Where to Now?

By Rod Rogers

Where to now? It is a question Len Arial repeatedly asks himself. As a personal injury lawyer, in the picturesque city of Charleston, SC, he is frustrated with his seemingly meaningless legal status. Once a dedicated prosecutor, Len is floundering in his own moral ambiguity, and sense of worth. Everything changes with one phone call. His closest friend,

Detective TJ Jackson, informs him that their old nemesis, simply known as Billy Jack, is out of prison and back to settle-up. Murder, terror, and extensive world-wide felonious activities are a way of life, for this diabolical, sophisticated, and highly intelligent master criminal. Facing off with Billy Jack, in a frantic struggle, are Arial, and three very close friends. TJ Jackson, the superlative cop, who came through the projects and his own version of hell. Josie Jackson, noted microbiologist, who supports her husband against Billy Jack. Hannah Baktiar, also an extraordinary cop, escaped the repressive regime in Iran. All, of these lives, and many more are stories within the story, each interesting, and desperate, in their own way. In a tale of suspense, intrigue and terror, four people, battling their own internal demons, are in a turbulent cauldron, where the perplexity, of good and evil, intermingle in a clash of cultural values. Who will survive to redefine themselves? Where to now?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462003655

Rod Rogers

Rod Rogers has spent a lifetime studying human interaction and behavior. From his origins in rural South Carolina through military, academic, urban, and suburban lifestyles, he has experienced a wide range of human relationships. He now resides in Charleston, South Carolina. Rogers is the author of the Civil War Epic: BLUE-GRAY MIST AND A BLACK DAWN

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Where to

Now?

missing image file

Rod Rogers

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Where to Now?

Copyright © 2011 by Rod Rogers

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4620-0363-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-0364-8 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-0365-5 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011903926

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 04/07/2011

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Dedication

My best wisdom for my grandchildren and all grandchildren:

Achievement can only equal what you expect from yourself. Expect nothing, get nothing. Expect greatness, get greatness. Rod Rogers

Chapter One

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Where to now? The continuing question rattled in Len’s head, yet again. He looked across his desk, at his potential clients, and literally wanted to scream the question at them. What was he doing here? Why was he doing this? What was he thinking, when he started practicing this kind of law? Who needs this? Indeed, where to now?

The obvious answer always was quick to jump out, and kick him in his vital senses. When $300,000 was considered a very bad year, this should be a good job. Oh yes, there was the $125,000 going toward his ex-wife’s alimony, and child support, for his two teenagers. Their private school, and college on the horizon, was his responsibility. His mother was in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s. There was not even sporadic help from his older brother, Conrad, and younger sister Katlin. That was the brother, who only came around with his hand out, or called when he was being arrested for drug possession. Good little brother, Len, was right there as his lawyer, on a pro bono basis, of course. Katlin followed very much the same path, leaning on her brother’s legal background, for an assortment of self-inflicted legal issues.

Our friend—got a cousin at law school—says we ougt’n git least a million—after yo fee. The large Caucasian woman nodded her head back and forth, very confidently. Her slightly built, African-American husband stared straight ahead, not very sure about the whole process. A million dollars sounded awfully good, though, whatever the procedure. He was already mentally spending the imaginary windfall.

Mrs. Brown, would that be the cousin, or the friend? The retort just jumped out, before Len could stop it. He had been through this same conversation many times. There was no shortage of people, hoping to get rich, using the legal system. His patience wore thin, very quickly.

What you mean? The terse reply went right past the avaricious Mrs. Brown. Right now, she was only interested in getting a big fat check.

Which one says you should get the mill—never mind. Len put his hands to his face, avoiding the puzzled, but expectant, looks on the Brown’s faces. They both looked much older, than their real age, somewhere in the mid-thirties. Neither had a steady job, but picked up employment on a random basis. SNAP benefits, or food stamps, and unemployment checks rounded out their subsistence. Without question, they thought they were owed something, and the law firm of Akins and Associates was supposed to get it for them. Why not? They lived in a crime infested trailer park, just outside of North Charleston. This could be their chance to really cash-in and get out. A lot of people had done it, why not them?

