Paradox

Paradox

John Foxjohn

Watermark Press

This book is published by Watermark Press

New York, New York 10014 USA

Copyright 2015 by John Foxjohn

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction of distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing by the author or publisher.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

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Chapter One

A gut-wrenching fear of death mixed with a lemon fragrance in the Harris County courthouse in Houston, Texas. The polished oak table supplied the citrus aroma. A petrified husband and wife furnished the fear of death.

With their backs to the conference room door, the couple huddled in two of the eight chairs that matched the table. A summer sun blasted through two large bay windows, illuminating the built-in oak bookshelves in blond paneling. Dark brown carpet contrasted the light walls.

Sterling King, their attorney, sat across from them. Charged with capital murder for a crime he vehemently denied committing, John Tatum awaited the jury’s decision. A guilty verdict meant the state would put him on death row.

A not guilty verdict could also mean his death.

Sterling shifted in her seat and couldn’t decide what to do with her feet to stop them from tapping on the floor. She wiped her sweaty palms on the sides of her dress. Closing her eyes a moment, she wished this mess would end. She needed to get her life back in order.

Guilt overrode her selfish thoughts. This wasn’t about her. She wasn’t the one facing death.

Her stomach twisted into knots. If she had failed, an innocent man would face the death penalty.

Something caught in her throat. Under the circumstances, death row might be the best place for her client. On death row he’d be somewhat protected. The absurdity of that thought showed the depths of the ludicrous situation.

At least he would have appeals, and if the appeals failed, he’d still get to live for several years. His life very well could end in hours if she did her job and the jury came back with a not guilty verdict.

Sterling grasped Debbie Tatum’s cold hand as tears ran down the woman's cheeks.

I don't know what to do, Debbie Tatum said in a trembling voice.

Her husband hadn't said anything. With a face the color of copy paper, he sat almost at attention with his hands clutched tightly in his lap and gnawed on his inner lip.

Sterling took a deep breath to get control of herself. She couldn’t let them see anything but confidence—an emotion she didn’t have at the present. She took another deep breath. Debbie, everything's going to be okay. We've given the jury a lot to consider, and I really believe they'll come back with a not guilty verdict.

Shivers exploded through Debbie.

Sterling didn’t say anything. The FBI was supposed to protect them, but she had as much faith in them as the Tatums did. Only Gary Randall, an old law school classmate now with the bureau, seemed sympathetic to them. The others were cold and arrogant. However, for some reason Gary hadn’t been around for a few days. When she asked, they told her that they’d assigned him to something else.

Do you think we have a chance? asked John, his first words in a long time.

Sterling turned toward her client. I believe we have a very good chance of winning. I know I've put some doubt in the jurors' minds.

She purposely didn’t mention the other part—the hardest part—protecting them if Sterling was successful in her defense.

Tears trickled from the corner of John’s eyes and his lips trembled.

Sterling glanced at the agent in charge, but he jerked his gaze away from hers.

Her eyes widened and hollowness formed in her chest. Something was up with the FBI. It was nothing she could put her finger on—a feeling. For the last couple of days, the agents’ attitudes seemed to have changed—toward her and not her client.

She swallowed a lump of fear and told herself for the hundredth time it was the stress of the case. She was finding ghosts where none existed.

She forced a smile. I know it's easy for me to say because I'm not the one… She caught herself. She was about to say facing death, but that wouldn’t be the best wording. I’m not the one on trial. I wish we could do more—we'll just have to wait.

Debbie squeezed Sterling’s hands. Please don't think we aren't grateful. We are. I don't know what we'd have done without you these last few months. We're just scared, that's all.

Before Sterling could say anything, the bailiff opened the door and stuck his head in. The jury has a verdict.

***

FBI agent Gary Randall’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, and he imagined they were wringing his boss’s neck. He maneuvered the car through the Houston streets following the GPS mounted on his windshield. Lawrence Morgan, a senior agent, sat like a sphinx in the passenger seat. Their conversation had started and ended in a hurry. Neither liked the other, hadn’t wanted to work with each other, and didn’t have a choice. What made Gary mad: Morgan wouldn’t even tell him what was going on. All he knew was they were on their way to talk to Sterling King’s parents, but he didn’t have a clue why.

