FAIR PLAY
By
Gunnar Angel Lawrence
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Gunnar Angel Lawrence
Fair Play
Copyright © 2011 by
Gunnar Angel Lawrence
Thank you for
downloading this eBook.
Your support and
respect for the property of this author is appreciated.
This book is a work
of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or
locales is purely coincidental. The
characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
To the residents and great people of Central
Florida who were the inspiration for the fiction that continually floats about
in my twisted mind. To the English teachers at Boone High School who encouraged
me to keep up with the writing, thank you for your support during a very
tumultuous time in my life.
Prologue:
8 months ago
Judge Bob Maxwell pulled
into his garage more than a little pissed off. It had been a lousy day. He
slammed on the brakes bringing his sedan to a halt with a squeal on the
concrete pad. His blood sugar was dropping and he felt the need for a meal. For
just a moment, he sat in the driver’s seat, engine running. Retirement and
several solid years of deep-sea fishing was a week or so away. He had wanted to
retire with a conviction and ‘go out on top’ but that was not to be. He swore
to himself, turned off the ignition, exited the vehicle and shut the door.
Suddenly, the overhead garage light clicked off leaving him in complete
darkness.
“Damn.” Maxwell said. The
light usually gave him enough time to get to his door and in the house. He
opened the car door and reached into the dash to click on his headlights.
Navigating his way through his darkened garage was more than a little
dangerous. The gleam from the headlights inside the confined space of his
garage made the shadows dance eerily on the walls. Had these movements of
shadow and light not disoriented him, he may have seen the dark figure step out
from behind him. He did not.
Maxwell heard the step
behind him and felt the needle slide into his neck before he could react. Cold
fluid flowed into his blood stream quickly as he turned to see the intruder. He
fell to his knees and glanced up at the face of his attacker.
“What have you done?” the
figure asked him coldly. Maxwell gasped once and fell into unconsciousness.
ii
The figure stood for a
moment over his victim. The white-hot rage that led him to this garage, this
night, evolved into the sobering realization that he had no choice. He bent
over, dragged the frail Maxwell to the car and took the head of his victim in
his hands. With the slightest bit of hesitation, he contemplated Maxwell’s
fate, tightened his grip and slammed the skull into the floor. The hollow
crunch of bone meeting concrete sounded oddly like a melon smacked against a
kitchen counter. Blood flowed from Maxwell’s wound and began to pool around his
head.
He had killed before but
this was different. In war, you fire your weapon, sometimes at random into the
area where the enemy is. When your bullet found its mark in the enemy,
sometimes you would see the man stumble backwards and fall dead. At other times
you would never know.
Up close, he was able to
see the life flow out of his victim, able to see his last breath. He opened his
victims eyelids and watched as the pupils expanded for the last time pulling in
the last light he would ever see. He could see his reflection in those dying
eyes. This war he was in now was a different kind of war. And he was a
different kind of soldier. He was fighting a war for justice, what more noble
pursuit was there?
He scooped up Maxwell’s
keys, slid behind the wheel and started the ignition. He turned to stare
intently into the face of this man who had failed. He had failed and had to pay
the price. Justice must be done. He left the garage as silently as he had
slipped in. The war had begun and he had much planning to do.
****
Day
One
5:45am
Detective Paul Friedman was
jarred out of his dream by the obnoxiously loud buzzing of the cell phone on
his bedside table. He reached over halfway expecting his dream Beyonce to still
be there, she wasn’t. He grabbed the phone, hit the button with his thumb,
“Friedman.”
Silence.
“Paul Friedman, who’s this
please?”
Scuffling.
Paul sat up pressing his
ear to the phone, straining to hear.
Heavy breathing.
A gasp and nothing more.
He flipped the receiver
around to look at the caller ID. It was a call from Glenn Kelley’s cell phone.
Kelley was his good friend and former partner.
The veteran cop who trained him how to work the streets of Orlando,
Florida for the four years before his promotion to Detective. Kelley wasn’t the type to play pranks.
Something was wrong.
Paul bolted from his bed
and hit redial.
Nothing.
Straight to voice-mail.
He dressed in five minutes
and was out the door on his way to Glenn’s house, trying to convince himself
that all was okay, but his instincts told him otherwise.
****
7:30am
Doug Lipton’s mornings had
slipped into a comfortable routine since starting at the firm. He was up by
5:30, spent thirty minutes on one of his exercise machines, showered and shaved
by 6:30. He would wake his wife Sarah and 8 year old daughter Annie moments
later and start fixing breakfast for all of them, and then out the door by 8:00
for his drive to work. Sarah was much less of a morning person than he and
needed a little caffeine stimulation to get started. She took a seat and nursed
her double espresso slowly.