Well, what’a ya think? Mrs. Brown looked at her frowning husband. How ‘bout we get two million—dat ‘bout right. She curled her mouth and chin together, nodding approval.

Mrs. Brown, Len got out of his chair, and walked over to the window. From the fifth floor window, he could see a portion of historic Charleston SC, and even part of the harbor. There were the huge cranes, working the ships coming in and out. Maybe, he should be down there with the justice department, thwarting and prosecuting terrorists. After all, they jailed them in the Navy Brig, a few miles to the North. As a lawyer, prosecuting major international criminals had been his fantasy. Why not do it? Why? Even if he could make the change at 44 years old, he would make, at best, a third of his current earnings: government benefits notwithstanding. That would crimp a lot of people’s life style.

What? Both Browns were waiting for the good news.

Mrs. Brown—Mr. Brown, Len looked at his would-be clients. The words just blurted out. Do you know the chances of the preverbal ‘snowball in hell’?

Mr. Brown suddenly came to life. You sayin—we ain’t git no money from dis—we wants big money, Mr. Lawyer Man. We been damaged—dat wat dey say—we been damaged.

Mrs. Brown rushed to agree. God—damn right, dey got to pay up—we wants our money—now.

Len looked back out of the window. He took a deep breath, to keep from escalating the curtness of his rhetoric. His eyes wondered over the parking lot, across the street, where many of the paralegals parked their cars. They would fit very well with his five-year-old Buick Century. In the reserved covered parking deck, on the first floor, his car appeared very much out-of-place, with the BMW’s, Mercedes, Cadillac’s, etc of his colleagues. He made more money than just a couple, of the other fifteen, or so, personal injury lawyers, in the firm. It did not show up in personal life style. He talked into the window. You don’t have much of a case—in fact—you have no case.

Mrs. Brown exploded at that revelation. Bullshit—that truck hurt me up bad—dey got to pay-up, now—we needs it.

There was no concern, about Mrs. Brown’s commotion disturbing the office. This was not the first time; a potential client became irate, because they were not going to get their way. Len tried hard to keep his composure. He was not sure, whether his feelings had to do with unreasonable expectations, or because he increasingly hated his participation. Mrs. Brown, Len’s voice was benign, but his head was spinning. You ran into that truck.

Don’t matter. Mrs. Brown was not backing off. It was in da wrong and has to pay.

It was parked, Mrs. Brown.

It were stuck out too far.

Mrs. Brown, Len came back and sat at his desk. Here is the Police report, and granted, in South Carolina, you can get around that. But, the truck was parked in a designated loading zone—making deliveries. You hit it—they could sue you. Oh, wait a minute—you were cited for not having any insurance—so, there’s no point in that—is there?

Mr. Brown saw his sudden wealth going up in smoke. Ain’t right—we got damaged—that company wit da truck got dem ah—ah—.

Deep pockets?

Yeah—dat—dey can pay up—or we gone sue.

Ah, Mr. Brown, Len sighed at the hopeless naivety. Clips is a huge company, with trucks making deliveries all over the country. Don’t you understand—they have gone through this a thousand times? They have huge legal resources that will chew-up any frivolous lawsuit.

Mr. Brown was livid. Same old thing—white man screwin’ da black man—same old thing.

Len had heard this before, also. Mr. Brown, your wife is white—.

Don’t matter—same old thing. Mr. Brown was not interested in any relevant facts, which took his mythical fortune away.

Mr. Brown—your wife has a broken nose and bruises. She was not wearing a seat belt. It was Mrs. Brown’s fault. There is no money in it for us, much less a million dollars.

Mrs. Brown was not ready to go quietly, either. Yeah, you won’t do nothing, if’n you don’t get paid—you ain’t wantin’ to do it. Get some of doz experts to ah—ah—.

Lie? Len was tired of it. We don’t do that, but you are absolutely right. If there is no money for us, there is no money for you, and that is the point of the whole thing. I’m sorry—there is nothing we can do for you. Len stood up to signify that the meeting was over. You certainly can try another firm, or you can talk to one of several African-American attorneys in our firm, if that is a concern.

