Riders on the Storm

By Dave Schafer

After finding her lover cheating, Andi Quinn rides her horse in a park. She meets a black youth named Kel stranded at trail’s end, and gradually forms a polo team with him and his three friends. Crime surrounds the inner-city players as they struggle to compete in the “sport of kings.” Andi hires McGarrity to defend Bucky on an assault charge as a heroin conspiracy threatens the safety of everyone around them. But who killed Kel’s uncle, Bobby?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Jul 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781977246530

Dave Schafer

Dave Schafer has also published THE MISDEMEANOR MAN, PRIVILEGED, and RIDERS ON THE STORM with Outskirts Press. 

Book preview

Chapter One

It was a ten-star day, a rare early March morning when the clouds were hiding, the temperature was climbing through the sixties, the wind was sleeping and the birds were vociferously chirping the approach of spring. He regretted not accepting Uncle Roscoe’s offer to leave Trenton for the day and head for the horse farm to chill.

His stomach wound was oozing again, but he didn’t have time to fix the slipping bandage. He had to hand the boxes to Homicide, grab the cash and jump back into his Explorer. After that he’d lay low for a few weeks and let it heal.

But the vehicle that screeched around the corner across from the Italian Peoples Bakery wasn’t Homicide’s Jaguar. Driving the SUV was Sticky from Sex Murder Money. Lunatic hung out the window and called him a rat. A third person in the back seat wearing a ski mask sprayed a TEC-9 at him.

He wheeled to tear down the alley but his right leg felt as if it was flaming and gave out. As he sprawled forward onto the asphalt his left wrist shattered. The SUV skidded to a stop next to him, and Lunatic and the third person jumped out.

Lunatic grabbed the two boxes from his back seat and flung them into their SUV. Meanwhile the other one pointed the TEC-9 at him and lifted the mask up for a split second.

Why you helpin’ them? Bobby cried. What I ever do to you?

Two patrons sprinted out of the bakery after the popping stopped and watched the SUV speed away. They trotted cautiously up to what was left of Bobby Miller.

Shit, they blew his head off. Know ’im?

He ran with the Gangsta Killas. Bobby wouldn’t give up the G-Shine boy who was shootin’ at the cops a couple weeks back, so Brush-Head put word on the street that Bobby was squealin’. Got shot in the belly for it just last week.

Brush-Head’s got to be the dirtiest cop in Trenton.

Yeah, the only folks safe are the hookers he lets go after they give him free service.

Andi glanced in her rearview mirror and recalled the summer after high school when several people on the street on separate days had said she resembled Michelle Pfeiffer. But after Danny died that September her slim but athletic figure became almost gaunt, and her smiling, cheerful disposition morphed into relentless consternation. Where once she was optimistic, sympathetic and religious, she became doubtful, sarcastic and agnostic.

You’re blowing this way out of proportion. There’ve been other days when Jeremy didn’t want to make love in the morning. I’ll be too tired to cross-examine that confidential informant this afternoon; I’ve got to be alert for that newscast tonight when I have ten minutes to dissertate on the murder of Annie Blowse and then drive home from Manhattan; I’m really tired from running down the towpath with you Sunday. Men. When they want it, they think they’ll never get to sleep again until they get their rocks off.

As she turned onto Windsor Road, the right front wheel screeched like a banshee and continued to squeal as she veered left at Perrineville Road.

Shit. I told that probation officer I’d be there at nine-thirty to meet with Burmont. What a waste of time. We don’t even need a Presentence Report when everyone knows he’s getting the ten-year statutory max. It’s not the engine, so maybe I can make it. On the other hand, the tire can fall off for all I know. Then I’m in a ditch or worse. Jeremy’s got an office day and only has to go three miles. Better go back and switch with him even though he hates me driving his Mercedes.

She pulled into the driveway of a small farmhouse surrounded by a hundred or so acres for sale. Adjacent to the expanded turnpike, it was probably worth millions. Whoever lived there’d probably farmed the land all his or her adult life, and now came the payday as a grave loomed over the horizon. She quickly backed up and reversed direction toward Route 130.

