Reddition

By John J Blenkush

In author John J. Blenkush's novel, Reddition, the lead player in the story is a man who has sacrificed his freedom for the woman he loves only to become the target of a powerful political and criminal pairing. With a collection of dangerous men counting on his silence about a heinous crime committed many years ago, Rue Theodore Day finds himself charged with the murder of a police officer. He is represented by a young, inexperienced lawyer who believes in his client's innocence. When Garret Lawton, a troubled attorney in Payne Creek, Colorado, is offered a client by his old friend, Tate Hartford, he quickly turns down the offer. Even though Garret's law practice has been suffering for years, he is suspicious of Tate's offer since his old friend is the county public defender. Garret has been plagued with personal and career problems that led to alcoholism which has led Hartford to throw work his way in the past. But the case of Rue Theodore Day not only seems to be a simple plea bargain, it also reminds Garret of a case he was involved in years ago that turned the entire town against him. When Garret refuses to take the case, Tate offers it to Garret's partner and nephew, Lang Lawton. Lang, who has been more of a paralegal than a partner in his uncle's practice, jumps at the opportunity to represent the accused cop killer. But after his initial visit with his client, Lang develops serious doubts about Rue's guilt and begins to investigate the dead cop's partner, who was at the scene of the murder. He also looks deeply into his client's background. Lang's discoveries take him to California and Mexico. His obsession with the case leads to great personal loss and professional revelations. Blenkush has woven a complicated and elaborate tale that includes mystery, action and layers of emotional dysfunction. The political and criminal angles in the plot add an edge to the story that holds the reader's attention. The threads of substance abuse and family instability contribute to the depth and texture of the book, keeping the reader anxious to learn the truth about Lang and Rue's families and how these revelations brought the two men together. Reddition is an intriguing tale of murder, family and political gain. It is a labyrinth of mysterious characters and unexpected plot twists that will take readers on a wild ride. Melissa Brown Levine

• Language: English
• Publisher: John J Blenkush
• Release date: Nov 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393941316

John J Blenkush

John J Blenkush is the author of the critically acclaimed thrillers REDDITION and STACY’S STORY, (Kirkus) SANDMAN OF CAYE CAULKER and the epic SOLSTICE SERIES.  A varied professional career in aeronautics, engineering, construction, and IT security requiring extensive travel has instilled in John a wide-angle view of the world and its diverse inhabitants, stirred his imagination, and jump-started his foray into penning stories.  Besides writing, John loves the great outdoors, running marathons, and recreational mountain climbing.  He lives with his wife, Nancy, in Northern California.

Book preview

chapter 1

Rue Theodore Day kneels on the blistering pavement.  Pain fires through his knees.  His arms, raised, ache.  None of this hurts as much as the Glock 44 jammed into his temple.  He gazes up into the eyes of his assailant.

Colorado sheriff deputy Chris Sedy anchors the pistol against Rue’s forehead.  He flips the safety off, fingers the trigger, and speaks.  You been warned, skuke.

Behind Rue, Sedy’s fellow and senior patrol officer, Bud Herlin nods.  Damn right you were.

Bud’s voice is less convincing than Sedy’s inflection.  Rue studies Sedy for intent.  He pegs the man as the equivalent of a bulldog, both in appearance and character.  He knows once Chris Sedy latches on, there’s no letting go.

What’d I tell you, skuke, the day you stepped off the train?

That was twelve years ago.

Rue absorbs the whack of the gun barrel on his head.  Blood oozes from the cut.

What’d I tell you?

With the gun digging into his head, Rue struggles to comply.  That I’d rue the day?

Sedy adds weight to the pistol.  If?

I crossed you.

What else?

Rue remembers back to that first day twelve years ago.  The bulldog didn’t bother identifying himself as an officer of the law.  After pulling the man he knew as Francesco Lococo from the train, Chris Sedy prodded him into an alley.  After shoving Francesco against a brick wall, Sedy laid down the ground rules.  "I’m the motherfucker assigned to babysit you.  Understand?  Here you got no rights.  Cross me and you’ll rue the day."

Sedy screws the tip of the gun barrel into Rue’s temple.  I asked you, what else!

You said you didn’t care if I lived or died.

Got that right.

Sedy glances at Bud.

The pressure of the Glock lightens... You try and be nice to people and this is what you get in return. ...and then increases.  Haven’t I been square with you?

