The Guardian (11 page)

       Lydia yawned, rubbed her eyes, and shook her head as if it would wake her up.  She’d drank a gallon of water in the last five hours, but she still felt thirsty.  She hadn’t slept much last night either; too busy thinking about Edward Miles’ investigative tendencies in an effort to assist in freeing his daughter, Dawn’s shrine-like bedroom, and the sadness in Sylvia’s eyes.  She said she’d never let her work consume her personal life, but the Miles case had found its way to her heart, through the brick wall she’d built around herself.  She’d been haunted by it.  Even in her dreams; a dream she never experienced before.  There’d been several men, all dressed in black.  They carried long knives and big guns, but she couldn’t see their faces.  At first, she thought the men were enraged convicted drug dealers she’d attempted to defend in the past, and they were
all
coming to kill her at one time, in one dream, but just as each of them readied himself to pounce upon her, laughing and growling like tigers, that’s when she realized they were not her convicted clients.  Looking up with terror-stricken eyes and shielding herself from their wrath, she stared into a dozen faces of Amos Jones.

       "What's the matter, George?"
       What would make you think something is wrong?" he shuffled across the room with a handful of papers and a grimace of fatigue.  He looked like an aged college professor -- all of that grey hair strewn about his large head and those suspenders clasping the waist rim of his polyester slacks.  Thick bifocals hung for dear life on the tip of his nose. 

       She peered at him over wire rimmed glasses, a look that said,
Really
?
       “Tell me.  What made you take that case?”
       “Which one?” she stacked files on her desk.
       “Dawn Miles,” he responded sarcastically, as if she didn’t know.
       “Well, Initially, her first cousin.  We attended Southern University together.  When he called me and told me about the case, I found it kind of depressing.  I could hear the anguish in his voice as he told me he watched her grow up and how beautiful she was.  He even remembered how her mother used to brush her hair into two ponytails, spiraling each plait like little candy curls.  But when I met her parents, I knew I had to take the case.  Those are some really good people.  Her dad's been an educator for almost thirty years and her mom is a seamstress.  Hardworking people, George.  Like you and me.”
       George scratched his head. “I don’t like her.”
       Lydia chuckled, “Why? You don't even know her, but you don't like anyone, George--”
       “That girl’s lying.  I'm telling you, Lydia.  She's covering up something so sinister— “He spoke stressing his point with a finger.  “I can feel it.” A hand shot to his chest.  “Felt it the moment I met her.”
       “I don't think so.  She's just naive and got caught up with the wrong people.  Besides you always told me you didn't like teenagers.  And that’s all she is.  A naïve teenage girl--” 
       “And a stupid one!  If she were my daughter, I'd leave her ass to rot in that jail!”
       “No you wouldn't,” she chuckled.
       “Bet I would.  You gotta be stuck on stupid to do what she did for five hundred dollars.”
       “Yeah, maybe, but she's no drug dealer nor is she a mule.  She would’ve never driven that dope back to Louisiana for Amos Jones.  No way.  I'd bet my law degree on that –“
       “And
he's
been in and out of jail since he was thirteen.  She knew that.  Small town like Lafayette is, no damn way she didn't know he had a reputation for being a drug dealer." He saw alert materialize on her face.  Had she not considered the obvious?
       “You might have a point, but I don’t believe she knew about the drug deal.  I don't believe she would've
knowingly
driven those drugs back to Louisiana.”
       “Think about it.  Amos Jones owns a trucking company.  Right?” he leaned against her desk.

       “Right.”

       “He has trucks.  Drivers.  Drivers, Lydia!  What on earth did he need Dawn for? And why pay her five hundred dollars to drive him to look for a broken down vehicle on the side of a Texas highway?” 

       “Maybe he likes her.  Flash a lil’ cash, you always get the girl.”

       George guffawed.  “Why won't you see what we’re defending here?”
       “She's not guilty, George.  You gotta trust me.”

       “What do you know about her?  Have you spoken to her parents? I mean, in person?”

