Absolute Power (Southern Justice #1 Read online

  Absolute Power

  Southern Justice Book 1

  Copyright © 2015 Cayce Poponea

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover Design by Jada D’Lee Designs

  Editing by Elizabeth Simonton

  Interior Design and Formatting by Champagne Formats

  www.caycepoponea.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Thirty

  Thanks

  Other work by Cayce Poponea

  Where to find me

  To Kandace Milostan and Alessandra Torre, for showing me the brand of lady I want to become. For giving me the perfect storm in the creation of Claire Stuart.

  “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men.”

  ~John Emerich Edward Dalberg Acton

  Sunlight breaking the surface of the horizon was one of Mother Nature’s minor miracles, or so my Granddaddy used to say. From the moment I took my first breath, I was destined to be an early riser. It didn’t matter if it was the middle of January or the first day of summer vacation, my eyes opened as the first sign of the morning began.

  My dad was the same way. While the rest of the house stayed warm in their beds, we would lace our tennis shoes and hit the pavement. “Dylan, you’ve always got to be ready for battle, son. Doesn’t matter if it’s physical or mental, you’ve got to be ready.” He lived the words he spoke, just as his father and his father before him. “A man is only as good as his word,” he would tell us.

  Going to college wasn’t a question in our house. You had two choices, get an education or join the military. Using the words my father pounded into my head, I stayed at the top of my class, graduating with a bachelor’s degree in Criminal Justice. One year later, I raised my hand and swore to protect the citizens of Charleston.

  Being a rookie cop wasn’t the easiest thing in the world. I had to earn the respect of the people in the neighborhood I patrolled; get to know who lived there and who was looking for trouble.

  I learned more lessons from the people around me than in all the textbooks I carried to class. Some of the most valuable being: How to read people and their body language, and know when they were lying. Learning the thugs had their own language and the meanings behind each word, was an educational experience in itself.

  For three years I worked hard at building relationships, not only on the street, but inside the department as well. Gaining the trust of the guy who owned the deli on the corner of Fifth and Grand was easy. Getting your partner to trust you, now that took some work. My first assignment was with a crusty old man named Carson. He had been a patrol officer longer than I’d been alive. He teased me ruthlessly about being too pretty to work the streets; said I was going to find myself pushed up against a back alley with a knife at my back and some crack head’s dick in my ass.

  It was a rainy September morning when his opinion of me changed. We had just started our patrol when a lady waved us down on one of the corners near downtown. She complained she had been mugged and the guy had taken off down the alley behind her. Carson half-heartedly told her we would take a look around, but didn’t think we would get her purse back.

  The owner of the purse reminded me of my own mother; dark hair, well-dressed, and slender frame, and polite, even in such a drastic situation. She described the suspect better than any seasoned cop ever could, all the way down to the brand of jeans he wore.

  My mom was one of a kind; sweet as homemade southern tea, but vicious as a rattle snake if provoked. She was the greatest woman in the world and had saved me and my two brothers from becoming a statistic in the system. I would do anything that woman asked of me.

  Carson told me to get back in the car so we could take a look around the block. Reluctantly, I complied. See, it was the end of the month, a time when money and food were beginning to run low. Most of the folks who lived in this particular neighborhood lived in tight conditions. Stealing to buy food and diapers wasn’t rare. I also knew there were three pawnshops within a five block radius of where we stood. My guess was, whoever stole her purse would head to one of those shops to get some cash.

  Carson had his head on a swivel, something ingrained in us during the academy. Where Carson kept watch for any movement, I was busy watching the kids on the corners. How many were facing the street? Posing as lookouts for their friends and bosses. Nothing appeared unusual until we came around the second block again.

  My partner had written off getting the purse back when the guy we were looking for didn’t come running up to the car and surrender himself. I, on the other hand, had my eyes fixed on three men who looked to be organizing a game of dice.

  “Stop the car.” I said this while picking up the radio to call in our location, informing dispatch where we were. “See the guys on the left?” I nodded my head in the kids’ direction.

  Carson flashed to the area I mentioned. “Yea. So?” He shrugged, taking a drink from his cup of coffee.

  “Gambling is illegal in this county. Why do you think they would do it out in the open, where any cop could drive by and bust them?” Turning my attention to the store across the street, I immediately saw a guy with his back to the wall who looked exactly like the suspect we were looking for.

  Again calling in what was going on to dispatch, I opened my door as the kid noticed me. He turned and began to walk casually in the direction of the guys tossing dice.

