A Thin Difference

By Frank Turner Hollon

Spinning a new twist to the legal drama genre, Frank Turner Hollon explores the moral and the controversial in his third novel, A Thin Difference.

Jack Skinner is a criminal defense attorney in a small town in Southern Alabama. His personal life has declined into a battlefield of divorces, bitter children, and tax debt, but the courtroom has always been a safe haven from his otherwise dismal life. For twenty-five years he has lived under a terrible allegation that has dominated his existence and alienated his family.

One morning a stranger appears at his office with a pile of cash asking for some minor legal assistance. But two days later the stranger is arrested for the brutal murder of a rich, elderly widow, and Jack takes on the murder case. With his instincts dulled by his belief in his client’s innocence, he sets out to win the biggest case he has ever undertaken. In the process, the two lives of Jack Skinner, his personal and professional, are set on a collision course and the unexpected is only the beginning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dzanc Books
• Release date: Apr 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781945814426

Frank Turner Hollon

Frank T. Hollon is the author of The Pains of April, The God File, A Thin Difference, Life is a Strange Place (Barry Munday), The Point of Fracture, Blood & Circumstance, Glitter Girl and the Crazy Cheese, The Wait, Austin and Emily, The Book of Neil and Jamestown, Alaska. Two Novels, Life is a Strange Place (Barry Munday) and Blood & Circumstance have been adapted to film. Frank lives and practices law in Alabama.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

They never call before they rob the bank. It’s always afterwards. After they’ve killed their wives, or sold a pound of dope at the truck stop, or raped the schoolgirl down the street. Then they call their lawyer. Then they want things to be like they used to be. Some men were never meant to be free. For some men, freedom burns like a meteorite flying through the atmosphere. They’d rather be dead than stay on fire.

I practiced law in south Alabama for thirty years. Mostly criminal defense. Everything else seemed cheap and secondhand. It’s like the difference between the guy who fought World War I knee-deep in the trenches and the guy who drops bombs from the sky and never hears the explosions below that blow the guts out of men with photographs of their children in their back pockets. But I’m just the lawyer. I don’t take the bullet or feel the concussion from the bomb. Usually, the lawyer goes home afterwards. Sometimes, the client doesn’t.

I hear men say they love the law. I never loved the law. I loved the fight. The courtroom always felt like home. Maybe that’s one of the reasons my marriages fell apart and my children ended up hating every bone in my body. I never felt at home with them like I did in front of a judge, or a jury, fighting the good fight, like a dog waiting for the moment when the flesh of the neck is exposed, and the teeth bury, and I can see the fear and acknowledgment in the eye of the wounded. That’s the place to be, even if it’s my neck exposed, and my eye with the flash of fear. Give me the goddamn fight, and stop whining.

My secretary was Rose. She was with me the entire thirty years. We sat one room apart, day after day, in the same office for thirty years, and I swear I couldn’t tell you the names of her children. I slept in that office more nights than I care to remember. Rose always knew, but never said a word. She never said a word about the bottle of whiskey in my bottom drawer, or the female clients who on occasion exchanged services for services, or the cash that sometimes found its way into my pocket under Uncle Sam’s table. To this day Rose Minnefield probably knows more about me than does any other human being on this earth. Unfortunately, most of the things she knows aren’t good. I think she stuck with me all those years because she knew, no matter what, I fought for my clients. I fought just as hard for the poor ones as the rich ones, and just as hard for the guilty as the innocent. I always figured the American justice system functions only as well as its parts. If everybody does their job, the judge, the cops, the prosecutor, the defense attorney, and the jurors, justice tends to prevail. I can’t help it if the other sons-of-bitches don’t do their jobs.

My first wife took the children. The second wife took the money. And the third wife, well, when she left she took with her my fondness for women in general. I have to laugh when I think about her, standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, explaining how she fell in love with the plumber. His name was Jake. I imagine Jake has had the opportunity by now to see her standing in another kitchen, arms crossed, explaining about the new handyman.