       “Yes.  I went to their home in Lafayette.  Her father cooked the best meal, her mother showed me Dawn’s room.  She has religious candles burning everywhere.  They love their daughter.  Those people are upstanding in the society.  Dawn just made a mistake.  Lots of teenagers make that mistake, George.  Please don’t fight me on this --”

       “I’ve scoured her file inside out and upside down.  She’s nineteen-years old, born and raised in Lafayette, Louisiana.  She attended USL, majored in nursing, chemical engineering, even English.  Withdrew like a dumb ass last fall.  She started working at Kinko’s Copy Center the summer she finished high school.  She’s known Amos Jones since high school.  Did you know that?  Was close friends with his girlfriend, a mother of
one
of his seven children.  Bet you didn’t know that either, huh?  Maybe she’s the one trying to get in his bed!  And the only way she knew to get his attention, prove she was worthy of his affection, was to be a mule.  Traffic his drugs back to Louisiana.  Be his scapegoat --” George took a breath.  “I don’t like this case, Lydia.  And I don’t like the girl we’re defending.  But I trust your decision, whatever that is.” He gestured as if he’d given up pleading his case.  “Just don’t let me say ‘I told you so’ in three months when the trial is over and she’s headed to prison.”

       “George, if we can strike a deal with the prosecutor Connie Nguyen— “

       George laughed as boisterous as fake Santa Claus in a shopping mall after Thanksgiving.  “Connie Nguyen is
not
going to make a deal with that stupid girl.  Are you out of your mind?”

       “I think she’ll cut a deal --”

       “Lady, you make me want to take my wallet out and make a gambling bet.  And gambling is illegal in Texas.” George pounded a closed fist vehemently into his palm. “Dawn Miles is going to prison!  Did you know Amos Jones hired Bernard Delacroix?” George interjected dryly.   The very mention of the man’s name was like a heat wave burning across George’s whole body, making him perspire more than he already was, but he knew this bit of information would get her blood boiling.

       “Are you serious?  His fee is a minimum three hundred thousand!”

       “Now, tell me what kind of people we’re dealing with.  Amos, or s-somebody posted his million-dollar bond.  In cash.  Just last night.  And now, the most expensive counsel in the state of Texas is representing him?  Where’s that kind of money come from?”  And before Lydia could get a word in: “I’ll tell you where it came from!  The mafia.  The drug cartel.”  Theatrically he spoke
the drug cartel
and felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to bristle.  “This case stinks like shit out of a cow’s ass!”

       “Think he’ll talk to us, George?” she remained calm through his rant.

       “Who?  Delacroix?  Heavens no! And even if he
would
indulge us, Lydia, I’m not sharing the
air
with the likes of that sonofabitch— “

       “But you’ve been around the courthouse for ages— “Lydia swallowed her words.  She realized she had struck a chord about George’s age, but meant it in the most professional sense; he was respected by everyone, even the judges.  She’d been humbled and honored when he’d hired her as a law clerk thirteen years ago.  “Then I’ll go talk to him— “

       He reddened with fury.  “You’ll do no such thing!” George’s voice seemed to shake the walls, but didn’t falter Lydia’s idea of visiting Bernard Delacroix.

       “But we need to know who hired him, George--”
       “We
do
know who hired him, Lydia!  It’s
not
rocket science!  It
wasn’t
his parents, that’s for sure!  Think about
that
and consider what kind of man
Delacroix himself
must be to deal with the likes of
those
kinds of people!”
                                                                        ¤     ¤     ¤
And she did think about it. 

Lydia’d thought about it like her
own
life depended on it, as she steered her two-seater Mercedes into the parking lot of the dignified law office of Delacroix & Munsen, which seemed to take up an entire city block of downtown Houston.
       She’d never seen George that mad. 
It’s not
rocket science…dummy
!  Of course she knew who’d hired Bernard Delacroix.  Only the drug cartel possessed that kind of money.
       That kind of power. 

       But she needed to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

       And that’s exactly what information she intended to get.  

       Delacroix’s five hundred-thousand-dollar ghost black Rolls Royce Phantom was parked discreetly inside the built-in garage just steps away from a back door.   Easy in.  Easy out.  She noted
NTGILTY
pressed in the license plate.

       Lydia entered the stately building and surveyed the elaborate lobby – an ornate chandelier suspended from the thirty-foot ceiling, Italian White marble floors, tufted leather sofas and leopard pelt chairs, a cascading waterfall in the farthest corner of the room, and tastefully appointed greenery throughout, even a fresh floral spray on the coffee table in front of her.  Several high-priced oil paintings hung on rich crimson painted walls.  Of them, she recognized
Portrait of Dr. Gachet --
one of the most esteemed paintings by Van Gogh and
Garçon à la Pipe
by Pablo Picasso.  She’d taken an art elective in school many moons ago, and remained enchanted by the styles of the period.  Those two paintings alone were valued at two
hundred
million dollars!  Lydia wondered now: Had Delacroix and Munsen spent that much money on fine art?  Or were the invaluable works recompense from criminals like those who’d bailed Amos Jones out of jail?
       Lydia was admiring the shark aquarium when a lady’s voice trailed from the ten-foot tall bullet-proof glass doors.  “Mr. Delacroix will see you now, Miss Hall.”  The shark was toying with a piece of meat.  Lydia found the creature fascinating and apparently the lady realized it as well.  She raised her voice an octave: “Follow me, please.” She smiled through shimmering lips of vibrant red gloss. 

