My Lawyer

Chapter 1

Tommy Old Goat Reynolds stormed into the house in Santa Clara, California and ran straight to the master bedroom in the back of the house.

Old Goat was a member of the Two Zero Five Motorcycle Club. They called him Old Goat because the scruffy patch of hair on his chin made him look like an Old Goat.

He threw two duffel bags on the floor next to the closet and unzipped them. He opened the closet doors, slid the clothes on the rack to the left, twisted the metal bracket to the right, and pulled down the small metal hook in the back of the closet. A hidden trap door popped open.

Old Goat opened the trap door and started pulling out stacks of cash. He stacked the money in two different rows. He counted eighteen stacks and then placed them neatly in the top drawer of the dresser, next to the bed.

He went back to the hidden trap and started pulling out more stacks of money, dumping them into the duffel bags. After he pulled all the money out of the hidden trap, he closed the trap door, returned the clothes to their original position, then zipped up the bags.

Old Goat grabbed the two bags loaded with money and ran out the front door, closing it and locking it behind him.

Chapter 2

Bruce Kennedy drove his custom Harley-Davidson motorcycle through the streets of San Francisco like an Olympic skier zigzagging through a slalom course. He slowed down for an indecisive delivery truck but was still going twice the posted speed limit.

Bruce made a sudden turn onto the sidewalk, revved his engine, then watched the pedestrians scatter. A young hipster spilled his gourmet coffee as he jumped out of the way just in time to avoid a collision with the front of Bruce’s motorcycle. Bruce parked his bike right next to the forty-two story skyscraper on California Street. A few pedestrians gave Bruce a disapproving look but he didn’t give it a second thought. He shut his bike down, secured his helmet, and walked through the revolving glass doors into the building.

Bruce stood out like a sore thumb in the massive lobby. It was the financial district in San Francisco and 99% of the people in this particular lobby were business professionals. Bruce, on the other hand, was not. He was tall with long, greasy hair, a scruffy beard, and tattoos running down his arms. He wore dark sunglasses, a black garage shirt, jeans, and heavy-duty work boots. It was what he wore most days. Bruce valued comfort over style. He was a biker at heart and there was no mistaking that based on his appearance.

Bruce stood in front of the elevator doors and waited with the rest of the sheep. He couldn’t help but notice the man next to him talking loudly on his mobile phone. Too loud. Obnoxiously loud. The elevator doors opened and Bruce stepped on with the rest of the herd. It was a tight fit. An old man with a cane slowly made his way towards the elevator just as the doors began to close. Bruce grabbed the elevator door at the last second and held it open for the elderly gentleman.

The obnoxious man talking on his mobile phone looked at his watch impatiently, then gave Bruce a dirty look. It was clear to him that there was no room for the old man and he didn’t have time to wait. The elevator was full. Bruce smiled at the loud talker and placed his hand firmly on the obnoxious man’s shoulder.

Would you mind stepping out so this young man can get on? Bruce phrased it as a question, but it was clear that Bruce wasn’t asking by the way he delicately pushed the loud talker off the elevator, back towards the lobby. The loud talker resisted for a second, but he thought better of it and stepped off the elevator to make room for the old man as he slowly worked his way into the crowded elevator. Bruce gave the loud talker a friendly salute as the elevator doors closed.

Bruce got off on the 24th floor. He looked to the right and saw a shiny sign hanging on the wall that read McGill & Mason. The receptionist was seated just beneath the sign at her desk. She smiled from ear to ear and said, Welcome to McGill & Mason. How can I help you?

Bruce didn’t recognize her and assumed she was new. I’m here to see Cooper McGill. Bruce looked down the hall, to the right of the receptionist.

Do you have an appointment? she asked.

He’s expecting me, he said.

Okay. I just need you to fill out these papers. The receptionist handed Bruce a clipboard with a short stack of papers on top. Be sure to answer all of the questions and if you don’t know the exact crime you’ve been charged with, just put a general description, such as drugs, DUI, burglary, robbery, etc. When you’re finished, bring it back to me and I’ll look it over.

Bruce took off his sunglasses and looked down at the receptionist. He dropped the clipboard on her desk. Do I look like a criminal to you?

She wasn’t sure if that was a trick question. Bruce did look like a criminal, but she was pretty sure that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, Bruce couldn’t wait any longer. Patience wasn’t his strong suit.

Never mind. Bruce walked past her desk and continued down the hallway.

The receptionist stood up from her desk and waved her hand at Bruce. Sir, you can’t go back there. Sir? Excuse me. The receptionist followed him down the hall from a distance.

