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“You’re right. I got so fired up because I’m not used to fallin’ for someone so hard. Thinkin’ you were just manipulatin’ me hurt more than I thought I could be hurt by a woman. I’m sorry, and it ain’t an excuse for what I did. I just want you to know that once I calmed down, deep down inside I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. But by then you were gone and I couldn’t apologize or take it back. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I want you to know I understand that we had something special back then and I’m the one who broke it.”
“You did. You broke my trust.”
“I know.” My voice goes rough because that’s the truth stripped down to the bone. “And I’m gonna prove I’m not that man anymore, even if you never trust me the way you used to.”
Chapter 8
Beth
It figures that Striker would have a huge over-the-top truck, kind of like his bike. He’s clearly someone who cares about his ride. Today, I’m sitting in the passenger seat with my hands folded in my lap as he drives me to my deceased uncle’s home, so I can begin dealing with his personal effects. Josie is sitting in her car seat behind me, in the second-row seating. She’s quietly singing a little jingle and playing with her stuffed animal.
Everything with Striker and his club is just a bit beyond what is necessary for the moment. For instance, I feel like a rock star with an entourage. We’ve got two motorcycles leading the way and two more behind us. All the riders are wearing cuts, as is Striker. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of the brothers not wearing their cuts. I guess it’s a biker thing, but who knows. All I know is they’re all prospects who will be helping us sort through, pack and later dispose of my uncle’s household goods. It seems a bit dramatic, but I’m glad for four extra pairs of hands.
Striker is all business this morning. He’s driving slightly under the speed limit and checking his side and rearview mirrors at regular intervals. He doesn’t have much to say and I remind myself that this is how it should be. He’s providing a legitimate security service. At the end, I’ll be billed for it, and I’ll pay in cold, hard cash. So, he’s not doing this as a favor. Being in his home, in his vehicle and under his protection can feel like old times. Even though he finally came through with an apology that sounded genuine, I’m not going to let myself slip back into loving him. That history belongs in the past and I intend to keep it there. As for Josie, I know he deserves to know he’s got a daughter, and I am going to tell him. I just need to wait until all this is over.
When we get reasonably close, he starts talking—giving instructions, really. “When we get there, the prospects will park on the street where they’ve got a sightline on the front door. I’ll go in first and clear the house. Once I confirm that it’s safe, the two of you can have the run of the place. Whoever was stalkin’ you might have given up, or they might still be lurking around. If something pops off while we’re there, I need you to follow my directions exactly. If there’s danger, move behind me. Does that work for you?”
“That absolutely works. Thank you.”
My uncle’s house sits at the end of a tree-lined street where most of those trees are older than the people. Although this house has been in my family for three or four generations, it’s exactly the type of house I would expect a successful lawyer to have. The yard is neatly landscaped and has been kept up by his regular gardener who is being paid from his estate. I arranged that when I first got an attorney because I didn’t want the weeds to grow up and spoil the yard. Since I’m selling it, that would be bad for curb appeal.
Striker is inside for what seems like ever and finally signals for us to come inside. I stand there for a moment breathing in the smell of my grandmother’s heirloom roses before getting Josie and her diaper bag out of the truck.
I carry my daughter up the sidewalk and into the house I visited as a child, my grandmother’s house. It’s been redecorated with leather furniture and looks thoroughly masculine now, rather than the airy florals I remember. My uncle definitely put his mark on the house.
I keep Josie with me as I work. We start with the upstairs bedrooms and comb our way forward. The prospects are like a well-oiled machine. They’re building boxes, helping me fill them, taping them up, marking them and then disposing of them. The boxes of stuff I want to keep go into Striker’s truck. The rest goes into the garage for donation. Even though we’re there for hours, the actual work progresses quickly.
When we get to his library, I hunt down all the paperwork my attorney needs to clear the estate. I locate an insurance binder, his bank statements, the deed to the house, and we look for a will, coming up empty-handed. This isn’t terribly surprising, since he didn’t record a will at the local courthouse. Since my uncle was an attorney himself, my estate attorney felt certain if there was a will it would have been recorded. I photograph every document with my cell phone and then box it up to be taken to my attorney.
In one of his desk drawers, I find a large envelope with my name written across it. What I find inside shocks me. It’s stuffed with information about the trial against my former boss for money laundering. Only the information is more like something a layperson might collect.
There are newspaper clippings, copies of court proceedings, the judge’s sentencing decision and something called a Section 2255 Federal Habeas Motion. I scan down to the first paragraph, and it looks like his attorney is demanding a post-conviction evidentiary hearing. I’m not sure exactly what that is, but it appears to be similar to an appeal.
My uncle’s name is nowhere to be found, so I know he wasn’t part of the defense team or anything like that. My best guess is that being a lawyer, he was interested in this case either because it involved me or because small-town corruption rarely involves the feds, much less allegations of organized crime.
My former boss was tried, convicted and sent away for a long time. And now he’s challenging the conviction. And the paperwork makes it pretty clear my testimony is still critical to this case. His attorney is making all kinds of wild claims and insisting that if I can’t be located, key evidence against him should be considered null and void. My fingers go numb and my hands start trembling. I can’t get my head around what I’m reading and the implications.
“Beth.” Striker’s voice drifts from the doorway. “What’s wrong? What did you find?”
“My uncle kept up with the case on my ex-boss.” I hold out the document to him. “Read it for yourself.”
As he reads, I watch his expression grow hard. “Why would your uncle have this?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “Maybe because I was the star witness or because of some kind of professional curiosity.”
Frowning at him, I ask, “You think what’s going on with the gray Silverado has anything to do with this case?”
“I think it would be a hell of a big coincidence if it wasn’t. It would be naive not to investigate it properly.”
“I wouldn’t think he’d have the money to keep hiring lawyers. The feds confiscated all his money and liquidated his house, cars and pretty much everything he had.”
“If we start diggin’ into that evidentiary hearing request, it might very well lead us to someone who has a vested interest in him gettin’ out if this ruse is successful. We need to look into who’s payin’ for his lawyers, who his known associates are, and investigate every client who ever laundered through that bastard. There’s likely a short list of people who stand to profit from his release.”
“First, we need to clear this house and then we can start digging into these legal maneuvers. One thing at a time,” I say, cramming the whole packet of information into the box I’m taking with me.
Striker gives me a look and then asks, “Tell me what you need me to do. I’ll do whatever helps you move the process along, because I can’t wait to get my claws into the legal paperwork.”
“Collect all the mail and then check every room for any paperwork that might look important.”