I’ve got to get a life. Why’d I ever get involved in defending alleged criminals with no money? If I could only win a case once in a while.

When she pulled into their driveway she thought for a second it was Tuesday until she recalled it was Friday. Her stomach twisted into a knot.

Why the hell’s the maid here today?

Her finger was only an inch from the button on her visor when she decided not to open the garage door. She’d try the front door key she never used, the one Jeremy had given her in case there’s another Sandy and the electricity goes out.

As she passed Jenny’s car she gazed into it to see what she kept there, something she’d never done in dozens of trips walking by it on Tuesday mornings. A make-up kit lying open on the passenger seat, the driver’s vanity mirror flapped down, a CD of some band she’d never heard of between the automatic shift and the CD player in the console. Jenny had been one of Jeremy’s municipal court clients he managed to rescue from a DWI conviction by having her plead to a reckless driving. The Attorney General had clamped down on such deals, but Jeremy had called in an old chip from the municipal prosecutor. He was good at that, never letting anyone forget a favor he’d done for her or him. They’d gone out to a club a couple times after that with Jenny to see her boyfriend sing and play lead guitar, but apparently he’d left her for an even hotter and younger groupie.

Why the hell’s she here?

Her abdomen was aching so badly she stopped in her tracks. She gazed at the clear blue sky for a moment, recalling how similarly beautiful the late summer morning had been around nine o’clock on 9/11, a few minutes before the first plane had rammed into the tower and killed her brother in his first year with Cantor Fitzgerald. Her hand was shaking as she finally plunged the key into the front door lock. It worked.

As she crept up the steps she was reminded of sneaking upstairs after a high school date so as not to wake her parents, only to hear them threatening to divorce each other. Slowly, quietly, she tried to turn the locked door of the silent bedroom. For a moment she deceived herself into imagining that Jeremy was simply shielding himself while getting dressed from Jenny who was in another section of the condo. She pressed her ear against the door. Seconds passed like hours. Finally she heard conversation.

I bet Andi doesn’t do it like this.

Then why you stopping?

’Cause when you come, you’ll cry you need another hour to get it up again. I have a place over in Washington Green to get done by twelve or I lose a hundred bucks.

I’ll give you the money and more.

I’m not taking your money. You can choose me or her. And I’m not waiting long. This maid stuff’s getting old. I’m starting at Mercer in a week, where I’m bound to meet some young studs. Shit or get off the pot, as they say. Damn, Jeremy, you’re starting to droop. Put it wherever you want to.

She lifted her foot and was about to kick in the door. Something made her stop, and as she treaded quietly down the stairs she still couldn’t figure out why she’d simply walked away. Her frustration grew so unbearable that by the time she reached the front door she couldn’t control the urge to carry his golf clubs in the front foyer outside with her. Dropping the heavy bag next to Jenny’s car, she stood wondering what to do with it. Suddenly she found herself counting the clubs.

Eighteen. The one time he condescended to take me out instead of his normal cronies, he told me the rules said only fourteen clubs. As if he was a professional. So even though I’ve got more in the bag, he said, I’ll only use fourteen on a given day. Typical Jeremy. Never a statute or rule he couldn’t twist to his advantage.

She yanked out the first iron she could put her hands on, since the long clubs had those silly covers on them. The big bulge at the lower end of the bag indicated it was crammed with balls, so she unzipped the pocket, plucked one out and dropped it onto the small patch of lawn. After wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, she swung as hard as she could and missed. On the third try she drove it crashing through the living room window to the right of the front door. She hurled the club at the same window but it harmlessly banged off the siding. In a final gesture of contempt she picked up the bag, turned it upside down and shook it. She tossed it down and walked zombie-like back to her car, sobbing uncontrollably. As she sped off she glanced back at Jeremy standing at the front door wrapped in her favorite towel.

Asshole, she screamed but her windows were closed.

Kelvin gazed at the trail map he’d taken out of a little wooden box next to the Monmouth County trail sign. There was a bunch of dotted lines and names of waterways he’d never heard of. All he knew was the Delaware that separated him from his cousins, and the various canals that coursed through Trenton and served as convenient dumping grounds for trash and bodies. His friend Zeke had been fished out of one three years before when they were only thirteen.