Not the way Rue remembers it.  Beginning on day one Sedy had thrown a wad of paperwork in his face.  In the bundle Rue found documents, all that made a man legitimate; a Colorado state driver’s license, a social security card, birth certificate, resume with the prerequisite job history and recommendations, and an address for a job interview.

All of the paperwork came inscribed with the name Rue Theodore Day.  From an envelope Rue pulled out ten 100-dollar bills.  He noted their condition; wrinkled, soiled, stained.  As though stripped from a field worker’s wallet.  The paperwork and he were meant to blend in.

His new life was about to begin.

Or end, Rue assumed, if he couldn’t get rid of Sedy.

Same as now.

You won’t be needing all of this, Rue recalls Sedy saying, as he fished nine 100-dollar bills out of Rue’s stash and pocketed them.

Well, skuke.  Haven’t I been fair?

Rue nods as best he can without causing undue pressure from the gun tip.

And now you don’t pay me?  Why’s that?  More force on the Glock.  Huh, Skuke?  Why?

My boss is broke.

Sedy glances at Bud.  He thinks we give a shit.  Not what I was asking.  Ain’t that right, partner?

Bud scans a car passing in the opposite lane.  Better get off the highway.

Rue knows little of Bud, except that he showed up recently as Sedy’s partner.  He suspects Bud Herlin is a good cop, one who’s torn between loyalty to his fellow officers and his oath to serve and protect.

Rue squares to center as Sedy pulls a revolver from his ankle holster.  Sedy replaces the Glock with the rogue gun.

For gawd sakes.  The hell you doing?  Bud says.  Damn it, Sedy.  Don’t you pull that fucking trigger.

Rue shifts his eyes in search of escape routes.

Posts and barbed wire fence in the road.  Pastureland extends from the blacktop to the horizon.  In spring, cattle roam the hills.  But not today.  The grass, basted by the sweltering summer, lays torched.  Brown and dry.  A meadowlark clings to the barbed wire fence, whistling and warbling.  The sun dips low in the sky.

Rue wonders as tomorrow’s sun rise.  The one he’ll never get to see.  The thought passes as he stares down the hole of the gun barrel.

Damn it, Sedy, holster your weapon!

Rue senses Bud stepping forward.  Bud unclips his holster.  His hand rests on his revolver.  Bud glances up and down the highway, paranoid at being caught red-handed committing accessory to a murder.

Rue watches as Sedy’s jaw clenches.  He furrows his brow.  His cheeks flush.  Chris Sedy has no superior.

Sedy ratchets the gun into Rue’s forehead.

Rue slumps.  Winces.  Cries.  He won’t shoot!

For years, at the payment drop, Rue sat by as Sedy shot birds off of barbed wire fences, fifteen feet out.  Sedy’s target practice should have bolstered Rue’s fears.  It had the opposite effect.  Desensitizing him to bloodshed.

Bud relaxes.  Unfurls his fingers from his pistol grip.

You’re right, Sedy says, eyeing Rue.  We’re golden.

Sedy levels his gun.  He fires.  Point-blank range.

Rue rocks.  He absorbs the shock of the blast.  His ears ring.  Smoke sears his nose.  He senses a thud.  He opens his eyes.  Sees blood pooling in front of him.  Filling and overflowing a depression in the asphalt.

Rue looks up.

Sedy rests the smoldering gun tip between Rue’s eyes.  Smirks.  You bastard.  You murdered my partner!

In the distance, a vehicle rumbles down the gradient.  Rue’s guess is it’s a large truck.  Made known by the grinding of gears and tire clomp.  Rue knows, this late in summer, farmers are hauling bales of hay to feed their cattle.  So does Sedy.

Sedy offers the rogue weapon.  Take it.

Rue stiffens.  His arms ache.  Lowering them would be easy.  But so would dying.

Damn skuke, I said, fucking take it!

Rue closes his eyes.  Shakes his head.  Says a final prayer.

Sedy sets his feet.  Levels the pistol.  And fires.

Rue hears the sound of metal plinking as the bullet pierces Herlin’s patrol car.

Sedy steps back.  Suit yourself.

Rue opens his eyes.

Sedy holds the pistol grip so as to not smudge fingerprints.  For the first time, Rue notes Sedy’s hands gloved in latex.  Sedy drops the gun in front of Rue.  Aiming for the pool.  Blood sprays Rue.  Clothing.  Face.  Eyes.

Sedy lowers to a squat.  He rakes his latex-gloved hand through the depression of blood.  He grabs Rue’s upraised arm.  Smears blood onto his palm.

