No Goodbyes

By Rob Jensen

Michael Graman is a middle-aged attorney with a life that never lived up to his dreams. He has a struggling practice, a failing marriage, and his youth is gone. Against his better judgment, Michael accepts a mysterious new client who offers him a chance at fast money. But Michael soon finds himself entangled in a web of deceit, revenge, and murder that threatens to destroy him and everyone he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887317793

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

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23

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26

Acknowledgments

About the Author

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No Goodbyes

Rob Jensen

Copyright © 2023 Rob Jensen

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2023

ISBN 979-8-88731-778-6 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88982-103-8 (hardcover)

ISBN 979-8-88731-779-3 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

No more tears now, I will think upon revenge.

—Mary, Queen of Scots

There are no goodbyes for us. Wherever you are, you will always be in my heart.

—Mahatma Gandhi

1

Fall 1997

Sara Graman was not a morning person. She had never been one, nor had she ever desired to be one. She abhorred morning people. And she hated breakfast. Breakfast was for morning people.

Because mornings were her enemy, Sara Graman was a coffee drinker. She needed two hours each morning to get herself awake and human enough to face her fifth-grade students, which required about one cup of joe per hour. In the better days of her marriage, her morning ritual included seeing Michael off to work. But like the rest of her marriage, that courtesy faded in time from the routine without much discussion. Now Sara usually indulged in a long scalding-hot shower, her liquid goodness and the local morning TV news for company.

Sara liked to listen to the morning news despite Mary Mariucci's chipper, happy-to-be-the-anchor cadence. She sat with her legs crossed, knees peeking from her terrycloth robe. Sara's upper lip would often curl as the happy anchor offered her daybreak greeting right before reporting on whatever heinous incident had most recently happened in the City of Brotherly Love.

The reporter never had good news. She'd relate incidents of men being gunned down or armed robbers leaving victims tied up and beaten, all with a smile. Often, Sara would talk back to Mariucci. "My god, woman, don't you ever have a bad day? You can't possibly wake up this happy and stay this happy doing what you're doing." Sara couldn't help but suspect Mariucci was just acting.

Good morning, Philadelphia! Mariucci chirped through the TV monitor.

Sara blew on her coffee, wondering if the anchor ever had her period. She was just too robotically joyous every damn morning.

Our top story this Tuesday: a pregnant woman and her unborn baby were killed late last night when the ambulance she was traveling in was hit by an Aston Martin…

Sara Irwin, as she was known then, grew up in an affluent neighborhood outside of Dover, Delaware. Her mother worked as a corporate tax attorney for a large law firm. Her father was an optician. Sara was the youngest of three children. She had a sister with whom she was mortal enemies growing up, though the girls grew closer each year after high school. She did not have much of a relationship with her brother, who was almost exactly ten years older than her. Nor did she have much of a memory of him. Sara's brother died when she was just seven years old. He had been driving too fast one night, trying to get home after his curfew. His car did not navigate a curve well enough, and he crashed into a telephone pole. He was not wearing his seat belt.

Sara had few friends growing up. Much to her parents' chagrin, she cared about just two things: school and ballet. Her passion for both ran deep. She was uncompromising in her desire for perfection and crushed when she inevitably fell short of it.

Sara put her coffee cup down and stared in horror as she listened to the newscast. Like many, she had become numb to the constant stream of violence that would flash in discreet boxes above Mary Mariucci's shoulder. The routine had desensitized her to the point where it generated the same lack of sympathy from her every day. The most recent victim of gang violence did not impact her emotionally, nor did the poor bastards from the broadcast the day before. But the victim of violence usually wasn't a pregnant woman.

Sara's heart broke for this victim. And it broke again for herself.

People watched Brantley Lonergan shake hands at his bail hearing when the judge decided he was not a flight risk and released him on his own recognizance. They had attended the hearing when he swore he hadn't been drinking. They sat quietly while he testified how that damn ambulance ran a red light without its overhead lights activated; and they had witnessed him brazenly decree how there was no way he, nor anyone, could have stopped.

People heard him say he was sorry for what had happened, and they listened to his argument that he should not be held accountable for the mistakes of others. Later that evening, those people, along with Sara, watched him on the six o'clock news.

Sometimes bad things happen to good people, he stated, smiling into the camera.

Sara grunted and squinted at the screen.

After making bail, people continued to watch him. They watched until he went to trial. They watched, and they listened just in case the justice system failed them.