Annie was in the shower as
soon as she was up, her shower was always twice as long as Doug's for a body
less than half his size. It was a mystery he never could understand.
“Omelet?” Doug inquired.
Sarah nodded sipping more
of her 'energy' drink. He folded the omelet mixture in the pan and flipped them
over gently. Moments later he artfully slid the omelet out onto Sarah's plate
and she dug into the meal with a little more energy than she had earlier.
“So today's the day then?”
she asked not looking up from her plate.
Doug nodded, “Yesterday the
jury wanted to look at some final pieces of evidence which don't amount to a
whole lot but we are pretty confident that the verdict would be reached early
today, not guilty, of course.”
She winced. Her mouth
opened as if to speak and then shut quickly, the thought she had was on its way
out and she stopped it. She set down the espresso and looked at the man she
loved with a pained expression. “You know he did it, right?”
Doug sighed lowering his
head, “Sarah, . . . I . .I’m not doing this for him, this is my job. I do it
because we can’t decide who is going to have a fair trial and who isn’t. If I
start making decisions like that, then I can’t do my job.”
“I know it’s your job, I
just . . Doug, the girls were 8 years old. I feel. . .” She shook her head and
paused, “I feel filthy for wanting you to win this case, and I’m sorry.”
A big part of Doug wanted
to agree with her. Doug had two sides to him, he found it necessary in order to
cope with some of the more distasteful aspects of his work. His human side was
made up of his compassion, his love and what was right. This was the side of
him that wanted to put a gun to the head of people like Jasper Davis and pull
the trigger, twice for good measure.
Then there was his attorney
side, the side that had to repress all those images of victims, of the
families' lives that were torn apart and left with missing pieces. This was the
side that got the bills paid, got them a new pool and provided a comfortable
life. This was his “soul-less” side as he fought sometimes on the side of evil.
The side he had to shed as he walked through his front door at the end of the
day. He had to, just to preserve his sanity and at times, he thought, his
humanity.
Doug reached out and
grasped her hand, “Sarah, I don't get the choice to defend only innocent
people. I take what is given me and I do the best I can for each of my clients,
even the guilty ones.” Silence came as his soul-less side fought against the
human side. This was a conversation they had had before and more likely than
not, would have again.
“Remember when you started
at the firm, you wanted to be a Perry Mason, defending the falsely accused,
finding that missing evidence that freed the innocent client. I know you don’t
have the choice as to who to defend, but this one is different, you know it is.
You’re going to win because a cop did the right thing morally, even if not
legally. I can’t help you celebrate that, I won’t and again . . .” her voice
dropped to a whisper, “I’m sorry.” The tears were forming in her eyes as she
turned back to her espresso.
As the anger welled to the
surface, Doug felt his human side give way as he released her hand quickly. He
pounded the kitchen table with his fists. She looked up at him with more
sadness than surprise and that served only to fuel his soul-less anger.
“Look around you. What I
do, what I have to do, is what has gotten us the house we wanted, with the life
we wanted. I don't like everything I have to do, but you are my wife and you
are supposed to support me. If I'm going to make an impression on the partners
of the firm, to become a partner at the firm, so that one day I can choose
which cases to take, it's going to be through cases like this one. I can't
start interjecting feelings into this, I can't start doubting what I do,
because if I do, it's over. No house, no car, no pool, nothing! It's my job,
Sarah! If you had a job, you would understand. . .”
He stared into her usually
sparkling green eyes, now dulled with
tears now wide open and hurt. They pierced through his anger, stripping away
all the arguments he had built up around the reason for defending people like Jasper
Davis. He turned away, he had to, otherwise he would melt and his human side
would take over.
She was right. He knew it,
but he couldn't, no, he wouldn't acknowledge it. She just didn't understand, he
had to keep his feelings, and for all intents and purposes, his conscience
dulled to do his job effectively.
Trembling, she turned from
him and returned to eating as Annie bounded into the kitchen ready for her
routine breakfast. She grinned widely and greeted her mother warmly with a hug
from which she made a beeline grab for her fathers’ knees, Doug stumbled and
patted her head, “Whoa, Punky. Here’s your usual.” He said, piling a mound of
scrambled eggs on the plate and setting it on the table. Annie saw the
half-hearted smile and the reddened eyes on her mother’s face and her smile
faded.