I can’t blame her though. She got out while the gettin’ was good. The first two wives waited far too long. They had more of me than any woman deserves. And now they both have good husbands who raised my children. Men, I’m sure, who have learned to resent me for placing them in the dreaded stepfather role. They provided stability for my children, food, medical insurance. They coached Little League baseball, went to swim meets, stayed up all night on Christmas Eve, and yet, hidden deep in the minds of the children was the knowledge that these men, despite their sacrifices, were not and never would be their father. The feeling cannot be placed in words but exists as a colorless and tasteless poison in every glance and awkward hug.

What they don’t know is my position in the hate game. If I work too hard, I’m a cold workaholic. If I don’t provide financially, I’m a deadbeat dad. Besides, I’m the one who ruined their lives. I’m the guy who had the power to make their lives divine and chose instead to satisfy my selfish urges, one by one, until the house of cards and the white picket fence blew away in the winds of decadence.

My financial problems started when Wanda (wife number two) hired a private investigator who followed me to all my nasty haunting grounds. She got the house, alimony, and most everything else. I was already neck-deep in child support and back taxes. The hole got deeper and deeper. Once again, the only refuge was the courtroom. The purity of the confrontation. I just kept working and working, blinded and frustrated. It was this blindness and frustration that dulled my instincts. Instincts I spent my life sharpening and trusting. Generally, I can sit across my desk from a person and know everything I need to know about them in five minutes. But on one occasion, one important occasion, I let my guard down. I let the need for money cloud my judgment. The desire for the fight kept my eyes straight ahead, and the man who keeps his eyes straight ahead has a hard time watching his back.

CHAPTER 2

I met Brad Caine on a Monday. He was sitting quietly in my lobby with a briefcase next to his chair when I came around the corner from my office. My tie was loose at the top and my shirt-sleeves were rolled up.

What can I do ya for? I asked.

You Jack Skinner?

You the tax man?

No, Brad Caine said.

Then I’m Jack Skinner.

He stood and we shook hands. A firm shake, not too hard, not limp, and not too long. One solid up and down and a clean release. He was early thirties, short hair, with a jacket, no tie. He was clean-shaven, about six feet tall, not fat, not skinny.

I’m Brad Caine. I was gonna make an appointment, but nobody was here.

I shuffled through a stack of files on Rose’s desk and said, Yeah, Rose goes to lunch every day around noon. I haven’t been able to break the woman of her eating habit.

Brad Caine laughed slightly.

How long you been here? I asked.

Only a few minutes. Since about twelve-fifteen.

I looked at the clock on the wall. I don’t wear a watch, never have.

My morning case got continued. I’ve got time right now if you wanna sit down. No sense makin’ an appointment I probably won’t be able to keep anyway. I stay in court most of the time, and I’m scheduled to be back up there this afternoon.

That’ll be fine, Brad Caine said.

He followed me down the hall to my office. Whenever I walked down that hallway I always wondered what it smelled like to outsiders. I knew damn well I couldn’t smell anymore the sour odor of the carpet in the kitchen with twenty-year-old coffee stains. Sometimes, on warm days, I could still smell the tobacco smoke sealed in the walls and ceiling from before I quit. Not a day passed without the desire to light up a Marlboro Red and rest my feet up top the old mahogany desk.

Have a seat, young man, I pointed, and then sat down behind my desk. What’s your story?

I pulled a half-used yellow legal pad from a stack near the phone and put pen to paper. I asked the same first question I ask every client.

What’s your mailing address?

Well, I don’t have one down here yet. I’m moving from Birmingham. That’s what I’m here to see you about.

Mr. Caine smiled. I need your help. I plan to open a sports bar down here. I’ve been working in sales the last few years up in Birmingham, saving my money. Gulf Shores doesn’t have a good sports bar. Every beach town should have a place where people can drink beer and watch a game together.

I watched him as he spoke. Like I said earlier, I can usually learn more from a person in the first five minutes than I learn the rest of their lives. Brad Caine seemed fairly well educated, but didn’t grow up a rich boy. He was a salesman, but he wasn’t afraid to stare me straight in the eye, and I’m a pretty difficult bastard to stare in the eye.

And what exactly do you need me for? I asked.