As far as that went, he wasn’t sure why they’d snatched him away from the protection detail. No explanation, nothing. The only reason he could think of was because he knew Sterling King—went to law school with her, but he didn’t know why that would matter. He’d let his superiors know the moment he discovered he knew the person he was to protect, and they had kept him on the detail.

He chuckled to himself. He was finally going to see where the Coral Snake lived. They’d given Sterling King the nickname in law school because she looked good on the outside. Boy did she. Jet-black hair that contrasted perfectly with her alabaster skin, full cupid bow lips and deep-set dark eyes that smoldered and made a man want to jump in.

But the nickname came from the fact that she was as cold and possibly as dangerous as the coral snake.

At the University of Texas, they had four social groups in law school. The lowest one, the one Gary belonged to, contained the ones who worked part-time jobs for spending money. As undergraduates, because they actually had to work, the best fraternities wouldn’t allow them in. The next level held those who didn’t need to work but weren’t quite up to the standards of the elite. Then, there were the snobs. They had the best clothes, cars, more money than they knew what to do with, and didn’t need to worry about grades, getting into trouble—nothing. Whatever they got into, their parents would get them out of and ensure they had the dream jobs once they finished school.

The top group of their law school social class was reserved for one—the Coral Snake. She was so high up she didn’t even have anything to do with the snobs. She attended not one single party or social event the entire three years. While everyone joined one of the two national law school fraternities open to both men and women, she didn’t. She never attended one function. When asked, she would smile in her malignant way, thank them, but say no, flatly. There came a point when everyone stopped asking.

She had been a total recluse from the other law students. At the end, it shocked everyone to their core when the Coral Snake graduated at the top of the class. No one had seen that coming.

We’re almost there. I do all the talking. Do you understand? Morgan’s words spewed out in a cross between a snarl and a grunt.

Idiot. Before Gary could respond, the GPS told him to take a left in one point five miles.

His grip tightened even more on the steering wheel. How am I supposed to talk to start with? What would I say? I have no idea what’s going on.

Morgan grunted. Good, see that you keep it that way.

They’d left Houston on Highway 3 going toward Galveston and Gary had assumed that the family estate was away from town, the best way to guard their treasures, but now he frowned and quickly forgot about Morgan. The GPS told him to take a left in point one mile. The problem: he could see the seashell-lined driveway going off to the left, and it had to be where he was supposed to turn. There were no trees and he could see where the driveway ended, and this couldn’t be the right address.

Instead of turning, he slowed and stopped.

What are you waiting on? Morgan asked.

This can’t be the right address. There’s no way Sterling King lives up there.

Morgan cut him a disgusted look. She doesn’t now but she used to. Her parents live there. Let’s go.

Gary stared at him for a long moment. This wasn’t right. Someone was messing with his head. He shrugged. Let Morgan find out the hard way. He turned in with the tires crunching over the shells.

After passing a couple of old rusted cars with grass growing up to the broken windows, he stopped the Taurus in front of a blue and rust trailer. The old, beat up Dodge truck that sat close to the front door actually enhanced the appearance.

Gary shook his head when he stepped out. This was wrong in so many ways. It just wasn’t possible that the Coral Snake’s parents lived in this dump. Not possible at all. With dead grass crunching under his shoes, he followed Morgan toward the cockeyed stairs leading to the front door.

Made of treated wood, the steps had seen their better days. Cracks cut through the middle and nails on the ends were trying to pop out. They didn’t look sturdy enough to hold a small child, let alone two grown men.

A curtain on the window close to the door pulled back and quickly closed after Morgan rapped on the side of the door. Neither agent had chanced the steps yet.

The door creaked as it opened a couple of inches with one eye staring at them. What do you want? the eye demanded in a husky female voice.

Morgan flashed his badge. Ma’am, we’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Are you Mrs. Irma King?

I am, but I ain’t done nothing wrong. What do you want?

Gary puckered his mouth. Good question. He’d like an answer to that one himself.

Ma’am, we’d like to come in and talk to you for a minute.