Mrs. Brown pulled her large form to her feet. The bruises around her eyes were mostly gone, with some remaining Brownish patches. Dat ad—you do on da TV—is just a great big lie—ain’t it? You only care ‘bout yourself—not us—like you say on TV.

Len cringed at the advertising, for which he had a personal distaste. I’m sorry you feel—.

Stop, with the bullshit. Mr. Brown backed toward the door. You not sorry ‘bout shit. We gone find someone to git our money. You wait—we git somebody.

Good luck with that. Len was talking to an open door. He sat down and threw up his hands. He hated the ads, featuring the principal of Akins and Associates. The part about the free consultation was especially exasperating. In reality, though, that was the business, and had been for a long time. Len was a part of it, whatever his personal feelings happen to be. Modern marketing techniques, from TV to the internet, were major components of the business. Yes, that’s what it was—a business. He and the rest of the people, in the office, were in it for the money. It might as well be an insurance or real estate office. In the end, you have to have clients, a-k-a customers, or you have nothing.

Lenmore Grant Ariel returned to the window, where he was spending an ever increasing amount of time. Once more, he replayed his life, trying to understand how he got here. He kept telling himself; it was a normal mid-life crises. Unfortunately, it did not matter what it was. It just was. In his soul, he did not like his life, or what he was doing, money or not. Certainly, he had helped many people, who rightfully deserved to be compensated, for their injuries and suffering. In those many cases, where the truth, at best, marginally favored his clients, he reverted to the principal of law; his obligation was to the client, not the truth. That is what made the system work, right—right—maybe? He had indeed learned to work the system.

What were the options? Were there any? Len often wished that he had talents as an artist, whether it was a painter, writer, actor, or whatever. If he had such a talent, perhaps before he was so overwhelmed, he could have pursued that kind of passion, even if it were to obscurity and poverty. At most, Len had tried to pick at the guitar, still encased in his condominium. At one time, he even tried out for a rock group, but was woefully lacking in skill. At least, he gave it a try. Len was not an artist. He was a lawyer—a personal injury lawyer.

How did he become a lawyer? Lenmore Arial literally stumbled into the profession. Yes, it was the money. There was money in the law. His father had been a career naval petty officer. Len had no idea, what he wanted to do in life, other than he did not want to be in the Navy, like his father. They were stationed in Hawaii, when he was born, and in Charleston, when Len finished High School. The state-supported College of Charleston was close by, and he qualified as an in-state student. With a student loan, partial baseball scholarship, and staying at home, he sought to secure a degree in English, and a minor in chemistry. Certification, as a high school teacher, at best, was a fallback position. If he could not find, whatever he wanted to do with his life, at least, Len would have the credentials to make a living.

Whatever never seemed to jump out, so when he entered his senior year, Len considered some kind of graduate school. When that last year began, Len’s father, a decorated Viet Nam and thirty-year Veteran, dropped dead with an aneurysm. It was only six months, before he was to retire from the navy. It was surprisingly easy, for Len to get through that, as he realized later. His father had been gone, on extended tours of shipboard duty, for most of Len’s life. Winslow Ariel drank heavily. When at home, he spent most of his time, drinking with his navy cronies. It was Len’s mother, with whom he was close and dependent. Now, she was dependent on him. Conrad came for the military funeral, and left immediately after. Katlin showed up in an acute drunken stupor. She was left at home to sleep it off. As soon as she was somewhere near sobriety, Katlin took off.

Len had to take care of his mother, as well as, finish school. After all the years of coping, with an absentee husband and three children, Sarah Ariel broke down and never fully recovered. Len, using navy benefits, was able to buy a modest house in Mt Pleasant, where they lived his senior year. Sarah required constant attention, forcing him to forego his final college baseball season, as an outfielder, and sometime relief pitcher. It did not turn out to be a major sacrifice. Advancement, beyond college baseball, was not going to happen. He was one, of a few team members, who received modest scholarship money, for their efforts. It was necessary, therefore, to find a way to make that up. He managed, with an obscure scholarship for children of service veterans.