Rue flinches.  But holds his pose.

Sedy sidles in close.  You don’t get it, do you skuke?  He leans around Rue while eyeing Herlin.  Someone’s gotta pay.  Like the cop killer you are.

Rue withers in his stance.

Sedy jabs a finger into Rue’s chest.  Don’t you fucking move!  Understand, skuke?  Comprende?

Rue nods.

Sedy, Glock in hand, strolls back to his patrol car.

Rue remains fixated on the blood.  Watches it as the depression, having filled, overflows.  Rivulets of blood etch a trail across the pavement to the ditch.  Rue looks beyond the fence line, far out into the pasture.  Where to escape?

Radio traffic streams from Herlin’s patrol car, which sits parked behind Rue.

Ten double zero!  Officer down!  Shots fired.  Need back-up.  Now!  East Hilltop Road.

Between the cries for help, Rue sees Sedy’s hand rise up out of the window.  He hears the pop-pop-pop of the Glock firing.  The report of the revolver reverberates through Herlin’s radio.

Those listening to the shots resonating over the radio will not hesitate.  They’ll come running.  Within minutes.  Sirens wailing.  Lights flashing.  Guns drawn.  Bullets chambered.  No questions asked.  No mercy for the cop killer.

But can the firing squad beat the news hounds?  KCOW, the local television station employs journalists throughout the state.  And bases a helicopter in the Denver metro area.  Rue knows this.  But so do the cops.

Rue looks to the on-coming truck.

Sedy’s and Bud’s squad cars sit in the southbound lane.  Rue expects the truck to veer into the northbound lane to avoid the roadblock.  Rue glances over his shoulder.

Herlin lays face up.  His eyes open.  Not moving.  Blood trickles from the hole in his forehead.  His shirt ripped.  Buttons popped.  He wore a bullet proof vest.  But that didn’t save him.

Rue spots Sedy peering over the dashboard of his patrol car.

Rue looks to the gun at his feet.  It lays, half submerged, in the pool of blood.  If he picks up the gun, he expects to die a quick death.

Dying doesn’t bother Rue.  He’s been dead before.  But he doesn’t want to be labeled a cop killer, forever having his headstone stained by Herlin’s blood.

Rue looks west to the fence line and what lays beyond.  Where would he hide?  The land is barren of bush or tree.  Yet, to stay alive, even if for only a few more minutes, he has to run.

Rue sees Sedy jump to the passenger side of his patrol car.  Sedy opens the door, crouches behind the barricade, and levels the Glock 44 through the divide of the door and the fender.

Rue turns his attention to the hay truck bearing down.

For a moment, Rue savors the vision of the sun spilling the day’s last rays of light onto the bland colored pastureland.  Daylight slips into the horizon.  The meadowlark finishes its song.  Darts away.  Twilight settles in.

The gun, syrupy with blood, catches up in Rue’s hand.  He rises.  Bolts into the lane of the truck.  Bumper and grill and oversized eyes fill his vision.

The driver yanks the wheel.  Rue dives for the ditch.  He glances back.  The truck T-bones Herlin’s patrol car.  Bales of hay bust open.  Slabs of alfalfa fly through the air like tumbleweeds.  Smoke, followed by fire, erupts.

Rue turns his head in time to see Sedy emerge from his vehicle, his body quivering under the strain of exertion.  He levels his gun in Rue’s direction.  Gets off a shot.

Rue jumps the barbed wire fence.  Rolls to his feet.  And sprints.  He hears a gun report.  And a whistle.  He ducks.  A thud sprays dirt in front of him.  Off in the distance, straight ahead, Rue hears the drone of a helicopter.  He angles left.  Makes a beeline in the direction of the sound.

Another shot peppers the dirt to his right.  He dives left.  A bullet rips open his thigh.  Dropping him to the ground.  In seconds, Sedy stands over him.  Heaving.  Rue feels for his gun.  His fingers twitch, grasping air.

The helicopter flies into Rue’s sight.  Rue stares beyond Sedy, beyond the bulldog face seizing with exertion.

Sedy spits.  Wipes the crust from his lips.  Sweat rains from his forehead.

Rue watches as Sedy turns and eyes the helicopter.

The helicopter, with KCOW NEWS in bold, bright letters painted on its sides, zooms in.  A camera man leans out the door, his telephoto lens targeted on the scene.

