Losing Jordan: Evan Scott Novels, #2

By John Beckley

Jordan, an eleven-year-old handicapped boy, is in danger of losing his father, the only family he has ever known. Abandoning her child at birth and now married to a wealthy man, Jordan's mother demands full custody of Jordan. Attorney Evan Scott is hired by Jordan's father and the fight begins. Scott soon uncovers a conspiracy involving the judge and defense counsel. To what lengths will Scott go to win the case?  And, at what cost to his career? To his family?

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Beckley
• Release date: Apr 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224044771

John Beckley

John Beckley, a former lawyer, lives in South Carolina. He enjoys tennis and fishing. This is his second novel. 

Book preview

Chapter One

My secretary, Netta , was doing a personal injury intake on the phone when I got to work. I had offered to give her an office, but she told me she liked it out front. It was where the action was, according to her. I was happy because I didn't have to hire a receptionist.

The downside was that her friends stopped by to gab with her, and the reception area often became a gossip mill.

I heard the term disabling damage right before I closed the door to my office, and it warmed my heart. The accident cases had been few and far between these days and this might be one for the good guys. My practice was now lopsided in terms of more criminal cases, a fact that was mildly problematic as most of my clients had a responsibility problem that extended to paying their bill.

Injury cases involved a contingency fee. The ubiquitous You don't get paid, I don't get paid. There was no billing involved and usually the actual time spent on a case was minimal. The client treated and you settled the case.

The decision to hang out a shingle had come after working for a big firm in the Bay area. After several years, I was told my attitude was a problem. It was a mutual discontent. Realizing I did not possess the appropriate measure of smarm, I went out on my own. Moving down the coast, I set up shop in Monterey. I took my secretary with me from the old firm. Her move had been a real leap of faith given the reduction in her salary and benefits and she never let me forget it. Her protectiveness of me, however, was gratifying.

Netta was tougher than me. Raising her family as a single parent in the Tenderloin District of San Francisco had been an exercise in survival. She suffered no fools. Our familiarity and the shorthand it caused, emboldened her opinion of my clientele. Most of her beefs were with the accident victims whom she considered mostly faking it.

I leased in an old building downtown in Cannery Row, my clientele consisting of everything that came through the door. Eventually, like most lawyers, I found a niche. Personal injury work, specifically car accidents, became the focus. One morning, while eating breakfast at the Tinnery, a restaurant on the water a mile from work, my favorite waiter Paul referred me to a client that took me way out of my comfort zone.

I took the case and garnered brief notoriety by defending a wealthy heiress named Laura Preston, accused of murdering her husband. The surprise acquittal brought a flood of criminal clients and was a nice compliment to the ambulance chasing.

About an hour later, Netta buzzed in to tell me Ben Zax was on the phone. Zax was a prominent defense lawyer in town. His support and mentoring on the Preston case had proved invaluable. More importantly, he was a good friend.

Netta stayed on the line while I greeted him.

It's lovely to hear your voice, the coquette said.

Thank you, Netta, I said. I heard her click off. She had fallen in lust with Ben from the first day he visited our office. She wasn't alone.

Ben was on the most wanted list. Tall, built like a light heavyweight with a full head of black hair and perfectly capped teeth, he looked more like a model than a lawyer. 

The truth was that his father had abandoned him and his two younger brothers before the age of ten. Ben had effectively raised them, his mother unwilling or unable to pick up the slack. Growing up in the Bay Area, Ben saw the opportunity to keep his brothers close by interesting them in boats as an outlet for their energy and a place to develop skill on the water.

An expert sailor by the age of thirteen, he worked as harbormaster`s assistant at fifteen. The old man saw the ability and soon Ben practically ran the place, he would move boats, ferry bigger ones into their slips and generally handle everything but the paperwork.

When the America`s Cup team held the race in San Diego, they were looking for skilled labor. Ben hired on as a part-time apprentice for the American entry in his off hours. The seventeen-year-old worked the grinders, whose job it was to raise and lower the sails on the boat. Soon his talent was appreciated, and Ben was moved to assistant to the tactician. The boat won the Cup that year and Ben was offered a full-time position. All this time, Ben had maintained a four-point grade average. When he was offered a full ride to Yale, Ben turned down his once-in- a-lifetime opportunity to defend an America`s Cup and followed his dream to become a lawyer. After graduating with honors, he stayed at Yale for law school, this time taking out a massive loan to afford tuition. He had told me all this one day early on when we were getting to know one another. The story fascinated me, mostly because I had assumed everything had come so easily for him. 

When he graduated, the big New York firms all came calling. He spurned them to open his own shop. He settled in Monterey so he could keep an eye on his brothers, both of whom lived in the area. He worked his way up from traffic court to defending murders and major drug crimes. His eviscerations on cross-exam were a thing of legend. I had sat in on several trials to learn from him, and even though I had scored an acquittal in the Preston case, I never would be in his league. It wasn't false modesty. Sometimes it's good to know your limitations. 

Evan, how goes the battle? Ben asked.

Just trying to win the good fight, I responded. He laughed.

That's not possible with our clients!

Okay, then I'm trying to reduce their sentence, I said. Not sure if that made sense but we were both criminal lawyers now and maybe these pithy little comments would improve my standing.

How are Josie and the kids? he asked. An innocent enough question but the query sent a faint, almost imperceptible, charge of insecurity that settled in my stomach.