With the demands of his mother, Len found himself loping through his last year. One thing, he discovered about himself; Len Arial was an intelligent person. His grades, with half of his former study time, did not suffer greatly. The experience, in that year, gave him confidence in his intellect, and his ability to cope with life’s real problems. Looking out the window of Akins and Associates, Len was not particularly impressed with his intellect, or the choices, he had made with his life. Coping was just not good enough. Lenmore Grant Ariel was floundering in a sea of ambiguity, without a life preserver in sight.

I take it—there’s no money with the Browns. The smallish sixty-two year Nathaniel Akins was more serious, than he tried to sound. As a thirty-seven year New Jersey transplant, with a Yale law degree, his accent was all over the place. If anyone fit the ambulance chaser image, it was Nate Akins. From the top of his dyed implanted brown hair, to his expensive suits, and wing tip shoes, Akins looked the part. He also talked and acted the part. The ads, in which he was the spokesperson, on local television, made him appear as a grandfatherly persona. Nate was the image of a kindly caring man, who was going to look after the powerless. In reality, he was the modern version of the personal injury lawyer. Akins would take the most marginal of clients, and push the law to the very edge of its tolerance.

No, Nate, Len had been through this post interview interrogation, many times. If Nate believed, there was any money here; another interview would be scheduled, by another lawyer. Nate wanted to assure himself that several thousand dollars did not walk out the door. The Clips lawyer told me not to even think about it. Nate, there is no case—not even close.

Nate nodded his head. They’ll go to the mat, huh. A lot of time and no money—guess it’s better to let it go. You know Clips can pay out a lot of dough—wish there was something there for us. Nate’s mouth almost salivated at the deep money well, represented by the huge office supply company. He was not even close to being intimidated, by the Clips’ legal powerhouse. He represented the little people. Nate could win the public relations battle every time, against the big corporations. On the rare times, they actually went to trial; the jury was almost always sympathetic to the little people.

Yeah, well, maybe next time, the Clips truck will be more accommodating, and do something close to negligence. We really don’t want these law abiding Clips’ drivers on the street—where are the reckless drunk ones?

Nate made no effort to strike back at the sarcasm. He knew Len was a first rate lawyer. More importantly, he brought in a lot of money. His sense of honor, though, often in the way, made him an excellent representative for the firm, in many situations. Nate only regretted that, even at his high level of performance, Len was just scratching the surface of his potential. Okay, we’ll get the next one. What’s up with that Thomas thing?

Oh yes, Len expected Nate to be pleased with this news. The insurance company is going to pony up a hundred twelve thousand, for medical, lost of work, and, of course, pain and suffering.

All right! Nate was too far away, to give Len a high five, or fist shake, so he threw both hands in the air, like they scored a touchdown. We would have been happy with half of that. Man, you are good.

Len did not share his boss’s enthusiasm. Yeah, Mr. Thomas is going to take his pain and suffering, on a ‘well deserved’ vacation. Apparently, he is going to rent a place up at Myrtle Beach, and see a few shows, or go to Disney World. His limp will be miraculously cured, just as he passes the Charleston City Limits.

That’s what we are here for. Nate always tried to match Len’s sarcasm with reality. We insure the big guys compensate our clients for their injuries. You’re doing a heck of job for us. As much as he would like to verbally chastise, instead of praise Len, for his disdain, Nate was always focused on the mission of his law firm. That mission had made him an extremely wealthy man. He was a mega-millionaire, but Nate Akins wanted much more.

Len was hand-picked by Nate, particularly, for the few cases that actually went to court. In Len, he had an intelligent gifted litigator. He did not want to lose him. Why? Somewhere, out there, the really big one was coming. Maybe, it would not be Exxon Valdez, or the tobacco suit handled by the large firm, over in Mt Pleasant, but really big. Nate was constantly in pursuit of the big one. He had every faith that it was coming. This would be the suit, which would define his career and his law firm. His ego demanded that Akins and Associates handle it, with minimal farming out, or co-counseling, to other firms. Lenmore Ariel was the key, his quarterback, for that coming bonanza. And, it was coming. Nate Akins knew—it was coming.

Thank you—I’m trying. Nate attempted to acknowledge the compliment, but it just was not the same, as when he worked with the Solicitor’s Office. As an assistant district attorney, he had gained great satisfaction, in putting away some of the jurisdiction’s worst criminals. With over a 90% conviction rate, the Solicitor increasingly gave the young prosecutor, most of the difficult and dangerous cases.