Roscoe Johnson tramped tentatively up the driveway of the first home he saw. It had a regulation glass backboard with the rim set at eight feet facing three garage doors. He wondered why the family needed room for so many cars if the kids were still shooting at an eight-foot basket. Maybe they had an extra one they’d offer to loan him for a day if he could prove he worked at Heaven’s Gait.

He turned down the stamped-concrete walkway past a gurgling fountain to a freshly stained oak door. There was a huge bronze knocker and a lit doorbell button to the right side. He pulled back the knocker and let it fall. A tall white man with wire-rimmed glasses and graying hair opened the door a few inches and inspected him from head to toe.

Can I help you?

Roscoe figured his small stature and balding head didn’t scare the man.

My truck broke down ’bout a hundred yards down the road. I was wonderin’ if I could use your phone to call my nephew to come get me an’ my grandson.

You don’t have a cell phone? the man asked suspiciously.

My minutes ran out.

Your minutes ran out?

Yep. My son’s in prison, an’ he’s constantly callin’ me collect.

The fact that the door hadn’t slammed in his face gave him hope.

I don’t have to come in. I can just use your cell out here. I work for Joey Hodge at Heaven’s Gait.

The man suddenly swung open the door.

Why didn’t you say so right away? Joey’s trained two of my fillies.

Then I guess I must’ve brushed them down many a time.

Come on in. You can use the hard line. Gordon Dilworth’s my name.

Dilworth didn’t extend his hand but led him to a spacious kitchen where there was a cradle with a portable phone in it. He figured Dilworth wasn’t about to lend him a car.

There you go, Dilworth said. Just don’t call Hawaii.

He chuckled politely at Dilworth’s joke, called his nephew Bobby and left a voicemail to come pick them up in his Explorer at the Baird Road access to Perrineville Lake Park.

I can’t thank you enough, he said as he hung up the phone. Wasn’t sure whether anybody would let me in, bein’ my clothes is so dirty.

No problem, Dilworth said as he escorted him back to the front door. Sorry to hear about your son. What’s he in for, if you don’t mind me asking?

Was a changed boy when he came back from Iraq. A star football player and wrestler and all he wanted to do was be a Marine. Slashed his wife to death during an argument. Tried to kill himself afterward but survived.

Dilworth stopped in his tracks.

Good God.

Sometimes He’s good, and sometimes I can’t understand why He lets certain things happen. Had five kids, and Kelvin was the one who had all the promise. Go figure.

Dilworth didn’t reply, just grimaced and nodded. After thanking him again, he thought about reaching out his hand but figured Dilworth wouldn’t want to shake it.

Andi reached the parking area and turned Dazey around to make another loop. There was often a mail carrier, landscaper or some other vehicle parked in the tiny gravel lot, so she only took a casual glance at the beat-up Ford pickup parked near the street. What made her jerk her head back around as Dazey pulled at the reins to start back toward Pine Creek was the sight of a young teenager sitting propped up against the back tire. It wasn’t that he was there, it was that he didn’t have a phone in his hands, texting or doing whatever. He was staring at the hill over which the sun would soon be setting. She yanked Dazey’s bridle around and trotted over to the youth.

Engine trouble? she said.

He looked at the horse instead of her.

I’d rather be on her than in any damn truck.

She was caught off-guard by his adjective but after a moment continued.

Aren’t you a little young to be driving that? Never mind, don’t answer that. Is there somebody I can call for you?

My grandfather went to get help. Would you give me a ride?

She was again surprised, but this time her experience as a public defender slid her right into a cogent conversation.

Depends on where you want to go.

I’d love you to ride me into Trenton so I can show her to my friends, but I’m afraid she might get hurt. How about a ride down this trail and back?

Hop on up. Just grab me around the waist. And don’t be touching my boobs.

Her breasts weren’t big, and her comment made him glance at them. He smiled.

I think I’d be less likely to fall off grabbing your waist, skinny as you are.