In the distance, Rue hears the sirens of patrol cars.  He raises his head.  Five vehicles careen off the road, plow through the ditch and barbed wire fence, and brake to a halt behind Sedy.  The occupants, their guns drawn, bolt from their vehicles.  As the cloud of dust obscures the news’ helicopter from sight, Rue falls back.  Shuts his eyes.  And braces for the end.

From a bullet to the head.

chapter 2

The 20 Mile House, gutted by fire in the mid-seventies, was rebuilt and placed on the Historical Registry.  To earn its keep, the owner of the House rented the facility out as office space.  In the early years, dances were held in the ballroom, but due to the limited capacity, no one had used the upper floor in decades.  The ceilings to the offices below remained high, the windows small, the doors cranky and the ventilation stuffy.  It was here, in 1983, Garret Lawton hung his shingle from the banister and announced to the world he was ready to do business as a criminal lawyer.  Twenty-three years later, his nephew, Lang Lawton, joined him as an associate.

Lang Lawton sits at his desk in the foyer of Garret’s office.  His back is to the glass enclosure, which divides the room into a lobby and a cramped workstation.  It’s Monday morning.  Lang walked in a few minutes after 9am, late for work as usual.  In reality, being tardy doesn’t matter, as his calendar, except for his doodling, remains vacant.

As Lang pigeon-holes paperwork into their respective folders and envelopes and checks his voice and e-mail, he keeps an eye peeled to Garret’s office.  His uncle and another man, Tate Hartford, Douglas County’s public defender, spar in heated discussion.  Lang senses urgency in Tate’s voice.

You owe it to yourself, Lang hears Tate say.

Lang finds Tate’s demeanor arrogant.  He’s chosen to sit in Garret’s chair.  Behind his desk.  While his uncle wanders the floor.

Garret stops pacing long enough to deliver his reply.  We’re not equipped to handle a murder trial.

That’s what I’m telling you.  Won’t be a trial.

Tate pulls Monday’s Boulder Sentinel from his briefcase and lays the newspaper out on the desk.  He flattens the folds and rotates the paper to Garret.  He jabs the headline.

Media’s already convicted him.

Garret reads the headline.

COP MURDERER APREHENDED AT THE SCENE

Garret shakes his head.  Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?

Read the fine print.  The man’s a moron.  Shot a police officer in cold blood.  Murdered him in front of his partner.  Go to court, plea bargain, and let the Judge, judge.

Just like that?

A slam dunk.

You know there’s no such thing.

Close as it will ever get.

Then why isn’t your office handling the case?

Tate scans the room.  He spots Lang looking in.  For a second or two, their eyes lock.

You need the money don’t you, Garret?

You didn’t answer my question.

How’s business?

I’m...we’re doing okay.

Doesn’t appear so.  Tate rises from the chair and walks over to the window, which separates Garret’s office from Lang’s cubicle.  When’s the last time your nephew appeared in court?

He hasn’t.

Never?

No.

Passed the bar, didn’t he?

Garret doesn’t answer.

Tate moves to where a row of certificates and pictures hang on the wall.  Good times, huh?  Tate nods his head at one photo in particular.

Garret remembers the events leading up to the snap in time.  A younger version of both he and Tate fill the photograph, young men at the age of twenty-four.  They stand in front of a sign, with the inscription, Yale University.  Garret remembers the picture being taken the same day he received his Arts Degree.

The year was 1972.

Tate knows Garret had gone on to receive his Juris Doctor Degree from the University Colorado School of Law, that he had been elected to the Order of the Coif, an honorary society for United States law students, and that he had been offered a job at the prestigious Dyson and Babcock Law Firm, a Denver based practice.

Tate points to the vacant wall next to the framed law degree and certificate for the honorary society.  Where do you think you’d be had you accepted the associate’s position at Dyson and Babcock?

You know I couldn’t.

Given you something to hang on your wall instead of thirty-year-old artifacts.

Dyson and Babcock had left established local practices in 1947 to form a new, distinctly client focused law firm.  Over the years, Dyson and Babcock grew to be the largest law firm in the Rocky Mountain Region, with over 300 attorneys in 12 offices including Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, Montana, New Mexico, Utah, and Washington D.C.  No associate had ever turned down an offer of employment from Dyson and Babcock.  Garret’s snub was no small thing.  The rebuff made headlines in the local press.  Garret gave him his reasons.  They were simplistic and, to Tate, unrealistic.