Threats, on his person, became a way of life. There were people, both in prison and out, claiming Lenmore Ariel was going to get his. Though, he rarely carried it anymore, Len still had a 10mm Glock-20, with up-to-date permits, including concealed weapon. Maybe, he was just being paranoid, but he spent a couple of hours each month, on the firing range. It was, perhaps, tied to his fantasy of fighting terrorists. In any case, it was some diversion, from the life he increasingly disliked.

Do you need help with any of your other cases? Nate made the obligatory offer, with the redundant question, which would bring a redundant answer.

Len turned back, glanced at Nate, and mindlessly shuffled through some papers. He moved his right hand over, and hit a few keys on his computer. If he actually looked at something, regarding a case, it was by accident. No, everything is pretty much on track. Oh, the Vanbergs will get sixty-eight K, which is going straight to the hospital. That child is going to need a lot of therapy, and maybe another operation.

Nate was puzzled. How did you get the Vanbergs to do that? Didn’t they want to handle the money?

Yep, and if they got the money, it would all go up their noses, or in their arms. Oh, they wanted to buy a new car. Those damn people should be in jail. Who turns a four-year-old loose on Meeting St., while they grab a beer? Good thing, it was only a Mini-Cooper, and not a Clips truck. I indicated to them—it would be better if we handled the hospital. The Solicitor might get suspicious, if the child’s needs were not met first.

Nate’s head jerked. I didn’t know the Solicitor was involved in that.

Len smirked. You never know—do you?

You’re not a prosecutor, anymore, Len. Your clients are—.

That little boy—the Vanbergs can go to hell, which they will sooner or later. They are very fortunate—I am not a prosecutor, anymore, or that our legal ethics do not allow us to bring this to social services. They have no business having children, but that little boy loves them—ah crap—what a system.

Nate was quick to take umbrage, at the disparagement of his lucrative profession. It’s the best system in the world, and we make it work.

Yeah, right, we man the ramparts of freedom and justice for all. The sarcasm was unusually thick. Len had long since stop trying, to hide his ambivalent relationship, with the type of law he was practicing. Ah, what the hell, it was a living, and his personal obligations needed this kind of law. Anyway, I’ll let you know if anything comes up. The Vanbergs will probably get another thirty-forty K straight to them. Their dealer will be happy with that.

Okay, let me know. Nate voice was more abrupt, than he intended. He expected the snide remarks, from the uninitiated public, but not from his own associates. Providentially, in Len, he had a star. His marquee lawyer could walk out and hook-up with another firm, on his first phone call. Nate also understood the turmoil in Len’s personal life. It was easy to write off his remarks, as blowing off steam. In the end, as he left the office, he knew Len’s motivation was the same as his. There was money in the law.

Len’s eyes wandered to the separate pictures, of his two daughters. Janice was sixteen and every bit the female juvenile parents dreaded. She was pretty, smart, and thoroughly convinced that she knew more than either, of her highly educated and experienced parents, could ever know. Ginger was not yet fourteen, and, so far, was the antithesis of her sister. Cute, but more studious and serious, Ginger was already anticipating what she would do in life. Above all, she was a daddy’s girl, often admonishing her older sister, about her lack of respect.

Janice, in Len’s view, was the product of a broken marriage, plus the overindulgence, and the lack of discipline and expectations, typical of her generation. Ginger was just pure luck. After the challenge of Janice, Ginger seemed almost like a compensating gift. Both daughters attended the prestigious Ashley Hall all-girls preparatory school. It was an excellent institution. This excellence was costing Len close to $40,000/yr. Hopefully, it was worth it.

Another sigh passed through Len’s nasal cavities. What happened to the world that he hoped to make for himself? After Graduation from COC, he just kind of waited for something to happen. He had applied, both to the University of South Carolina’s top ranked Masters of Business program, and to the law school. Both applications were right on the deadline. He was not considered for the MBA program, but a clerical error put him on the law school’s waiting list. An occurrence, no one realized, until years later.