She hesitated for a long moment, and then swung the door open. Come in.

Gary tentatively stepped on the cracked steps and followed Morgan into the trailer. The dimness blinded him coming in from the bright sunlight. However, that was nothing compared to the stench of cigarette smoke that swallowed and almost choked him.

Squinting through the dimness and haze, a slat-thin woman, skinnier than Olive Oyl, if possible, stood before them in a thin nightgown. Both agents sat when she indicated a sofa close to the window.

Ma’am, are you Irma King, the mother of Sterling King, the attorney? Morgan asked.

Even when she said yes, this didn’t seem beyond possible. Gary had to stop himself from shaking his head no. None of this matched what every single law student thought. How could every one of them be wrong?

The mother sat, reached for a package of cigarettes beside an overflowing ashtray, and lit up. What’s that girl done?

Ma’am, as far as we know she hasn’t done anything wrong, Morgan said.

Uh-huh, two of you federal boys just show up out of the blue asking about Sterling. I ain’t stupid.

Moran frowned and leaned forward. Has she been in trouble before?

Ha. Not her. The mother pointed a long, bony finger at Morgan’s face. She’s too good for the likes of us now. Never comes around anymore. Ain’t even called in a while.

Ma’am, do you know of anyone who would want to kill your daughter?

What? Gary had stared at the floor, but snapped his gaze up at the question. A death threat. Why hadn’t they told him?

The woman held her hands out wide and shrugged. Ain’t no one around here’s going to want to kill her. She’s too good for the likes of the people around here but no one’s going to kill her for that. She sucked furiously on her cigarette for several puffs, coughed, and pointed at Morgan with it. I asked you before what that girl had done got herself into and you ain’t answered yet.

Ma’am, your daughter’s received a death threat and we are just trying to cover all bases to protect her. We don’t think she’s in immediate danger. We are trying to assess the situation.

As he stared at Morgan, the senior agent ignored him, but Gary wasn’t buying his hogwash. Morgan was lying in his teeth in order to get information. But why? Why wouldn’t they tell him what was going on?

The woman stubbed a butt out in the overflowing ashtray and reached for another cigarette. Even with the dimness and cigarette haze, the smoke from the new one curled toward the ceiling. Gary almost gagged as his lungs tried to rebel. He needed to get out of this place.

He would have breathed a sigh of relief when Morgan rose to leave, but he couldn’t suck in enough clean air. When he stepped outside, he took a deep breath. God, how could people live in that?

Morgan, jaw firm, stared straight ahead as they hurried from the trailer.

Not for a minute did Gary think the bureau was just covering the bases on a routine death threat. If they didn’t think she was in immediate danger, why were two senior agents investigating? The big question: why would they go out of the way to keep him in the dark?

He leaned back and closed his eyes. He could play this game as well as Morgan could.

He involuntarily shrugged. Something nagged the recesses of his brain. A thought was there but buried. It wanted to come out, and needed to. If this just involved Morgan, he could understand it. Morgan hated him, and there was no love lost on his end. However, Morgan was not the type to go to this extreme unless the bosses ordered him to. Also, it wasn’t Morgan that yanked him off the security detail and didn’t tell him why.

Personally, he didn’t care about working the security detail. The Coral Snake wasn’t one of his favorite people. A couple of times, she’d attempted to engage him in conversation, but he’d turned the tables on her. He showed her just how she’d treated him. The satisfaction he’d expected never materialized. His actions made him feel childish and vindictive. After he thought about it, he would probably have apologized to her if he’d had the opportunity, but they’d pulled him.

Why would they do that and not tell him? As he pondered it, the fog in his brain cleared a little.

He glanced at Morgan who continued staring at the road. He tugged on his right ear. It hit him like a ton of bricks.

Oh, my God. The bureau wouldn’t do that, would they?

***

Antonio Salitore stood ramrod straight staring out the window of his Houston mansion. One hand was jammed deep in his pocket, and the other held a Cuban cigar. At seventy-four with hair the color of pure snow, only a little of the vitality he once possessed showed in his bearing. Most people referred to the old man behind his back as Big Sal. Only a select few would dare call him that to his face. When the door closed behind Antonio, he continued to watch gardeners work on his roses, but brought up the cigar and sucked in deep. Smoke curled toward the ceiling and a rich tobacco scent saturated the room.