Well, I need a liquor license, and I’ve got a small problem. I’ve got a few felony convictions from when I was younger. I’m sure you know a man can’t get a liquor license with a felony conviction. I need to hire you to get my record expunged and help me get the license. I may not be a rocket scientist, but I’m smart enough to know I’m gonna need a local guy to get things done down here.

Lawyers’ fees fluctuate based upon the potential client’s ability to pay. If you quote too high, you can scare them away. If you quote too low, you kick yourself later. An old lawyer once told me, If the guy’s head doesn’t fly back when you quote your fee, you went too low.

Before I take a client, Mr. Caine, I like to know exactly what I’m being hired to do. Besides expunging your criminal record and helping you to get a liquor license for your sports bar in Gulf Shores, what else would I be helping you with?

I’ll need to get my business started, become a corporation, maybe keep you on retainer to help with my legal problems.

Brad Caine looked at me for a moment before he said, You’re a man who gets things done. I didn’t just walk in here off the street. A guy in Birmingham referred you to me.

Who? I asked.

Charlie Allen.

The name didn’t ring a bell, but that was nothing unusual. I had a habit of asking each new client how they got to me and half the time I didn’t recognize the name of the person who sent them in my direction. In thirty years of practicing law I had represented thousands of people, not to mention the witnesses and cops and jurors I came into contact with each working day.

What kind of felony convictions do you have, and where ?

Burglaries. In Birmingham. Jefferson County.

A nice round number was forming in my mind for the fee. Before I opened my mouth, Brad Caine reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a brown envelope.

Like I said, I’ve been saving my money. I’m not married, I don’t have any kids. Every penny has been set aside, and I know almost exactly how much I’ll need.

He leaned over to hand me the envelope.

He spoke again, I set aside five thousand dollars for the legal expenses. It’s in cash. Will that be a problem?

In the old days I would have leaned back in my big chair and surveyed the situation. But like an old bear, I’d gotten lazy, and of course, like a hungry bear, I needed the fuckin’ money. I took the envelope.

What will our arrangement be? he asked.

I’ll put this in my trust account and work on an hourly basis. You’ll get a bill from me at the end of each month broken down into tenths of hours. You’ll be able to tell how I’m spending my time for you. I’ll pay myself out of your retainer each month until it’s gone. After that, we start all over.

What do you need from me? Brad Caine asked.

A mailing address, your business paperwork, and whatever else you want me to have in my file, I said. And by the way, don’t call here five times a day. I’ll call you back when I get out of court. Don’t drive Rose crazy.

I looked at the clock on the wall. It was twelve forty-five. I hadn’t had lunch yet, and I was due in court by two o’clock.

I opened the envelope and counted the money out loud. It was all there. I put it back in the brown envelope and dropped it in the middle right-hand drawer of my desk.

You hungry? I asked.

I haven’t eaten lunch yet.

Let’s walk across the street to the diner. It ain’t bad. Sometimes Linda slips me a free piece of pie.

We stood to leave, and I walked around my desk. Brad Caine asked, Is it O.K. for me to leave my briefcase here? I’ll grab it after lunch.

Sure, I said, and then asked, Have you got a place down here yet?

He slid the black case between the trash can and the bookcase around the far side of the desk. We walked past Rose’s empty chair and continued our conversation out the door.

No. I’ll have to call or come back by in the next few days and give your secretary my address and phone number and the other information you’ll need. I don’t want to pull the trigger on any deal until I find out about the liquor license. How hard is it to expunge a record?

It depends. It depends on the record, and the judge, and a few other things. I’ve been doin’ this a long time. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.

We sat down in my favorite booth in the corner. I couldn’t figure out whether I liked the guy or not. It didn’t really matter. In my financial state, for the right money, I probably would have bent over the booth if

Reviews for A Thin Difference

[permaswooned · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This was a story about a criminal defense attorney who is sliding down the slippery slope of alcoholism and failed marriages and relationships. He goes to work. He goes home and drinks. Still, he is generally able to function. He takes on a fairly hopeless case which takes some very, very surprising twists. Sad characters, but a well told story.