Those people were not alone in their interest. Sara, and most of the Philadelphia news viewers, stared at Lonergan when he smiled from ear to ear as he walked from the courthouse the day of the bail hearing. Afterward, they tuned in whenever Lonergan gave a television or radio interview, declaring his innocence. Sara was among those obsessed by the case. She hated Lonergan, though she had never met him. She didn't need to meet him. As soon as she saw Lonergan's mother, Mamie Lonergan, Sara knew she kept company with several future Lonergans in her fifth-grade class at St. Genesius Catholic School every day: the overprotected kids whose mothers blamed Sara for their children failing.

Sara was so familiar with those children. She knew Brantley Lonergan had been just like them. And she could tell, just by looking at him, that he was lying—those eyes, that smug smile, his indifference to it all. Another child would not be born.

Sara wasn't sure if her keen interest in Lonergan's trial was healthy. But it seemed everyone was interested in the trial. It was the talk of the town in Philadelphia. Brantley Lonergan was from one of the wealthiest and most powerful families in the area. Yet Sara saw the look in the eyes of her friends and fellow teachers when she tried to talk about it with them. And she was pretty sure she heard them refer to her obsession with the trial, with pity for her, behind her back. She wished she could talk to Michael about it. Since he was an attorney, perhaps he could explain the legal aspects of it to her. But their talk was usually small and seldom substantive.

2

People were watching when Brantley Lonergan testified at his trial almost two years to the day after the accident happened.

It was a dreadful night, Lonergan stated on the stand. He remembered having had four or five Manhattans at the country club that night. But he told the judge and jury, I certainly did not consider myself drunk. Besides, I didn't have far to go. My townhome in Radnor isn't far from the club. I know the area like the back of my hand.

You were driving an Aston Martin DB7 Vantage convertible, a car known for speed, Mr. Lonergan. How fast were you driving? asked the prosecuting attorney.

Lonergan itched to give his candid thoughts about the performance car his mother had bought for him and of his abilities. Why have a sports car if you are afraid to drive it? But his attorney had coached him well. With a concerned look, he explained that he knew the roads were slippery from the rain, so he drove cautiously. Besides, Radnor is known for its winding roads and tight dangerous curves… He paced the story for impact. I remember approaching that particular curve, the one where the traffic light is hidden around it.

He edited himself, of course. He omitted the part where he knew he was going too fast, but he did so anyway because he loved challenging how well his car could handle the turn. He also left out the part about his music, which he played as loud as his speakers could tolerate. The truth is, he never heard the ambulance's sirens, and he never saw the overhead lights until it was too late. He rammed into the rear third of the Radnor Valley ambulance. The two vehicles collectively smacked into a stubborn traffic pole and came to a sudden stop.

During the trial, both sides went over the details of the scene. Both recounted that the ambulance had three occupants. The prosecutor added, Depending on where you spend Sunday mornings, you could say there were four occupants. The prosecutor focused on the premature deaths of the driver, twenty-six-year-old Roger Matthews; the twenty-nine-year-old EMT, Rebecca McGowan; and the thirty-three-year-old patient, Beth Ann Amady. The coroner said Matthews died instantly from massive trauma to his brain and a severed spinal cord. He left a young uneducated widow and two small children. McGowan had not been strapped into any protective device in the back of the ambulance because she was attending to her patient. She suffered fractures to her skull, collarbone, and most of her ribs. She was unconscious when help arrived, and placed in a medically induced coma. Despite a courageous fight, McGowan died several days later when her family was informed that brain activity had ceased and she was removed from the machines keeping her alive.

Rebecca had been stabilizing the pregnant Beth Ann in the ambulance cube. Beth Ann had gone into labor and called 911. The father of the child was not mentioned during the trial as he had abandoned Beth Ann shortly after learning of their conception. And Beth Ann had not shared the man's identity with any of her family and friends. Most knew not to ask.

Beth Ann and her baby were pronounced dead on arrival. The baby was a girl. Or rather, she would have been, as the prosecutor said once more.

Lonergan's team barely acknowledged the victims. Instead, they pointed out how ineptly the investigation was handled. It seemed that after the accident, the ball had been dropped on many levels by many folks who truly meant well. Lonergan had blown into a Breathalyzer at the scene of the accident. Those results mysteriously could not be verified. He also blew into a tube at the hospital several hours later; but by then, his blood alcohol level was 0.03, well below the legal limit. At trial, the chain of custody for these results had been tainted, leaving them wide open to the attacks of Lonergan's team of skilled and highly compensated defense attorneys.

Lonergan's team also put his mother on the stand. Mamie Lonergan explained, with tears in her mascaraed eyes, how her Brantley had always been a sensitive child. His father had passed away of lung cancer when Brantley was just a young boy. She explained how she had taken a much more active role in Brantley's upbringing than the other mothers in their affluent Chestnut Hill neighborhood. She claimed that although she did use a nanny to assist her in the more tedious tasks of motherhood, she still prided herself on being a mother to her son and guiding him in the Lonergan way. So she knew he wasn't the kind of boy (although he was a college-educated man at this point) who could possibly hurt anyone. She insisted he was suffering as much as the families of the poor people who were killed.