You never regret not accepting Dyson and Babcock’s offer?

Don’t think about it.

Well, you should.  Could’ve made you a rich man.  Filled up this depressing looking wall.

I had a debt.

Yeah, I remember.  To Sabah, the kook.

"Judge Sabah."

You say.  Man had no legal standing.

In the old days, John Sabah had been a local institution, a lightning rod for settling disputes and citing the requisites of law.  Often referred to as Judge Sabah, his reputation for interpretation of the law and settling disputes became well renowned.  No one challenged whether or not John Sabah had a law degree or was licensed to practice the art.  In the early years of Payne’s Creek, a man’s standing superseded documentation.  Perceived wisdom, case law, and common sense prevailed.

Garret sits down.  You know the story.  Why the sudden interest in my choice of career path?

Yeah, I remember.  How the old man took you under his wing when your father died of lung cancer, how he purportedly taught you the rudiments of the law.

His was the most extensive law library in the state.

So you’ve said.  And you’ve said Sabah got you into Yale.

That’s true.

What’s bothered me all these years is why John Sabah didn’t tell you to take the Dyson and Babcock position.  He should never have played the guilt card on you.

It’s not what you think.

No?  Tell me.  John Sabah didn’t play the guilt card on you?  Make you think you owed him?

He didn’t.  I didn’t.  Not to him.

Tate studies Garret.  Well I’ll be damned.  All these years and you’ve managed to keep a secret from me?

None of your concern.

Who’d you owe?  His daughter?  You got her pregnant, right?

Don’t be asinine.  She’s twice my age.

So why?  Why turn down what was then the most prestigious job offer to work for a charlatan like Sabah?

John Sabah paid my way through law school.

Yeah, so?  Go work for Dyson and Babcock.  Pay him back.  What’d you think it would take?  Couple of years skimming money off your paycheck, something, by the way, you probably wouldn’t miss and could write off on taxes.

Goes deeper.

Yeah.  How so?

Garret turns his chair to face Tate.  Why the sudden interest?  Where’re you going with this?

Tate returns to the wall with the certificates and pictures.  He points to a picture of Garret as a young man clutching the American flag.  Garret’s face is battered.  The knuckles on his hands indicate scuffing.  Someone had scrawled the Latin phrase Lux et Veritas at the bottom of the picture and, below this inscription, the year 1970.

You always were an idealist.

Garret stares at the picture in remembrance.

In the spring of 1970, student radicalism and anti-Americanism stood at their height on American college campuses.  But as the new decade of the seventies opened, there were relatively few students on college campuses who were both motivated and willing to speak out for traditional values and the patriotic feelings of most Americans.  There were fewer still willing to act.

Among those willing to practice what they preached included a group of students at Yale University who formed the nucleus of the Tory party of the Yale Political Union.  When radical disturbances arrived in full vigor at the Yale campus in New Haven, Connecticut on May Day, 1970 and continued through the days that followed, the Tories rose to the occasion.

Garret was one of them.

If it hadn’t been for me, they would have killed you, Tate says.

Garret scoffs.  They were radicals, not murderers.

Radicals with a mob mentality.

Guess you should know.

I’m the one who saved your ass.

Yes.  You’ve never let me forget your act of kindness.  But really, Garret asks, who owes who?  You and your compatriots were going to desecrate the flag.  I spared you shame.

I saved you from this.  Tate points to the picture of Garret with his swollen lip and black eye.  They were going to kill you.

So why’d you stop them?

Tate laughs.  Sounds silly now, but I had never seen such bravado in my entire life.  Maybe four hundred of us, give or take a few, and here you come.  One of ten, wading in like John Wayne to the rescue.  And all I wanted to do was voice my opinion.

By burning the flag.

If that’s what it took.

Then why the change of heart?

Like I told you.  I’m not a violent man.  When they had you pinned to the ground, beating the crap out of you, it sickened me.  You really want to know why I stopped them?

Garret waits.

Your loyalty.  You wouldn’t let go of that damn flag.  Had the rag wrapped in your arms like a baby.  They were kicking the shit out of you and you wouldn’t let go.  You were going to die, not for a piece of cloth, but for what you believed in.  I admired your guts.  So, yeah.  You won that day.  But I still saved your ass.

Garret guesses at what Tate wants to hear.  So now I owe you.

Friends don’t owe, Garret.  Remember?  They help each other out in times of need.

Never knew you to need anyone.

