is the first person I thought about. I really am in love with him.
“Well,” Mr. Clinton says after I answer an especially lengthy scenario-based question about defending a client that was perceived as guilty because of police corruption, “I think we have all we need.”
I nod, feeling relieved that there are no more questions and things are now out of my hands. While it wasn’t a long interview, it was intense, the questions fired at me quickly, not giving me time to formulate eloquently composed answers. “Thank you again, gentlemen, for the opportunity.”
“Before you go,” Mr. Clinton says to me before I can rise more than an inch from my chair, “I’d like to know what happened over the weekend. From what I’ve been told, you were in another state when an illegal search was conducted?”
I sit back down, lacing my fingers together on the table. “The search itself wasn’t illegal. There were warrants signed and all the protocols were followed by the Drug Enforcement Administration. There was just nothing for them to find. Since the search turned up nothing, I’ve managed to get the DEA to pay for all the damages that were inflicted on the property of those in attendance that were affected.”
I’m proud of having accomplished that. Usually during a raid with a warrant, no matter if nothing is recovered, damages are at the expense of the person or persons that were being served the warrant. Agent Schwartz was more apologetic than I thought, since he interrupted a gathering with children around with guns drawn. He said he managed to convince his superiors to cover any damages for items that could not be replaced or restored, which mostly included the toys the guys and those that attended the event purchased.
Mr. Clinton, as well as the other partners, nod, seemingly impressed. “That’s good work. Were you there in a work capacity or …?”
Well, that’s a fucking set up if I’ve ever seen one. No need to lie about it. If he asks a pointed question like that, it’s because he already knows the answer.
Shaking my head, I say, “No. A friend invited me to participate in a charity toy drive event. As you know, I’ve been working for the Devil’s Mayhem Motorcycle Club for around eight years now and?—”