Many suspected Lonergan had paid somebody off. There were no eyewitnesses to the accident—at least none who would come forward. Nobody could testify if in reality, Matthews had activated his warning lights and sirens. Again, many suspected Lonergan's people had brought in a group with some muscle to affect this result. Nevertheless, the speculation could never be corroborated. Nobody from the country club would testify as to how much Lonergan had to drink that night. When subpoenaed, memories went blank. Back-scratching in Radnor, Pennsylvania, could be a highly profitable game, and many Radnor residents knew the game well.

Besides, Lonergan's family wasn't one that anyone wanted to mess with.

When the verdict was read, the egg sat squarely on the face of the Montgomery County District Attorney's Office. Lonergan left the courthouse that day with his acquittal in his pocket, looking like he was running for governor. With his mother by his side, he made a speech on the steps.

After the trial, his attorneys advised Lonergan to keep a low profile, advice he summarily ignored. He appeared on local radio and TV shows again and again, professing how sorry he was for the family. I can only imagine the grief they have endured, he'd say, smiling the entire time.

Brantley, of course, loved the attention. And though he did not need the money, he made a small fortune in appearances. His attorneys knew that civil suits by the families of the dead were surely on the way. They reached a settlement before lawsuits were filed. The suits included confidentiality clauses with no admission of liability by Brantley Lonergan or the Lonergan family whatsoever.

People watched the whole performance because sometimes justice meant revenge and revenge took time. For some people, it was never over until the fire went out. And the fire never went out. It might take some time, but revenge would show his face. The trick was to wait. Plan and wait. Be ready when the opportunity presented itself. And then act fast.

The only question was, when? Timing was everything. Take actions too soon, and someone would wonder where Lonergan was. Wait too long, and they ran the risk of somebody else with an axe to grind getting impatient and taking their own action. The timing had to be just right.

So with every appearance Lonergan made, they were watching. With every move he made, they were watching. They were chomping at the bit. They wanted him.

After a while, when there were no more talk shows desperate to show Lonergan's smile and hear his pathetic story, Lonergan decided to just get away. He announced through a series of phone calls and emails to his closest friends, family, and girlfriend that it was time for him to go get some personal space and clear his head. He said he deserved it.

Of course, most everyone understood. He'd had a tough couple of years after all.

Lonergan's girlfriend didn't quite understand why she couldn't come too. But she dropped hints that a hefty, shiny gift when he returned would make it all, all right with her.

And of course, people were listening, and watching, and waiting.

3

Thursday, September 7, 2000

The neon red sign in the middle pane of three windows repeatedly blinked a script, Open, which Michael Graman thought odd for a store open twenty-four hours a day. Michael walked through the crowded Wawa parking lot nearest his house just as he had done most every morning since the store opened four years before. He was part of a continuous procession of early risers who moved in and out of the store and its cramped lot each morning with precision. Each customer knew the two or three items needed to start the day and exactly where to find them. And each viewed newcomers who slowed their ability to get in and out as a most unnecessary evil.

There was always a glut of people pooled at the store's coffee bar with customers taking turns at the dozen urns lined up across the back wall like cars approaching a tollbooth. Talking was kept to a minimum. Philadelphians tended to keep to themselves, especially in the early mornings.

Like many, Michael had his own specific routine and did not care for alterations. Anyone who watched Michael for any period of time saw a man who poured a twenty-ounce serving of bold liquid life into his cup each morning, then added three sugars and Irish cream flavoring. They would also see him grab two soft pretzels at the checkout stand. They would have no idea, however, that he'd promise himself every day that one would be his breakfast and the other his lunch. But if they followed him to work, they would see that Michael frequently ate both pretzels before arriving at his office. He simply could not help himself.

Like most things in Michael's life, if something was present and available, he had trouble denying himself. Michael was now so unlike the driven, disciplined man he had been in his youth. The onetime hallmarks of his personality—his energy, his strength, his discipline, his vigor and intensity so concentrated that Sara was unable to resist him even if she had so desired—had waned with each passing season. Low tides replaced high tides replaced low tides, each iteration mimicking its ancestor in strength and duration. But Michael's tides took something small out of him. The difference was imperceptible in itself but substantial over time, especially when compared to what Michael was and what he had once hoped to be.