Bruce found Cooper McGill’s office. The door was wide open so he walked right in.

I’m here, Bruce said.

Oh, good, Cooper said.

The receptionist popped her head in the doorway. I’m sorry Mr. McGill. I told him to fill out the forms but he refused and just walked back here on his own.

It’s okay, Cooper said. He’s a friend. Bruce and I went to law school together. The receptionist looked at Bruce again wondering if she heard Mr. McGill right. No one would guess Bruce was a lawyer based on his appearance alone.

Can you close the door on your way out? Cooper asked. She got the hint and closed the door behind her as she left Cooper’s office.

Have a seat, Cooper said.

Let’s just get this over with, Bruce said. I’ve got things to do today.

Cooper nodded. Sure. Okay. Well, let me give you the details before we go in. My client was—

Yeah, you told me the story before, Bruce interrupted. You’ve got a personal injury case that’s worth a million dollars, but the asshole insurance attorney won’t offer anything more than $150k. Now you want me to mediate the situation for you.

Normally, I wouldn’t ask for this type of help, but my client really needs the money, and he’s a super-nice guy. He did have a preexisting condition but it had nothing to do with this accident. I’m worried that if we go to trial—

Bruce interrupted Cooper again. I don’t need all the details. I do need you to take care of those corporations. Did you take care of that for me yet?

Four of them have been dissolved, Cooper said. And I’m waiting to hear back from the attorneys on the other two.

Bruce nodded. That’d be great if you could wrap that up this week. The sooner the better.

Is everything okay? What’s the rush to shut them down?

Bruce smiled. I am retiring. Going 100% legit. Like you. Bruce looked at Cooper and his fancy suit. Well, not exactly like you.

Cooper was surprised. Again? Good for you. What is this, the third or fourth time you’ve gone legit?

Okay, where is this guy? Bruce asked.

Conference room to the right, Cooper said. He’s in there now with the mediator. Do you want me to go in with you and introduce you? The guy is a major prick.

No, I think I’d like to introduce myself.

Chapter 3

Leonardo Lee Giordano stepped out of his gray and yellow Lamborghini Centenario LP Limited Edition and surveyed the middle-class neighborhood in San Jose, California. Lee was all about his image. He wanted people to know that he had money. He wanted people to admire him and look at him like a God. Money, to him, meant power. Power demanded respect. He always presented himself as a successful businessman, but, in reality, he was a simple drug trafficker. A successful and violent drug trafficker, but simple, nonetheless.

Lee had on dress pants, a long-sleeved collared shirt, expensive Ferragamo shoes, and his favorite watch, a $320,000.00 Rebellion Magnum 540 Grand Tourbillon. Lee had no interest in being understated.

Jesus Acosta climbed out of the passenger’s seat and waited for Lee. Jesus was Lee’s right-hand man. His enforcer. His Director of Security. He was a no-nonsense guy who was happy to hurt anyone who got in his way. Jesus signaled to the SUV parked behind them. Four members of Lee’s security team jumped out and walked up the driveway towards the open garage door.

The garage was a cluttered mess. It was filled with old motorcycles, tires, engine parts, and several unidentifiable piles of junk. A man standing in the garage turned and saw the four large men walking towards him. He moved quickly towards the door to the house but wasn’t quick enough. Lee’s guys grabbed him before he could get away.

Two members of Lee’s security team held the man’s arms while another searched him for weapons. They pulled a .45 caliber handgun from the man’s waistband. What the fuck, man? the man said. Who the hell are you guys?

Lee and Jesus approached the man. They call you Pepper? Lee asked.

He nodded. Yeah.

What’s your real name? Lee asked.

Pepper hesitated briefly but then thought better of it. Matt Butler.

Matt, I’m Lee Giordano. Lee pointed to Jesus. This is my Directory of Security, Jesus Acosta. Do you have any idea who we are?

No. And I don’t appreciate you coming in here like this, man. Not cool at all.

Well, we’re here today because Jesus has informed me that a man they call Pepper, that’s you, has been selling drugs all over our beautiful city. Lee waited for a response but Pepper didn’t respond.

Is that true? Lee asked.

I don’t know who you guys are and it’s none of your business what I do.

How long have you been in San Jose? Lee asked.

Long enough.

Two months? Four months?

I’ve been here long enough to know that I can do what I want and anybody who fucks with me is going to be sorry.

Lee laughed. Jesus didn’t find it amusing.

Okay, so you haven’t been here long enough to know who we are. We don’t actually sell heroin and meth, your main products, but we’re interested in expanding.

Well, fill out a job application, Pepper said. I could probably find a spot for you, although you look a little soft.