Len never really expected acceptance, so he had applied to the Charleston County public school system. A series of circumstances occurred, including the death of a USC law school enrollee. There were higher, than usual, defections from the entering class, to other law schools, plus some unexpected changes of heart, about going to any law school. Len was about to accept a teaching position, when, almost magically, a place in the entering law school class opened up. It seemed like providence, and Sarah Ariel was so proud. Len figured out the finances. That fall, he was enrolled in the USC law school.

Now, somewhat more academically motivated, Len did not have any difficulty maintaining the standards expected in law school. He moved briskly through the requirements, and finished in the top ten of his class. It was a much higher rank, in a much more difficult curriculum, than he attained as an undergraduate. With minimal preparation, Len passed his bar exam, finishing in the 91st percentile. He was academically prepared. The question, now, was he a lawyer? Where to now? Where, in the vast arena of this thing called the law, did he belong? Did he belong at all?

Along the way, in law school, there was a girl named Anna. Mary Julianna Coligny was an undergraduate at the primarily female Columbia College, across town from USC. Anna was a native Charlestonian. She was descended from the first French Huguenots, permanently settling in the South Carolina lowcountry. Even though her parents were upper middle class economically, there was no doubt in her father’s mind; they, by birth, were the legitimate upper class.

The Colignys were descended from the South Carolina aristocracy, which was a level, mere money could not aspire. In their backgrounds, were large plantations, houses on the Charleston Battery, and top ranking political and military leaders of the Colony, the State, and the United States of America. That era, and their connection, was long since past to most everyone. Edward Coligny believed the era should never be in the past tense. Though, occurring later in her life, Anna emerged with the same mindset.

Edward’s inherited insurance business enabled him to own a home in the area, just off the historic section, South of Broad, near the harbor. Country club and all, of the other socially important connections, were reached, to include sending Anna to Ashley Hall. Her two older brothers went through the public system, but were able to attend the academically advanced magnet schools. Both graduated from the Citadel with honors. Charles went to medical school, and had an ob/gyn practice in Charlotte. Archibald, with a PHD in History, was teaching at Coastal Carolina University near Myrtle Beach. Both were in easy driving distance, but trips to Charleston were well spaced out.

Len and Anna, having never met in Charleston, had a semi-chance encounter in the USC Law Library. She was researching the famous Plessey vs. Ferguson decision for a paper. Anna, always the opportunists, asked a group of male law students, if anyone knew the case. She was a little more than glad, when it was Len, who stepped forward with an extensive analysis. Anna was getting over a very bad relationship, which she had no intention of rekindling. She was more than ready to move on. Why not combine her class work, with a bit of trolling? She could have researched the case in the Columbia College library, but there were no male law students there.

Anna was beautiful and smart, having no need to prove she was still simply attractive. Why not explore the situation, with the handsome, six-foot, well-built, law student. Future prospects, plus physical attraction, were attributes of a good starting point. She certainly did not intend to acquire another loser. Anna, at twenty years old, had passed a very important milestone in her life. There would be something more to her next relationship, than simple animal lust, though there was still plenty of that.

Discussion, of Jim Crow laws and racial desegregation, turned into a continuing romance. It was less than a two hour drive to Charleston. A trip Len had to make regularly, because of his mother. Anna would go along, more often than not. She would stay at home, and they would see each other, perhaps more in Charleston, than they did in Columbia. Len’s mother, Sarah Ariel was totally captivated by Anna; the only girl Len had ever brought home for her to meet. Edward Coligny was less than enthusiastic. He was uneasy, over having his daughter enthralled with the navy brat, of an enlisted man. Len’s considerable promise, as an attorney, an acceptable profession for Edward, only partially made up for the total lack of family pedigree.

Edward’s relationship with Anna’s mother, Joanne, was far from uxorious. She was a farm girl from the mid-state, and was completely overwhelmed by Edward’s obsession with his background. Though, it was never said, both of them considered Edward to be the superior being, especially Edward. Joanne was content to be a traditional wife and mother, with her husband dictating the course of her life, to the smallest detail.