       Trailing the blond with the expensive haircut and red silk romper, Lydia couldn’t help but notice the lady’s choice of shoes – nude patent leather on stilts – six inch red bottoms.  Just looking at those shoes made her feet hurt!  Who in their right mind wears silk and patent leather shoes like that to an office?

       Perfectly formed legs walked languidly at a casually slow pace, as if allowing Lydia adequate time to admire the beauty of this part of the building – cherry stained coffered walls and ceilings (at least forty feet in height), Ivy league diplomas, framed photographs of Bernard Delacroix and Thaddeus “Ted” Munsen posing with various presidents, including Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, George W. Bush Sr., and Bill Clinton. What she found most intriguing were the authentic tribal masks and hunting spears securely enclosed in illuminated glass cabinets.  Each piece priceless and unique from various continents around the globe.  The hand carved hunting spear, with its lethal ivory tip, conjured up images of the make-shift weapons inmates made out of plastic toothbrushes -- chiseled to a deadly point with the blade of state-issued razors.  Those who’d perished from such wounds died an awfully painful death.  A stab to one’s vital organs, with such a rugged edged weapon and with the right amount of force, could kill a man in minutes -- the same method the indigenous populations used centuries ago to capture their prey and fight off enemies.
       Stepping into an elevator one minute and exiting moments later, the lady smiled and gestured toward a set of black double doors.  No door handle.  No name plate.  No distinguishing features to signify whose office it was or if it indeed
was
an office.  There’s a reason for that, Lydia thought.   Had a disgruntled client or worst, a rash of cartel gang members, made it passed the bullet proof doors and found the hidden elevator, they’d never think twice to investigate …
       Lydia pushed against the dismal entry door and heard a faint buzzing noise.  Opulent marble floors spanned the spacious office and cream leather sofas (situated in an L-shape and exquisitely positioned in front of a massive ten-foot fireplace) was what she saw before peering out over what seemed like the entire city of Houston.   Romanesque sculptures, at least ten feet tall, grasped mighty swords and peered down at her with watchful eyes like guards.  Perched high above on the mantle sat the granddaddy of all paintings – Leonardo Da Vinci’s
Mona Lisa
.
       Six pairs of life-like eyes watched her as she went.   She could feel their gazes on her back.
       In the center of the room, a round conference table with wood and leather chairs sat before her.  And in the distant curve, a massive desk of intricate detail stood on mighty legs as if in an instant, it could take off running toward her like a hungry beast.  It was there that the muted sunshine cascaded across the white haired head and shoulders of a lone man seated at the man eating bureau.
       “Mr. Delacroix?”  Lydia swallowed hard and drew herself up straight.
       He didn't bother to look up and greet his guest; his attention was focused on a pile of documents lying on the creature’s back in front of him.   Except for the murmur of classical music whispering from invisible speakers, the room was quiet as a mouse.
       "I was wondering when you and the old man would show up.  I'm quite surprised it took this long--" he finally lifted his head from the papers and peered at her over the rim of clear frames.   "Where's George?  Please." He said, indicating an empty chair.
       “I came alone.  He has no idea I'm even here."  She sat, cautiously staring at the baroque piece of furniture as if she thought it would awaken.
       Delacroix rose from an enormous Georgian wing back chair trimmed in gold and shook her hand with an unreasonably firm grip, as though reminding her they were on opposing sides.  Success and wealth exuded about him, from his starched white long sleeves with embossed cuffs and collar, gold and diamond cufflinks, to his tailored pants.  But that gaudy gold and diamond ring didn’t compliment.  Such a show off, she thought.  His demeanor exuded success, which indeed, he was.
       “How’s George these days?” he asked, returning to his seat.  “I see he hasn’t retired yet," he probed as he shoved the incessant paperwork aside.  The highest paid criminal attorney in Texas history, he reminded Lydia of Old Saint Nick than high-dollar counsel with his snow white head of hair and bushy white beard that looked like a fluffy white rabbit was sitting on his chin.