Lee didn’t find that funny. Pepper was showing a complete lack of respect. I’m very curious, who do you get your drugs from? Lee asked.

Pepper laughed. Do I look fucking stupid to you?

Lee looked him up and down. You do, as a matter of fact. You look a little stupid to me. Who provides you with your heroin and your meth?

Pepper shook his head. I don’t know nothing about nothing.

Lee signaled to Jesus. He’s confused. Help him out.

Two of the security guys grabbed Pepper’s right arm and slammed it down on the workbench. Jesus opened up a folding knife and held it over Pepper’s arm. Two more security guys grabbed Pepper by the arm and the head to control his resistance.

Jesus took the blade of the knife and ran it over the bottom of Pepper’s wrist just below the palm of his hand. Blood seeped from the cut and ran down Pepper’s arm onto the workbench below.

Ah, shit, man! Pepper tried to resist but he was no match for the four big beasts.

Lee pointed to the cut on Pepper’s arm. Just so you know, that’s a superficial cut. It’s only your skin and some blood vessels. There’s no real damage.

What the fuck, dude? Pepper struggled to free himself. Get off me!

Most people don’t understand that if you want to cut the radial artery, and bleed to death, you have to cut through the muscle, tendon, ligament, and the nerves in your wrist. You really have to get down in there. Cutting through the nerves can be very painful. Lee walked closer to Pepper and looked at him face to face. Now, who is your drug supplier? It’s a pretty simple question.

Come on, man, Pepper pleaded. Let go of my arm.

Lee turned away and nodded at Jesus. Show him what it feels like to cut through the nerves.

Jesus pushed the knife into Pepper’s arm as he struggled in vain. He sliced through the muscle and searched for the median nerve while avoiding the ulnar and radial arteries. Jesus knew to save the arteries as a last resort although it didn’t always work out that way. Mistakes happened from time to time. Jesus wasn’t a surgeon in an operating room, he was a butcher in a garage. Pepper screamed in pain as more blood came pouring out of the wound.

Okay, okay, okay, Pepper screamed. I’ll tell you.

Go ahead, Lee said. Give me the name. Jesus continued to slice away.

Francisco Carbajal, Pepper shouted. His name is Francisco Carbajal.

Lee tapped Jesus on the arm, a signal to stop cutting. Jesus cleaned his blade on Pepper’s jacket.

Tell me more about Francisco Carbajal, Lee said.

Jesus, man. Can I put something on this before I bleed to death? Pepper asked.

You’re not going to bleed to death, Lee said. What’s his phone number?

Pepper shook his head. I have to get my phone. I don’t know his phone number.

Let him go. Lee’s security team let him go and Pepper got a closer look at the damage. He covered the wound with his sweatshirt and turned to walk inside. My phone’s inside.

Tell them where to find your phone and they’ll go get it. Pepper told Lee’s security guys where to find his phone as he tried to control the bleeding from his wrist.

Lee noticed one of the motorcycles sitting in the sea of junk that filled the garage. He was no motorcycle expert, but he could tell it was something different and unique. What kind of motorcycle is that?

Pepper wasn’t in the mood to talk motorcycles. It’s an old motorcycle.

Lee moved a couple pieces of junk and took a closer look at the bike. Looks like a real piece of shit. The name on the gas tank was still legible even with the dull paint and the thick layer of dust. A Flying Merkel? This thing would probably be worth some money if you actually cleaned it up.

No shit, Pepper added.

You know, Lee said. I have a friend that loves old motorcycles. You wouldn’t mind if I took this piece of junk off your hands, would you?

Chapter 4

Bruce walked into the conference room at the law firm, McGill & Mason. Two men in suits were sitting at the large table. The mediator was at the head of the table so Bruce sat down across from the insurance attorney, David Platt.

Mr. Platt was flipping through a binder full of exhibits, notes, and other random legal documents. The mediator was lost in his smartphone. Bruce stared at Mr. Platt but didn’t say a word.

Mr. Platt looked up at Bruce. Based on Bruce’s gritty appearance, Platt assumed that he was in the wrong place. I’m sorry, we’re having a mediation in this conference room. You must be in the wrong room. Mr. Platt looked back down at his binder full of papers.

Are you David Platt? Bruce asked.

Yes.

Then I’m in the right room.

Bruce continued to stare at Mr. Platt without giving any further explanation.

Mr. Platt was confused. Who are you, exactly? And what’s your relationship to this case?

My name is Bruce Kennedy. I’m a consulting attorney in this case with Cooper McGill. I’m just helping him out with the mediation today.

Mr. Platt