One, of the few times, Joanne came close to asserting herself, occurred when Len and Anna announced they were getting married. Edward’s haughty attitude was ameliorated by Joanne’s overjoyed reaction. Though, she would never admit it to anyone, particularly herself, Len was the man; she wished she had married. Even now, she was an attractive, intelligent, but very docile woman. She increasingly hated herself for it.

The wedding, at the Huguenot Church, was right out of a fairy tale. Sarah and Joanne were absolutely ecstatic. Both mothers felt their offspring had been blessed with the perfect mate. Edward played the role expected of Edward Archibald Coligny. The wedding was attended by many of Charleston’s social elite. The reception, at his country club, was elegant, extravagant, and very expensive—paid for by a home equity loan. The bride and groom were right out of central casting. No two movie stars could have looked, or played, the parts any better. The gifts were in superb taste, numerous, and expensive. It took Edward a very long time to pay off the loan. At least, the interest was deductible.

Charles and Archibald Coligny, with families, dutifully played their parts. Conrad and Katlin were no-shows. The slight embarrassment, of explaining their absence, was more than made up by the relief, of not apologizing for their expected condition. It turned into that glorious fairy tale occasion, when the joyful couple would walk out to live happily ever after. Somehow, reality gets in the way of fairy tales.

The tinkling phone interrupted Len’s wondering thoughts. He walked over and grunted his name.

Hey Len, dat you? The distinctive voice, of Detective Sergeant Terrance Jackson, was on the other end. TJ, as he was known, was nine years younger than Len, but their law enforcement careers had overlapped. TJ had grown-up in public housing downtown, almost the stereotype of African-American males. His sixteen-year-old unwed mother worked the streets, for dope money. She overdosed and died, when TJ was six and his half-twin sisters were infants. Her forty-two-year-old mother took informal custody, and became TJ’s and his sisters’ real mother. TJ had been a tough street kid, often having skirmishes with the police department, where his was now a detective.

Len smiled and quickly shot back, at one of the few people he called friend. Yeah, TJ, what’s going on? You shot anybody today?

TJ was equally quick. Not yet, but plenty of time left. I think maybe the Cap’n better watch it. If there’s such a thing as male PMS, he has it. Gettin’ dat nasty, ‘round people packin’ guns, ain’t a good idea.

You have a point, my friend. Just make sure you use someone else’s gun, say Lieutenant Hannah’s.

TJ laughed. Good thinkin’—man talk about permanent PMS. I could shoot the Cap’n, blame it on her, and if you be the prosecutor, we get rid of her too. I like it.

Len shook his head. Wait a minute—you’re beginning to sound serious. Think—we could get away with it—South Carolina still has the death penalty.

Perfect Crime, TJ was almost serious. Hell, we’d get a medal for outstanding public service frum da Mayor himself, and I would be a lieutenant. I like it more and more.

Okay, TJ, rein in the fantasy. It would come apart in court. You’d never lie under oath.

TJ sounded disappointed. Damn, there’s that—perfect crime screwed-up by the truth.

Len laughed. Yeah, that honesty thing is a real pain sometime.

Besides, Hannah’s a good friend, and a first rate police officer. She havin’ it rough wit dat husband of hers. He’s a real asshole. Maybe, we can get ‘em. Ah well, we’ll figure some ud-der way. Hey, needed to tell you sum’um. TJ was suddenly very serious."

Ah man, I handle personal injury and crap like that. Len knew something was coming that he did not want to hear. You handle the mean bad guys.

Yeah, well, you use-to, and guess wat? TJ’s stern look almost came through the phone. Billy Jack’s out, and back in town. Word—we’re gittin’—he’s talkin’ ‘bout settlin’ old scores. My man, on the street, say Billy Jack is serious, and really don’t give a shit who knows it.

Ah, TJ, Len was trying to minimize the threat, more for himself, than TJ. You know how many times those guys make threats. Nothing ever happens.

Look Man, hope you right, but Billy Jack ain’t just one of doz guys. TJ was obviously very concerned. Cap’n Mack say—he just mouthin’ off—I ain’t so sure. We need to meet and talk ‘bout dis. You da number one guy on his shit list.

O. k., o.k. and you’re probably number two—pun intended. Len knew that TJ was talking more as his friend, and only partially as a police officer. It was time to listen. You want me to come over there. Nate gets upset, when policeman come here to see me, even when it’s about a client.