“Daddy, I can’t eat these,
I need the volcano.” Doug grimaced and pulled out the ketchup bottle and
inserting the tip into the heart of the top of the mound filled up the
‘volcano’ to overflowing. “Yay!” Annie screamed and began digging into her
food. “I still think that’s gross, Annie.” He said. She replied in typical 8
year old girl fashion by opening her full mouth and moving the odd food mixture
around.
“Annie!” Sarah scolded,
“Don’t gross your father out.” Doug shook his head, removed his apron and put
his tie on. Sarah stood and stared at him, he wouldn’t look at her, not right
now and he knew that she knew that. She cleared her throat and started, “Are
you going to be late tonight or will there be a. . . party?” He paused in the
middle of readjusting his tie, his back to his wife. The internal war between
the desire to yell at her again and the desire to apologize and hold her
closely ended in a draw as he found himself incapable of either.
“No, I'm getting too old
for that kind of thing. I'll be home around 6:00.” He turned to head to the
door and as he did so, caught her expression. Now it was shame that caused him
to turn away, not anger. He turned to
his daughter, hardly able to look her in the eye either.
“You!” he said pointing to
Annie, “you be good today and learn something in school!” Annie smiled and
waved good-bye, opening her full mouth again for effect. Doug walked out the
front door with the stinging remorse of allowing his lawyer side into the home
to hurt his wife. As he punched the unlock key to enter his car, he paused
wanting to return to her.
No, this was something he
needed to wait on, this day was going to be hard enough, she just didn’t
understand the daily self-doubt he struggled with, he made a promise to himself
to make it up to her for his acting like an ass. He climbed into his car and
with the jazz CD firmly in place, started the vehicle and backed out of his
long driveway.
****
ii
Paul sped the short
distance to Glenn’s house, in the back of his mind he had already decided that
the call was an accidental one and that everything was ok. He and Glenn had
spent four years together at the Orlando police department. They had become
close friends regularly getting together during off-hours to watch Glenn’s
Notre Dame football and Bostin Celtics basketball teams. This last year had
been tough on Glenn.
They were together when
they got the call about Jasper Davis being spotted near the scene of the little
girl’s kidnapping. LeAnn Baker was the second child abducted that month and had
been missing for a matter of a few hours. The first was Brae Bowden, she was
found two days after her abduction raped and strangled to death. Brae had been
killed within hours of being raped, there was still a chance that LeAnn was
still alive, slim though it was.
An anonymous tip led to
Jasper Davis as a chief suspect. He was seen in LeAnn’s neighborhood just
before she vanished. With even the slightest chance that she was still alive,
Glenn knocked on Davis’ door forcefully and announced their presence.
Whether the muffled sound
of a child Glenn heard came from upstairs or from another apartment, Paul did
not know, but he watched his partner reel back and kick the door in. Davis was
inside filling a duffle bag. Evidence would later show that LeAnn’s blood was
on that bag. The one seized before the warrant was issued. Apparently, a
veteran cop’s gut instinct was not enough for probable cause.
Glenn blamed himself for
Davis’ success in getting a second trial. In some ways, it seemed that he even
blamed himself for the death of LeAnn Baker.
In the months since the trial ended in a hung jury, Paul was promoted to
Detective and Glenn remained a patrolman, and had become more distant.
Paul turned his sedan into
his friend’s driveway, slammed the car into park and jerked the door open.
Glenn’s car was gone, but his wife Becky’s blue Toyota truck was still there.
He punched the doorbell, hoping that she was working a morning shift today. The
door opened and Becky greeted him with a half smile.
“Paul? What’s. . .”
He watched her smile wither
as quickly as it formed. “Oh my God, did something happen to Glenn?”
Paul shook his head, “I
don’t know, I’m hoping this was just a mistake but I got a call from Glenn’s
cell thirty minutes ago. It’s probably nothing, but I wanted to be sure. When
did he leave?”
Becky’s hands quivered, “He
left two hours ago. Let me call him.” She left the door open and Paul entered.
Minutes later, she emerged from the kitchen with the phone still on her ear.
“He’s not answering.”
Paul reached for his cell,
“I’ll call dispatch.” She nodded. He turned his back to her as he spoke with
the dispatch office. He kept telling himself that everything was going to be
okay, that this would be something that they would all laugh about later, but
he couldn’t shake the feeling, the instinct, that something was wrong.
Dispatch confirmed that
Glenn had missed his shift that began at 6:00 a.m. and that they couldn’t reach
him on his cell. Paul thanked them and turned to face his friends’ wife. Though
he tried to convey calmness, his facial expression betrayed his worry.
Becky began shaking her
head as the first tear formed in her eye.