Ben had dated Josie briefly before I met her. She assured me that it was just a dalliance, but the fact remained.

Doing great, I said.

I want to talk to you about a potential case and I need to your counsel on a personal matter.  Can we meet for a drink, later? Six at the Duck?

No problem.

Great. See you then.

Kind of made you want to go hmmm...Ben wasn't the mysterious type.

I leaned back in my chair feeling very empowered. Then it occurred to me that I would have to run this by Josie. Not to get permission, of course. It was just that with the kids, dinner was a Chinese fire drill.

Hey, babe. What's wrong? she asked.

Can't I just call to say hello to my lovely wife?

You can, but you rarely do.

I know. Ben asked me to have a drink with him later. He wants my help.

Great. I think that's a terrific idea. Where are you guys going?

The Duck.

I'm jealous. I could go for some of their dumplings right now. Greet Ben for me.

Her mention of his name sent a mild jolt this time.

Chapter Two

The Lucky Duck was an institution in Monterey. Situated downtown on Alverado Street, it was a meeting place for many local businesspeople after work. The prices were cheap, and they served complimentary Chinese food for happy hour.

From 5 to 10 p.m., it catered to a business crowd and served dinner. The Duck`s specialty was fish, but I dreamed about their monster porterhouse. It came with creamed spinach and a garden salad big enough to feed a herd of goats. Josie usually ate the salad as her entrée.

After the oldsters cleared out, the place started to rock. A band started at 10 p.m. and they removed the outdoor tables to make room for a dance floor. The music brought in a twenties crowd and there was usually a line out the door.

Sebastian, an octogenarian beatnik, was the owner, but wasn't slowing down. He was there on Friday and Saturday nights roaming around in his beret until 2 a.m., a testament to good living.

My DUI ran longer than anticipated and when I got there, Ben was standing by the fire pit talking to Rudy Beringer, a lawyer I recognized from downtown.

Evan Scott! Damn dude, you are getting old.

Beringer was one of those guys that thought insulting you was witty repartee. I could take

a joke like anyone but was never good at the comebacks. Go fuck yourself came to mind, but I just smiled.

Rudy, you white shoe guys never age. Must be all that good chardonnay you drink, I said.

Them`s fightin` words. I'm a bourbon man through and through.

Speaking of which, I need a drink, I said. Ben flagged down a bartender and ordered me Woodford on the rocks. 

So, what is that Preston gal up to these days? Beringer asked. The murder case was still a constant in my life, and I already knew the next question.

Wouldn't know, Rudy.

So, just between us girls, she did it, right? he laughed, thinking that

was the most original comment in the world.

Rudy, we have some business, we'll catch you later, I said. Ben and I walked to a table in the corner of the courtyard.

Scary, I offered, as we sat down.

Yea, the guys from the biggest firms are generally the ones most unevolved. There is a math to it, however.

Do tell, I said.

They`re all brilliant guys. Straight A's, law review, all that bullshit. They get good jobs in the big firms. Then they all live in the same swanky neighborhoods, have parties with themselves. Tell each other how wonderful things are up on the thirty-fourth floor. A bunch of focused, driven nerds who are constantly tripping over their inappropriate comments. Josie wouldn't let them mow her lawn.

I laughed. What about you. You were law review at Yale!

The exception to the rule.

Okay, so what's up? I asked, master of the segue. 

Ben's smile disappeared.

I've got a case for you. It's not in your specialty but it's something I think you might find rewarding.

Go on.

John Callahan is my guy’s name. He's an architect over at Roarch and Rand and he’s in a custody fight for his son, Jordan. Callahan has raised his Down syndrome child alone for eleven years. Now, his ex comes back on the scene and wants permanent custody of the kid. She`s re-married to a rich hedge fund manager. Guy by the name of Scheaf.

Did she leave when the kid was born?

Yea, John says that she couldn`t hack caring for a Down syndrome child.

Classy.

Yea, and that's not all. Their lawyer is a family law attorney who happens to be John`s father.

He's representing his son`s ex?

You got it.

What a dick! Why...Wait a minute. Is this the guy who only represents men? The one with the ads on television?

One and the same. What is it? Men are an endangered species ... that's where I come in...blah blah blah... Ben said. 

So, he`s making an exception to try and fuck over his son.

One way of looking at it. He`s a tough lawyer, Evan. All the guys I`ve talked to say he`s brilliant.

And we wonder why people hate lawyers, I said.

I`ve talked to John about you. I`m just too busy to give it my full attention. I also told him you were the lawyer I would want to represent me in this case, which is true. Ben said.

I swirled the last of my bourbon.

Weird...and sad. I want to mull this one over.

The complaint has been filed. John has three weeks to respond.

The server came around and we ordered another one. I thought about what I would do if someone tried to take Sammy.

Fuck it, I'll at least meet with him.

Good, I'll have him call you. On another front... Ben started.

Yea, you mentioned something personal, I said.

I've been seeing someone.

He said it like we were in high school.

She has a past, he continued.

I looked at him, waiting.

She was a call-girl.

Ben, I'm not going to judge.

He laughed, nervously. It was one of those things. Her case was referred to me. I got it beat down to a misdemeanor. One thing led to another...

What's her name?

Apple. Apple Weldon.

I didn't want to ask her stage name.

Real name, cross my heart. Evan, I've fallen for her big time. It's cliché. Rich guy meets hooker, takes her away. Sounds corny but she really gets me.

I resisted the temptation to shout, "GOLD