Nah, Cap’n Mack’ll get pissed out. TJ tried to laugh. He told me not to worry ‘bout it. He said Billy Jack’ll screw up, and we’ll send him back. Well, I ain’t wantin’ bodies all over town, ‘specially yours, ‘fore we send him back. You get wat I’m sayin’, Man?

I got it—I got it. Len not only respected TJ as a friend, but Detective Sergeant Terrance Jackson had the best instincts, about criminals, of anyone he knew. I’ll make the time—tell me where and when.

All right, TJ was happy with the response. I’m off at four. Meet me at Carman’s on upper King at 4:15. I’ll let you buy me a beer.

That’s what this is about—free beer. Len tried to be flippant.

You wish. TJ snickered. But, I need to git on home—promised Josie that we’d take da boys to Ryan’s, so dey can make pigs out dem-selves. Mama Nettie got church, again.

I’m a lot more afraid of Josie than Billy Jack. You make sure—you get home on time. I’m not taking the rap on that.

TJ nodded. You got dat right. Man, talk about instant PMS. I’d lay it off on you in a heartbeat, but she’d say that Len is such a nice man, and then go up side my head.

You two are something else. Len smiled at what he thought was the perfect match, between a husband and wife. Both stood up for themselves, and each other, at the same time. Their life was about the marriage, the family, the community, plus a few friends like Len. I’m not getting in the middle of that. See you at 4:15.

See ya there—you buyin’—bye.

Len looked at the pictures of Janice and Ginger, which suddenly took on much more sinister significance. If there was anything in his life, where there was no equivocation, it was his daughters. He would do anything for those girls. The major reason, he gave himself, for leaving the danger of the Solicitor’s office, was his daughters. Though, the likelihood of something happening was quite small; it was still there. What about his family? Were they at risk?

The Billy Jack instance coincided with the aggressive recruitment by Nate Akins. It was the prudent thing to do. He had to protect himself and his family, right—wrong—it was the money. His wife demanded that he make more money. His daughters required more money. His father-in-law definitely wanted him to make more money. His mother was getting increasingly worse. Altruism was not about confronting criminals. It was about the money.

Anna and Len had graduated in the same year. They planned to be married shortly thereafter. Mutually, they decided to hold off, while Anna worked on her master’s in communications, at USC. Len established himself at the Solicitor’s office, while she completed her degree. Their plans were for both of them to work, and build their future.

A hurricane delayed the nuptials, again, but the wedding finally came off with all its grandeur. It was also, from this point, the plan, for income, shifted completely to Len. Anna, increasingly under the influence of her father, announced she would not be using her extensive education, for mere income. She would work her way into the Junior League, and other important organizations. Her time would be spent on fund raising, for entities other than her new family. Anna underwent a metamorphosis from promising married career woman, to some cross between her arrogant ancestral-worshipping father, her traditional mother, and a community tour-de-force. Len would have to take up the slack, and the slack, and the slack.

The phone rang again. It was an insurance company claims officer, with whom, he had dealings before. This would be easy,

Is this Lenmore Arial? The voice was ready to do battle.

Hello Jane, Len went into his matter-of-fact, why are you even bothering me, mode.

You have got to be kidding. Jane’s voice went up an octave. There is no way—we are going to pay $85,000, on this Jamison claim. This is totally bogus, and you know it. We’ll give them eight, just to rid of it. I’ll get the check moving today.

Len had done this so many times; it was almost second nature. He was instantly in the zone. Jane, listen to me. Your offer is beyond ludicrous. Forget about it, and have your legal department call me. We’ll get it on the docket, for probably three hundred, maybe five, and see what happens. Bet my next paycheck— we’ll get at least a hundred and fifty and cost. Oh, you know the ruling about tripling the amount of the claim, when the defendant loses in court. Just have your legal bunch give me a call. We’ll get it rolling.

Jane was not having a good day. Often, the claims person would use indignation as a tactic. For Jane, today was the real deal. Len could almost feel the seething breath, through the phone. There was long pause, before Jane answered. "God—Len, you know this is