****
iii
In a matter of a few
moments, Doug would be on Interstate 4 headed for the downtown Orlando
Courthouse. He spent the time on his drive trying to forget about the argument
with Sarah, to get excited about a potential win today, setting aside the part
of him that was completely repulsed by Jasper Davis. Davis was a twice accused
child rapist and murderer who, if it hadn't been for the eagerness of a veteran
cop, who should have known better, may very well have been twice convicted
instead.
He tried to remain
confident and assuring in all of these conversations with Sarah, and tried to
put the thoughts of Annie out of his mind as he read the reports and viewed the
pictures of what this monster did, allegedly, to these two very young
girls. He had to long ago, put the burden where it should be, if just for the
sake of his conscience, on the prosecution to convince the jury of the guilt of
his clients. His handling on the stand of even the most veteran police officer
had made him plenty of well positioned enemies in the legal system of those who
were supposed to protect and serve.
Thanks in large part to his
work, his law firm was being retained by some of the wealthiest criminals and
politicians (was there a difference?) in Central Florida. The firm had
established a reputation of being able to present the basest of individuals as
if they were deserving of sainthood. He fought hard for his clients, even if he
felt that most of them belonged behind bars, or worse.
The scenery of downtown
Orlando whizzed by as he exited I-4 and headed to the courthouse. The familiar
site of 'Waldo' on the corner with his 'will work for food' sign met him at the
corner. 'Waldo' was the name given by the locals to the eccentric homeless man
who dressed almost like the elusive character in the children's books. He could
usually be overheard singing to himself loudly a song no one knew the words or
melody to. Doug gave a gentle nod in Waldo's direction as he turned the corner
and into the courthouse parking lot. The EZ pass beeped as he entered and
followed behind two very slow drivers who apparently weren't that familiar with
the parking garage. 'They have to be new jurors.' He thought to himself.
Once he was able, he zipped
passed the vehicles delaying him and sped on up to the top floor of the garage.
At this time of the morning very few people were parked up here as they
attempted to fill in the garage one empty space at a time filling up one
section at a time and then moving up. The last two floors wouldn't fill up
until about 9:30 and he had his pick of spaces, which he chose to be as close
to the elevators as possible. If he parked close enough to the wall, at least
he was assured that that one side of his car wouldn't get dinged or scratched
by an inept driver, if there was one thing that the city of Orlando had in
abundance, it was inept drivers.
He cut the engine, checked
his tie, grabbed his briefcase and opened the door. The familiar sounds of
idling engines and honking horns wafted up from the lower levels as he smiled
and locked his doors. He turned the corner of the wall into the area where the
elevators were, one on either side of the window overlooking the sparse
courtyard. Checking his blackberry for messages, he punched the elevator button
for down and waited. As he waited for the messages to pop up on screen, the
reflection of a towering figure moved behind him.
Before he could react, a
black bag encased his head and he was shoved face first into the elevator
doors. He dropped his phone and briefcase in an effort to grab at the wall to
prevent himself from going down to the ground.. The attacker spun him around,
slamming Doug’s back into the steel doors. Doug fought to catch his breath as a
single massive hand wrapped around his throat.
A rough voice with an
electronic tone asked, “Does it bother you, Mr. Lipton that you are helping to
let a monster back onto the streets of Orlando?” Doug tried retreating a step,
but had no where to go.
He replied, “Get off of me!
Leave me alone!”
As he turned and twisted
away the hand released him and a loud bang echoed in his ears. For a moment,
Doug thought it may have been a gunshot and he stumbled away feeling himself
for wounds. Through the opening in the bottom of the bag he saw the ceramic
ashtray shattered against the elevator doors. The raspy voice resounded in his
ears, “Leave . . . me . . . alone! Isn’t that what LeAnn said before she was
raped and murdered? Isn’t that what little Brae said before she was strangled
to death? Leave me alone! What about them, do they get justice?”
The figure advanced quickly
causing Doug to swing wildly in self-defense and stumble backward onto the
pavement. His back slammed hard against the immovable concrete and the impact
knocked his breath from him. His gasp for air ended abruptly when a large knee
landed forcibly on his chest. A warm distorted whisper came, “Mr. Lipton, I am
giving you a chance to do the right thing today. Do not let them release that
murderer to kill any more children. I will hold you responsible.” And as
quickly as the attack started, it was over.
Doug lay there bruised,
gasping for air and in shock. He struggled to rise, gather his briefcase and be
on his way when he thought he heard his attackers' footsteps returning. He
tried to find his briefcase to shield himself but could not, and with a last
attempt to breathe, passed out.
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