       "He’s well.  And no, he hasn’t retired and I seriously doubt he’s even considering it."  She found herself focused on his sea blue eyes; the kind of eyes that looked right through a person, especially her, especially now.
       "It must be quite taxing to work with a man so set in his ways.  Stone age law of sorts.” He puckered his rat hole of a mouth, as if he realized the ignorance slipping off his own tongue.  Folding his hands on crossed knees, he added: “What do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Miss Hall?"  Delacroix’s eyes pinned her to the chair.
       His impertinence confirmed every assumption.  Not only was he boisterously wealthy, well-traveled, and pretentious, he was an asshole.   And it took every fiber of Lydia’s being not to tell him exactly how she felt, but being the charismatic professional she knew herself to be, she remained in control and poised.
       "Who hired you to defend Amos Jones, Mr. Delacroix?" she asked earnestly.
       "Who
hired
me?  Oh, come on.” his eyebrows furrowed, as he folded his arms across his chest, leaned back in his chair, and shot her a ‘you must be crazy’ look.  “Are you serious?  No wonder George isn't here. He'd never be so insulting. Unless ordered by Judge Pope, Ms. Hall, I am not inclined to disclose that kind of information."
       “My client comes from a very good family, Mr. Delacroix.  She's a decent person.  No record of criminal history, unlike Mr. Jones ---"
       "Now you insult my client?" he quipped.
       Her words grew stern and her eyes direct: "Ms. Miles has facts that will bury
your
client, Mr. Delacroix.  Her life may be in danger by the people who hired you.  Everyone knows you're the highest paid attorney in all of Texas.  I'm simply looking out for her safety and the safety of her family –“
       He shifted in his chair, uncrossing his legs. “Is that so?  Well, what sort of facts are we talking here?” He leaned forward, placed his arms on his desk, and folded his hands.  “Are you prepared to discuss those facts now? 
Right now
, Ms. Hall?”  His voice, almost a whisper through clenching teeth.
       “Help me, help you, Mr. Delacroix.  What kind of people are we dealing with?”
       “Rich people, Ms. Hall.  Very,
very
rich people.  Now, if you would excuse me – “ he looked at his diamond encrusted timepiece, then back at her.  “—I have a rather important meeting in twenty minutes –“
       “Is that what drives you, Mr. Delacroix?  Money?  Power?”
       He chuckled.  “Why, what else is there, Ms. Hall?”
       “Dignity.  Integrity.  People like Dawn Miles and her parents need our help right now.  Is it too much to ask for you to put wealth aside just this once?”
       “My minimum fee is three hundred thousand dollars, Ms. Hall, and unless the Miles’ can afford that, then they are stuck with you.”
       Marred by his ignorance, Lydia stared at him speechlessly as she rose from her chair.  Her blood boiled with anger.  She started for the door, then turned around, looked him right in the eye and said bravely, “My father died when I was eight.  My mother raised all seven of us by herself in a wood framed house she still lives in to this day.  Not one night did any of us go hungry, or wonder where our next meal was coming from.   And when I decided I wanted to attend law school, she worked day and night to make sure I’d finish with no student loans.”  She felt tears swell in her eyes.  “Do you have a family, Mr. Delacroix?  Is there anyone waiting for you when you get home at night?”
       Delacroix looked unmoved.  Uninterested.  He sighed, put his elbows on the desk, and folded his hands.  A moment passed, then he responded: “I was the youngest of seven, too, Ms. Hall.  My parents didn’t give me a dime.  Said if I didn’t work for all I needed, including my education, I would be a poor man begging on the street.  I have worked for
everything
I own, and I put
myself
through school and so have my own children.”
       Stony silence ensued between them.  Lydia heard the soft ticking of her own watch.  No, that was her heart, pattering.  Her blood thumped wildly in her ears.  All of the air seemed to leave the room when he finally spoke.
       “Well?” he queried caustically, relaxing in the wing back, relishing in superiority.
       Lydia looked wounded and as she paced across the spacious office toward the door, she could feel Delacroix’s eyes delivering their final blow, burning against her back, down her legs, and even upon the heels of her feet. 
       Disgust and fury steered her out of the parking lot of Delacroix and Munsen and onto the 610 beltway.  Where she was headed? 
She
didn’t even know.  She just knew she needed to drive and think.  Now she understood why George despised the man so much.  Didn’t care to share the air with him.  And he probably wouldn’t spit on him if he were on fire.