On this late September day, Michael approached the only clerk working at the cash register. The other had been pulled away to clean up a spill caused by a child foolishly entrusted to hold a bottle of orange juice. Michael did not care for the clerk at the register. She was an older woman, likely someone's grandmother. She enjoyed speaking with the store's customers, especially those she knew to be regulars. And she always had an opinion she could not help but share. To date, Michael had successfully avoided direct contact with the woman, but he feared this morning that his luck had run out.

The woman asked if she could help the gentleman in line ahead of Michael. The man turned and revealed that he was holding his young son, likely no more than three years old, in his arms. The child had the foggy look of a boy awake far earlier than he desired. He wore a hooded SpongeBob SquarePants jacket with the zipper pulled up to his chin and Eagles pajama bottoms. He squinted at the older woman as he rested his head on his father's shoulder.

The boy's father asked in a voice barely above a whisper, Can you help me with these pretzels? The man motioned toward the basket holding the freshly baked goods.

Sure, purred the woman. Hi there, she sang to the boy as she ignored his father's request.

The boy raised his head and stared at the woman. He rubbed his eye with a knuckle.

Hi, she sang again. "Aren't you a big boy? I just love your jacket."

The boy continued to stare.

What is that? A fishy man?

Michael drifted into a tunnel-visioned dream state. He could see and hear nothing but the interaction between this father and son. He took in every bit of it. His hands and arms tingled in an all-too-familiar way. He watched the way the man held the boy around his bottom and legs. He stared at the way the boy wrapped his left arm around his father's neck and fidgeted with the man's jacket collar. He wondered what time they woke that morning, where they were going, and what time they would go to sleep again. His mind drifted like a feather in an endless string of wind gusts. What stories did the boy like to read? What were his favorite foods? What nicknames did they have for each other? Was he allergic to anything? Was he afraid of anything—or everything?

SpongeBob, it's a cartoon, offered the man. He knew his son would not respond to the litany of questions.

Michael was jolted back to reality with the man's response. He knew it had been just seconds but felt he had lapsed away for several minutes. He was embarrassed that he had again let his mind wander in such a way.

"Oh, lookee there. They are sponges!" the woman replied with unbridled enthusiasm. She was oblivious that several more customers had lined up to pay for their food behind Michael. The line stretched and curled around a potato-chip aisle.

When the man motioned toward the pretzels with one hand, the woman asked, How many can I getcha, hon?

How many's there? the man asked. He quickly explained that he was born and raised in Philadelphia and they would be driving all day. He had promised to bring soft pretzels back to friends in the South Carolina town where they now lived.

The woman counted the store's supply of soft pretzels. To Michael's astonishment, the man bought all $50 worth that was on display. After the woman wrapped up the pretzels, the man asked her to ring him up for the bottle of orange juice his son had dropped earlier.

As they gathered up their bags in front of Michael, the woman said goodbye to the young boy. Receiving no answer, the woman said, That's okay. You are right not to talk to strangers. She then advised the father to make sure his son was bundled up so as to not catch a cold.

Michael watched the man carry his son and their bags out the double set of glass doors, his mind drifting with them. He was again snapped back to reality when he heard the woman say, Sir, please step on up. We have a lot of folks in line here.

The balls on this lady, Michael thought. He stepped to the counter and surveyed the empty basket of soft pretzels. Of course, he grumbled just loud enough for the clerk to hear.

You're ten seconds too late. That guy just bought 'em all, she reported just in case Michael had missed the transaction right before him.

I don't suppose you have any more in the back, right? Michael asked.

Oh, heavens, no. That was the last of our morning shipment. Now if you want to wait until close to noon, we should be getting—

Michael peeled a $20 bill from a money clip and flipped it onto the counter in the general direction of the old woman. He pulled back the tab to his coffee and took a small sip, ignoring the rest of the woman's pretzel story. He turned away from the counter and stared out the double glass doors, again lost in thought.

Before handing back Michael's change, the old woman smiled and shook her head. What a cutie patootie of a little boy that was. He had little sponges on his jacket. Did you see him? She gasped the way older women did when they saw young children or kittens or children playing with kittens.

Michael stared at the woman and his money and cursed that he did not have exact change. He offered a nod and a smirk and hoped that would end their conversation.

The woman held the money just out of Michael's reach. She peered at Michael as if she knew him and was suddenly worried for him. "Oh, come now. It can't be all that bad now, can it?" she asked.

Michael looked around at the line of frustrated customers behind him. His face flushed with embarrassment at how long it was taking him to pay for a simple cup of coffee. He looked up and said, I guess I don't talk to strangers either. Michael immediately regretted the tone of his reply. In his mind, it sounded much more pleasant, even playful. But as delivered, Michael knew he sounded like a jerk. He held out his hand until the woman