Tate moves to the empty spot on the wall.  He stands staring at the blank canvas.  After a time, when the silence grows awkward, Garret speaks.  What’re you thinking?

Wondering what turn of events sent a man of your potential down a dead-end road.

Thrills you to rub failure in my face?

No!  Don’t you see?  I’m giving you a chance to get back in the game again.

By asking me to defend a convicted murderer.

Not convicted, by no means.

Guilty is what you said!  Garret shoves the newspaper with the screaming headline in front of Tate.  Already convicted?

You’ll still have to appear in court.  Think of the press.  Get your face back out there.

Tate walks around the desk to where Garret sits.  He grasps Garret’s shoulder and squeezes, as would a friend to a friend.

Look, take the case.  Lawyering will do you good.  Get you back into the thick of things.  Build some notoriety, if not for you, for your nephew.  Give him some experience in a court of law.  If nothing else, it’ll give you another artifact for your wall.

What would that be?  Garret stares at Tate.  The man’s death certificate?

Tate bolts from his position.  He throws up his hands.  Okay.  I tried.  Don’t want to help an old friend out.  Fine.  Sit and stew in your misery.  He points to the desk drawer.  Make sure you keep your liquor cabinet well stocked.  You’re going to need it.

Garret halts Tate’s progression toward the door.  "Wasn’t just John Sabah who I owed."

Tate, his hand on the doorknob, stops.  Oh, yeah?  Who else?

Everyone.

Everyone?  You mean like every living soul in the world?

I mean every living soul in Payne’s Creek.

Why?

Judge Sabah paid my way through Yale.

So you’ve said.  So what?

With monies...  Garret pauses.  He searches for the right words.

Yes?

...from fines and fees levied on the good people of Payne’s Creek.

Tate’s eyes light up.  I’ll be damned.  He embezzled?

Garret reaches for his desk drawer.  His hand, by habit, grabs the gin bottle.  Looking up, he sees Tate watching.  His friend’s face indicates disgust.

Look, Tate says, returning to Garret’s desk, I understand Sabah was something of a mentor to you and he died in your arms.  I know you cried more tears for him at his funeral than you did for your own father.  He didn’t do you right.  He should have insisted you take the Dyson and Babcock job.  Not saddled you with his debt.  He traded your future for his shortcomings.

I didn’t have to stay, but I pay my debts.

To whom?  The same people who tarred and feathered you after the Bedford case?  Those good people?

Tate waits for Garret to speak.  When he doesn’t, Tate moves to the door.  With his hand on the knob, he says, Mind if I take your nephew for a ride?  He glances around the office as if searching for something.  Not much going on here.

Garret looks to Lang’s cubicle.  His nephew sits, eyeing him.  So thin are the walls he knows Lang heard every word.

He’s a partner.  He can do whatever he wants.

Hey, Lang, Tate says, as he steps through the doorway, want to go for a ride?

chapter 3

Tate leads Lang to his car.

Where’re we going? Lang asks.

I want to show you something.  Get in.

As Lang opens the passenger door, he glances over his shoulder.  Sees his uncle looking out the window.  Concern written all over his face.  Leaning forward, as if to say, don’t go.  Garret forces a smile, throws a curt wave, and backs into the shadows.

Lang slides into the leather car seat.  A quick inventory of the interior tells Lang this is no ordinary car.  The panoramic glass roof with the elegant wood coffering, alone, gives it away.

This a Mercedes?

Tate scoffs.  "Not just a Mercedes."

Well, it’s got the M.  Lang points to the ornament attached to the hood.

Double M, Tate corrects.  "An arched triangle.  It’s thee symbol of perfection.  Ever heard of a Maybach?"

No.

The most luxurious car ever made?

No

Lang caresses the leather seat.  He runs his hand along the wood trim on the door and dashboard.  He looks to the back seat, where he sees a mini wet bar, a DVD player, a 6 CD changer, TV receiver, and leather easy chairs that resemble what one would find in a successful attorney’s office.  Two color monitors are integrated into the backrests of the front seats.  Wood trimmed in gold round out the décor.

Look’s expensive.

Try four-hundred-fifty thou.

Lang whistles.

You don’t buy these off a car lot.  Tate sweeps a hand through the air.  I designed the interior.  Picked out everything myself.

Don’t imagine there’s too many of these around.

Only one in the state of Colorado.

How’s a public defender afford one of these?

How long you known your uncle?

Lang notes the change of subject.  "Pretty much all my life,