She instantly liked the kid. Too honest maybe, but sharp as a sticker bush.

Small breasts mean a big heart.

She removed her foot from the stirrup so he could hoist himself up behind her.

No, the other foot, she said as he lifted his right foot on the left side of Dazey. Like they do in the cowboy movies.

Why would I watch a cowboy movie?

To learn how to mount a horse. That’s it. Swing your right leg around Dazey’s rump and squeeze your butt against the back of the saddle.

They headed down the path through some fields and into a forest.

I didn’t see any trailer back there, he said. How’d you and Dazey get here?

There’s a little street about a quarter-mile down Baird Road where my girlfriend lives. She boards a bunch of horses and lets me use her trailer when I need it. There’s an access to the park at the end of the street.

Girlfriend? Are you a dike?

No, I’m not gay. You shouldn’t be using words like that. They’re offensive. Sue and I went to high school together and played on the same polo team.

What’s polo?

It’s a four-on-four game played on horses. Indoors it’s three on three. Sort of like hockey, but instead of a stick and puck there’s a long-handled mallet and plastic ball. It’s different from most other sports because men and women can play on the same team.

How come I never heard of it?

Most people that play it are rich. You need to have a horse and trailer and a lot of equipment. They call it the sport of kings.

So you’re rich?

My father is. He bought me Dazey when I graduated law school.

So you’re a lawyer?

I’m what’s called an Assistant Federal Public Defender. My office is a couple blocks from Trenton City Hall. I’ve only been there a year. Took the place of a guy who was killed by the bow sniper.

I remember the bow sniper. What a crazy mother-fucker he was.

You shouldn’t be using words like that. It’s ignorant.

If you’re not rich, how come you’re not at work?

I got done seeing a client in jail after having a very bad morning, so I decided to take the rest of the day off to clear my head.

They’d gone halfway around the loop and were making their way back.

So what happened this morning that was so bad?

My boyfriend turned out to be an asshole.

You shouldn’t be using words like that, he said. It’s offensive and ignorant.

What’s your name, by the way?

Kelvin Johnson. What’s yours?

Andi Quinn.

That’s a boy’s name.

It’s short for Andromeda. Ever hear of a boy named Andromeda?

No.

Case closed. Well, Kelvin, let’s you and I make a deal. We can use whatever words we want when it’s only you and me, but in public we’ll be polite and use appropriate language.

I can do that.

Good. Then maybe we can be friends and do this again. I’ll talk to your mother.

My mother’s dead.

I’m sorry. Then I’ll talk to your father.

He’s in prison for killing my mother.

My God. How do I respond to that?

Neither spoke again until they were in sight of the disabled truck. The sun was starting to disappear over the hill.

Is that your grandfather standing by the truck?

That’s him.

He must be worried.

Nah, he knows I can take care of myself.

Dazey plodded up to the truck.

There you are, Roscoe said. I see you’ve met a friend.

Kelvin slid off the saddle and jumped to the ground. Andi leaned over and offered her hand to Roscoe.

I’m Andi Quinn. Saw Kelvin sitting here, asked if he needed help and ended up giving him a tour of the park.

Roscoe Johnson, he said as he shook her hand. Thanks for keepin’ him busy. Truck here’s got a transmission problem. Borrowed a phone and called my nephew to come pick us up, but he ain’t here yet.

Want to try him again? Phone’s in my pocket.

If you wouldn’t mind. Left a message for him a while ago, so he shoulda been here by now.

He took her phone and left Bobby another voicemail.

Tell you what, she said as she took her phone back, I’ll swing by after I take Dazey back to the stable, and if you’re still here I’ll give you a ride to Trenton.

I’d greatly appreciate that, Andi. Don’t mind sleepin’ in the truck, but I don’t want to make Kel do that, ’specially without dinner.

It was after six o’clock and pitch dark when she pulled into the lot next to the truck. Both of them were in the cab but Roscoe climbed out when he saw her.

Chill in the air once the sun went down, Roscoe said.

I can feel it. No word from your nephew?

Nope. Maybe his phone ran outa juice.