He didn’t bother to look to see who had entered. Only Toney-O, his son, would take it upon himself to enter a closed door without knocking. He took another drag of his cigar. He should have never left this up to Toney-O. He wanted to give him responsibility, be able to trust him, but he couldn’t. Even at thirty-five, the kid was a screw up.

Big Sal had given him the job and offered advice but his words as always had fallen on ears that didn’t want to listen. Antonio’s father had always said that a college education could ruin a good mind. His father was right about Toney-O.

He took another drag on his cigar as his son impatiently tapped his foot on the hardwood floor. Not even Tony-O would speak before the old man did.

As a grandfather clock ticked away the seconds with the beat of his son’s foot, Antonio turned from the window and shuffled toward his desk.

He didn’t speak but raised an eyebrow just enough to let Toney-O know that he should give a rundown.

The jury has come back with a verdict. Just got word, the son said.

Antonio leaned back in his chair and sucked in more of the cigar. When his son didn’t continue, he held both hands wide. And?

Irritation crossed the old man’s face when his son flounced in one of the chairs in front of his desk. He’d spoiled Toney-O. There was no way he would have ever been so rude to his own father.

I have someone in the courtroom that’s going to call me as soon as the verdict is announced, Toney-O said.

The old man jammed the cigar in the ashtray and sparks flew but he paid them no mind. You know the verdict. They will find him innocent. The old man’s voice boomed. That was a stupid stunt. He held up quotation marks with both hands and mimicked his son, We don’t need to kill him. Discredit him and no one will believe anything he says.

Toney-O tried to keep the sniveling out of his voice but failed. That district attorney is the one who messed everything up. If he’d just—

I didn’t give the job to the district attorney. The old man pointed a finger that looked like a dried-up sausage. I gave you the job. You the one who went and concocted this great scheme of getting him convicted of murder.

But I didn’t—

The old man’s face turned a burnt orange. Shut up. Listen. You haven’t got rid of the problem. It multiplied.

As Toney-O stared at the floor, he muttered, We can still kill them.

The old man leaned forward in his seat. You don’t get it do you?

Get what? It’ll be easy to kill him.

The old man sadly shook his head. Of course it’ll be easy to kill him. Any idiot can do that. You might even be able to get that done.

Stung by his father’s words, Toney-O looked up. Then what’s the problem?

The old man groaned. God, how did I help create something that stupid?

Silence hung thick in the room as the old man lit up another cigar. He was stalling, hoping his son would all of a sudden obtain at least one brain cell.

When he had the cigar going and it didn’t appear that Toney-O would say anything, the old man said. What exactly do you think John Tatum talked to his attorney about?

Toney-O’s mouth fell open. You—mean his attorney knows?

The old man shook with rage and frustration. Of course his attorney knows, you imbecile.

Then I’ll take care of her.

Antonio’s eyes narrowed to slits. You will do nothing. Is that clear?’ The old man’s fist slammed on the desktop. You stay away from her and this from now on. Now git outa here."

After Toney-O trudged out, the old man hesitated, picked up the phone, and then set it back in its cradle. Moments passed as he stared at the phone. He finally reached over and punched in the numbers.

On the second ring, a voice asked. Is our little problem taken care of?

He sucked in a deep breath and coughed, long and racking. The doctors had told him the cigars were going to kill him. He figured the cigars would just have to get in line. No, not yet, but it will be.

What about this Sterling King?

Toney-O doesn’t know this, but I have already taken care of that myself. Also the other ones. End of the day the problem will be gone.

Chapter Two

The bailiff’s announcement choked the air out of the conference room. Sterling’s stomach did flips, leaving her queasy. Moments passed as John and Debbie sobbed. Their heavy breaths echoed throughout the courtroom.

Emptying her lungs in one gush, Sterling said, We'll be right there.

John heaved himself from his chair and helped his wife up. She didn't seem to be able to stand on her own for a moment. Finally, she regained her composure.