  “Hey!” I called out to him. He took one look over his shoulder and started running at top speed. Just as I suspected, the guys with the dice also began to run in three different directions. Effectively giving me a choice of whom I was going to chase.

  The guys with the dice game took a little longer to bolt. No doubt this wasn’t the first time they had been used as bait. I wasn’t interested in their illusion.

  Carson ran alongside me for less than twenty seconds, about the time the kid seemed to walk up a wall and hurl over it with ease. I followed as
easily; this was only a warm up for me. Carson, however, was already gasping for breath.

  I heard him on the radio saying he was going to circle the block in the car, his wheezing masking the gruffness caused by his smoking. I kept my sights on the back of the kid, not even breaking a sweat yet. Just as he was about to jump over a chain link fence, which separated the neighborhood from an overpass, I noticed a white cop car in my peripheral. Using the bumper for momentum, I was able to toss myself through the air and onto the back of the kid, knocking the wind out of him and onto his belly on the ground.

  Jerking him up from the ground, his insistence of no wrongdoing already playing on a loop. Leaning him over the hood of the squad car, I patted him down for weapons. “Why did you run if you haven’t done anything?” I asked him. His jacket was zipped to his neck, spinning him around I tugged at the zipper and as the two sides of his jacket gave way, a fancy ladies’ purse was revealed.

  Carson took over reading him his rights and placing him in the back of the squad car.

  “You got lucky today, kid,” he spoke, continuing to write his notes.

  “Luck had nothing to do with it and you know it,” I called back to him. He looked up, a question looming in his eyes. I leaned in his direction so the other officers couldn’t hear what I was about to share. “Listen, every night you get enough sleep so you can show up mentally ready. You eat dinner at home with your wife so you have the energy to survive.” He nodded slightly, indicating he was listening.

  “My father told me to always be ready to do what is necessary.” I looked around to see if anyone else was listening. “For me, it means being in the best condition I can possibly be. Treating my body like a well-oiled machine.” He dropped his pen and pad to his side. “If you want, I’ll help you,” I offered with a small smile.

  It wasn’t an easy change for Carson; being a middle-aged man who loved his wife’s cooking and beers with the guys. I never gave him any demands I couldn’t perform myself. I encouraged him when he thought he was going to die. It took the better part of a year, but he did it. Lost his “man baby,” he called it; the area around his middle, proof of the quantity of over-indulgence he had exposed himself to.

  Our professional and person relationship changed a lot in that year. When notice went out to the counties, searching for additional detectives, Carson tossed my name in the ring. With my record, college degree and recommendations, I was promoted to the assault and battery division. I worked hard for the department, using every ounce of skill I learned to place criminals behind bars. A year later, the narcotics division needed a crossover detective. Again my superiors called me in and offered me the promotion.

  After the celebrating was in full swing, lips loosened by the consumption of too much alcohol, one particular person began to run his mouth as to why such a young punk was chosen over more experienced men. Carson stood from his chair and told the crowd my promotion to Detective was on my own merit and not because my father and granddaddy were two of the most prominent attorneys in the state.

  Now three years later, I was the lead investigator for the city of Charleston. I had five men and two women on my team to investigate crimes dealing with narcotics as well as assault. Carson and I still met once a week to tackle what he described as the mountain.

  Ravenel Bridge spanned across the Cooper River for nearly three miles, connecting downtown Charleston to the affluent Mount Pleasant, where my parents called home. I remembered the first time I tried to run across it. My brothers had discovered the advantages to having a fit body—girls flocked to that shit, and they were all about the female population. Hell, what normal guy wasn’t?

  The first time I thought about running over it, I told my little brother Chase, “What’s the big deal, I run every day?” He looked me in the eye and told me to go ahead, he would be right behind me. On an early Sunday morning, my two brothers and father witnessed me struggle to crest the first half of the bridge. It became my obsession to conquer the “big bitch,” as I named her. Chase ran right alongside me, pushing and encouraging me every step of the way.

  “Dylan, always keep your competitors behind you. Run as fast as you can so that all they see is the back of your head. They will think this is easy, as your face will tell a different story, but since they can’t see it, they will never know.”

  Chase and my middle brother, Austin, ran with me as I took that “big bitch”— three days before Chase went to Marine boot camp. Motherfucker showed off as he ran backward on the way up.

  Today was my weekly run with Carson, with the bridge in view and the sun’s first rays gracing the wires, which spanned across the bridge, I could see him still stretching. He no longer resembled the man I met my first year as a cop. He was now muscular, a result of all the weight he lifted instead of a fork to his mouth. Carson had entered the run, which was held on this very bridge every year, celebrating the blooming of the Azaleas.