Well, hop in. Kel should probably get in the back. Don’t mind the squeal, I’m taking it to the shop tomorrow.

Kel climbed out of the truck, opened the passenger door, ducked his head and plopped down in the rear of the Sebring. Roscoe locked the truck and slid into the front bucket seat next to Andi.

Convertible, Roscoe said. Nice.

Want me to put the top down?

No thanks. Too chilly, and probably not a good idea where we’re goin’.

She took a few back roads and drove onto 195 outside Allentown.

What part of Trenton you guys live in?

Hoffman Avenue near the corner of Oakland. The best way after 195 is to take 29 to Prospect Street. At least that’s the way we go.

I’m familiar with that corner. Had a case where a crack deal went down in a car there. Unfortunately he sold it to a confidential informant accompanied by an undercover.

There’s a lot of that stuff goin’ on in our neighborhood, but I been there all my life and ain’t movin’. I’m tryin’ to get one of my daughters in Hamilton to take Kel, but he wants to stay with me. That right, Kel?

That’s right, Pop. All my friends live around there. The gang members know the family and leave me alone.

They reached the corner and she slowed down.

Which house?

The one with the motorcycle on the porch.

She pulled to the curb in front of the two-story red brick row home. Four cement steps led up from the tilted, cracked sidewalk to a small front porch that held two chairs and a motorcycle that was chained to a three-foot high fence of iron spokes that separated their porch from the neighbor’s. A huge elm tree between the curb and sidewalk offered some pleasant ambience to an otherwise bleak façade. She lifted the lid of the console and took a business card out of her purse.

I told Kel I’d take him riding again, if that’s alright with you. He can bring a couple friends along if he wants. Here’s my card. You can give me a call anytime you’re in Monmouth County. Until daylight savings starts, it’ll probably be better to do it on a weekend.

Roscoe slowly took the card with a puzzled expression. He exited and pulled the top of the passenger seat forward to let Kel out.

Thanks, Andi, Kel said as he climbed out. I’ll give you a shout.

Roscoe leaned back into the car while Kel continued to the front door.

You’ve done enough for us already. Why would you want to take on Kel and his buddies?

I meet clients all the time who wouldn’t be my clients if somebody had stepped in at some point in their lives and shown them there’s more to life than hanging out on a street corner. Kel’s a bright kid and could go places.

Well then, thanks again. We’ll give you a call.

After Roscoe shut the door, a neighbor came up to Roscoe and spoke to him. As she pulled away Roscoe ran up his porch steps.

I hope nothing’s happened to his nephew. They’ve been through more than enough.

Chapter Two

While waiting for the entry officer to get off the phone with the shift commander, McGarrity stepped aside when a minister entered the lobby.

No, that’s alright, said the minister, a tall, lanky Caucasian about sixty with a Bible and a few other books in his arms. You were here first.

Yep, but you have a better chance of saving the inmates than I do.

The minister smiled and stepped in front of him to the counter.

Thank you, counselor. I realize your hard work may seem fruitless at times.

Somebody has to try.

Yes they do.

McGarrity reached Pod M-1, stared at the overhead camera and waited for the control booth to unlock the door. When he heard the click he opened the door. A cart with breakfast spoils of grits and chicory was his only companion in the small foyer. He stepped up to the second entrance to the pod, and a young inmate with dreadlocks saw him.

Front door, the inmate shouted to the pod security officer whose desk was thirty yards away.

At the click he opened the door slightly and peeked in.

Who you want? the inmate said.

Lazarus James.

He gently let the door rest against the latch so it wouldn’t lock as the inmate shouted his client’s name several times. Luckily no one was in the interview booth, and after entering he arranged the two chairs and table so neither of them would have his back toward the glass-walled weight room where inmates could stare over a shoulder to view any paperwork being read. When his client arrived after a few minutes, he stood up and offered his hand.

Hey, Lazarus, how you doing?

Not good, McGarrity. Why didn’t they give me bail?

Your record’s a bit lengthy.

It’s mostly juvy and muny court stuff. Besides, I’m innocent until proven guilty.