No matter what the verdict is, we owe you a debt of gratitude for taking this case, John said. I don't know what they'll do, but without you, we would've never had a chance.

Spiders crawled up Sterling’s back. Did he have a chance? She forced a smile. Let's get this over with so you can get your life back in order.

Hers too, for that matter.

With bodyguards surrounding them, they trudged to the courtroom as spectators gawked. Conversations died when they got close. They strode through tension so thick it seemed to stick to them. The noise ceased when they entered the courtroom. As they took their seats, a couple of deputies moved to stand behind the defense table.

John leaned over and whispered, Why are they here?

It’s normal. Don’t worry about it. If the jury returns a guilty verdict, they will need to place you in custody.

Do they already know the verdict? he almost screeched.

Sterling winced inwardly. She’d screwed that one up. Should have prepared him. She squeezed his hand. No, no one knows the verdict at the moment except the jury. The judge doesn’t even know it, yet. She patted him on the arm. Be patient. It’s just routine.

When he nodded, Sterling turned her attention to her notes. She understood his anxiety. If she were in his place, she’d probably eat her fingernails all the way down to her knuckles.

The bailiff entered and interrupted her thoughts by announcing the judge. No one spoke as he entered, but squeaking seats and rustling clothing invaded the silence. She stood and sucked in a deep breath. The flavor of stale sweat emitted from the couple on both sides and she almost suffocated.

Her knees shuddered as the jury filed into the room and took their seats. A couple of the jurors glanced in their direction but hurriedly averted their gazes.

Tremors shot up both of Sterling’s hands from the husband and wife on either side of her. She squeezed both hands.

On Sterling's right, Debbie attempted to hold back a sob, but it came out almost as a gurgle.

The judge turned to face the jury. Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?

In the front row, a man stood. Your Honor, we have reached a verdict.

Is this a unanimous one? asked the judge.

All the jurors nodded, but the foreman replied, Yes, Your Honor.

Only a couple minutes had passed, but it seemed like it took an hour as Sterling's heart slammed against her ribs.

Mr. Foreman, hand your verdict to the bailiff.

No one in the courtroom breathed as the bailiff’s shoes squeaked on the floor as he retrieved the note.

The emotional bomb inside the courtroom ticked, waiting to explode.

Once he handed it to the judge, he retreated to his usual place.

The judge read the note, frowned, and glanced at the defense. Would the defendant stand.

Sterling rose on shaking legs and stood between the husband and wife.

Time dragged as the judge looked at the verdict. Tension almost sucked the air out of the courtroom, and John gasped.

John Tatum, a jury of your peers in Harris County has viewed all the evidence presented by the district attorney—the arguments put on by your attorney, and has come to a unanimous conclusion.

Sterling almost groaned. Would the old windbag just tell them the decision? John and Patty would faint if he didn’t, and she might fall right there with them.

The jury finds John Tatum…

The judge stared at Sterling for a long moment. Not guilty of all charges.

The courtroom exploded as Sterling’s knees turned to jelly. Debbie slumped into her chair weeping, and John bent at the waist trying to catch his breath.

A roaring in Sterling’s ears made it difficult to hear the judge tell them they were free to go.

The words ‘free to go’ reverberated in Sterling’s head. A carefully worded phrase from the judge who was the only one besides the district attorney who knew what was going on.

Conscious that FBI agents surrounded the defense table, Sterling took a deep breath and sat. She grasped the edge of the table as her entire body strummed like a guitar from an overdose of adrenaline.

She’d won a case, but doomed a couple to a life on the run. Run, if they had a chance to. The FBI swore they could protect John, but he didn’t believe them. Why, she didn’t know—only that John was convinced the FBI couldn’t protect him.

She’d had no idea of any of this when she decided to take the case. She believed in his innocence, and didn’t think the district attorney had near enough evidence to convict him. Then, a week before voir dire, she received the call. A voice told her to make sure she lost the case or her client would die.

John Tatum knew things some people didn’t want to get out. Even now, Sterling knew very little of what was going on. Her first option was to take the cowardly way out, go to the judge, and recuse herself from the case. She was actually relieved when the judge refused.

She was stuck, but had to get some protection