  “Hey, man!” He called as he began his own run. Just as I inspired him to be ready, he now inspired others; teaching classes at the local YMCA and volunteering with one of the local football teams. Hell even his wife joined him in this change.

  “Morning, ole man. You ready?” I asked as I passed him on the right.

  “Better than the likes of you,” he returns his arms elongated above his head, stretching one last time. His eyes searching me over, looking for any traces of the long night before. Carson knew me, better than most. It was no secret that he didn’t care for the way I lived in my off time.

  He was from a different era, a time where men wouldn’t dream of approaching women the way I preferred. He met his wife in high school, took her out, cherished her and stayed faithful. I wanted nothing to do with relationships. Having a girlfriend wasn’t something I was interested in; marriage didn’t even register on my radar.

  “Did you at least give her cab fare?” Carson questioned, knowing good and well I wasn’t that big of a douche.

  Last night I stopped by McGuire’s pub, a small neighborhood tavern in Charleston. It had been open for as long as I could remember. Several people had owned it over the years, with the current owners cashing in on the college students who resided nearby.

  Dollar pint nights were a crowd pleaser; drunken college girls were a Dylan pleaser.

  “Fuck no! I didn’t give her a damn dime,” I tossed back. “She puked all over the floor before we even got to the john.”

  Carson shook his head as we began our run. “So you went with plan B, then?”

  I could swear sometimes Carson lived vicariously through me. Different girl whenever I wanted, no strings, empty promises or bitching to contend with.

  “You could say that,” I answered, deciding to throw him a bone. “Shayla showed up with her friends. We talked for a little while…had a drink.” Every once in a while I would share a story with him, let him remember what it was like to be a young and single guy. I adjusted my breathing as my feet found a solid rhythm, letting life fall to the side for a little while.

  “And by talking you mean you bent her over the sink and fucked her.”

  Carson wasn’t one to mince words; he said exactly what was on his mind. It was refreshing and appreciated.

  “Of course, what else would I do with her?” I prepared myself for the backhand slap, which would come in my direction at any second. Carson had a strong opinion on the way I chose to spend time with the fairer sex.

  I had rules, plain and simple. If a girl was interested in spending any time with me, she knew up front what was going to happen. No promises of calling her later or flowers sent to her work the next day. Our encounter would be brief and enjoyable, for both of us.

  There would be no real exchange of names; I didn’t give a shit if she called out my name or the guy she had running around in her head. No discussion of birth control, it wasn’t needed; I always wrapped my dick. And hell, you couldn’t get a chick pregnant if you didn’t fuck her pussy. I preferred backdoor fucking, and judging by the am
ount of ass I was currently getting, girls liked it too.

  “You know, Dylan, your whole adult life you have surrounded yourself with weak-minded women. One day, and I hope I live long enough to see it, you’re going to find a girl who punches you in the gut and rips that calloused heart of yours right out of your chest.”

  I had lowered down my guard as he spewed his bullshit. Just as we crested the top of the bridge, he reached out and smacked me in the center of my chest.

  “Goddamn it, old man! You knocked the wind out of me.” I slowed down my pace, my breathing cluttered with coughing. My right hand balanced on my thigh as I tried to regain control of the sputtering.

  My eyes watered as the coughing increased, blurring my vision in the process.

  “Is he okay?” A labored voice sounded to my left. Glancing up, my still hazy vision landed on the body of a young girl.

  “He’s fine, darlin’,” Carson snickered. “Just isn’t used to running this much, is all.”

  I would have been embarrassed by his lies, but as my vision cleared, I came face to face with the owner of the out of breath voice. Sadly, no amount of alcohol would ever erase her from my memory.

  Hair pulled back from her face, skin aged from exposure to repeated trips to either the beach or a tanning bed. Wrinkles staking claim to the areas around her mouth and eyes. All that could easily be forgotten, it was the massive overbite she desperately needed corrected. Teeth sticking out so far her lips had no room to close.

  “Well, don’t give up, young man. You keep tryin’ and one day you will be able to run the entire bridge without a break.”

  Thankfully, she patted my shoulder and left, taking her Billy Bob teeth with her and leaving me to deal with Pinocchio and his growing fucking nose.

  Carson’s body nearly bent in half as his laughter took possession of his body. “Laugh it up, motherfucker.” I kicked the side of his running shoe as I began my run again.

  “What’s this? Not running after her?” Laughter in his voice.

  “Not my type.” I called over my shoulder