Unfortunately one of the officers says you hit him with your vehicle after he spotted the bag of cocaine on the rear floor and attempted to enter through the passenger door to retrieve it.

He was climbin’ into the car when I accidentally took my foot off the brake. Just because he lost his footin’ ain’t my fault. And that cocaine was for personal use.

Lazarus at eighteen had been shot nine times, thought to be dead and resuscitated. Luckily none of the .22 caliber bullets had penetrated a vital organ. Now 31 and 310 pounds, he was plagued by high blood pressure, diabetes and arthritis.

That’s apparently not what the wiretap suggests, according to the Complaint. And I couldn’t really argue with the Magistrate Judge after she concluded it would take months to snort a kilo of powder.

I got a bad habit. I could do it in a couple weeks.

We can try to convince a jury of that. But understand that the pool isn’t chosen from just Trenton and Mercer County. The federal court here draws from a bunch of counties in central Jersey, and we’ll end up with a white middle-class jury with one or two blacks if we’re lucky. You obviously shouldn’t take the stand because of your record. Have you had any drug counseling or rehab where we can bring in a witness who tried to treat you?

Not really.

What’s that mean?

I showed up one day and left after about ten minutes.

Oh. Well I guess I can just throw your personal use out there in my opening and see if it flies.

You don’t sound very confident.

From what I read in the Complaint, I’m not. These are seasoned FBI agents you’re dealing with, not just a renegade cop like Brush-Head.

James scoffed and smiled.

Brush-Head has a thing for me, ever since he busted me in a grocery store my buddy had broken into. Everythin’ in his report was bullshit.

I cross-examined him last month in a violation of supervised release hearing. His report sounded like the one in your grocery store case. I don’t think the judge believed a word he said, but my client’s dirty urines were enough to send her back for six months.

So what are my other options? What kind of time am I facin’?

Since we’re talking over a kilo of coke, you’re facing five to 40 years. The federal guidelines have less than two kilos at level 24, so if you plead guilty you’re looking at three levels off and a range of 77 to 96 months. If I can convince the court to give you the 77, you’ll do about five years in medium security before you hit a halfway house for six months.

And if you can’t the judge gives me eight years. Shit, that’s big time.

It’s lucky your burglaries were businesses. If they were residences, you’d be a career offender starting at over fifteen years even if you pled.

Five to eight of the best years of my life. I might as well roll the dice and go to trial.

If you lose, you’ll probably get the top of the range, ten years and change. Plus a possible enhancement or upward variance for hitting Brush-Head with your car. Even worse, the state could charge you with resisting arrest, which turns into a third-degree crime because Brush-Head claims he was injured. They could run it consecutive to your federal time. But the county probably wouldn’t charge you on that if we work out a deal with the feds.

That’s not fair. Twice as much time for exercisin’ my constitutional rights?

I don’t make up the laws.

That’s it? There’s no other option?

If you want to cooperate, I’ll ask the U.S. Attorney if she wants to take a proffer from you. If it works out, you’ll get what’s called a 5K and get about half your time cut off, maybe more.

I don’t know, McGarrity. Somebody might finger me. They killed my cousin last week, shot his face off.

Bobby Miller?

Yeah, we was close. He was like the little brother I never had.

Sorry for your family’s trouble.

McGarrity waited a few seconds, uncertain whether to push the topic as Lazarus’ eyes glistened with restrained tears.

Do you know who killed him? McGarrity said barely above a whisper.

That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Got word Lunatic and Sticky was there but somebody else did the shootin’. The three of them’s just hired messengers. They got the job from Godsend, and he be doin’ it for this connected guy over in Colts Neck. Italian dude with a mansion, ten acres and a security team. Like a fuckin’ Mexican warlord in the movies. Been there once.

I heard from another client it was just a turf war between the sets.

What they’d like you to think. Bobby started movin’ weight directly from Philly. Stallion didn’t like that.

There was no longer any trace of tears in Lazarus’ big brown eyes, only mixed thoughts of fear and revenge.

"Well, the decision’s all yours. You can do the five to eight and be out in your late thirties, plenty young enough to do your thing. But if you want to cooperate, you maybe do a