Absolute Power (Southern Justice #1 Read online

I had few friends when I was younger; too embarrassed to bring anyone to see where I lived. So when graduation day came, I chose not to tell Shane about it. Gigi and Daddy had already told me they would be too busy to attend anyway. I knew what they really meant. I had been receiving constant teasing for being an “egghead” wanting to finish school to get ahead in life. Their words made my decision to leave and never return so much easier.

  Strangers clapped for me as I walked across the stage in my red and yellow graduation gown, my honors cords dangling in the summer breeze. I applied to every college at least a hundred miles away from here, knowing I wanted nothing to do with ever coming back.

  I studied hard, kept my nose clean and managed to graduate third in my class, enough for the University of Kentucky to take notice. I was awarded a full scholarship to study nursing. I packed my belongings in a single suitcase I got from a second hand shop in town and gave a short goodbye to my brothers and sisters. Shane hugged me tight and said he would wait for me. I told him to find happiness.

  College was an eye-opening experience. For one, I had my first real shower. Unlike the trailer, the showers in my dorm managed an endless supply of hot water. You didn’t have to brave the cold to wash yourself thoroughly.

  I also got lucky in roommate assignments. Melinda grew up barely fifty miles away. She was seeing an older man her parents knew nothing about. She came in, let her mother fix up her side of the room and left a minute after her parents. She tossed me her key and said I could have anything she was leaving behind.

  I crawled into the sheets her mother had so delicately placed on her bed, delighting in the fresh smell and unbelievable comfort they provided.

  I studied even harder, made friends with the Dean and housing director. These relationships allowed me to stay in the dorms during the holidays and summer vacation.

  When graduation arrived, I once again crossed the stage to the applause of complete strangers. I feared my future, because I knew I would have to take the state nursing exam in order to get a job. This meant I would have to go back to my family’s trailer until I could take the test.

  As I packed my room, vastly more items to carry this time, I knew I had to contact them and let them know I was coming. I called the only number I had, Shane’s cell phone. Oddly enough, he was sitting in the trailer and handed the phone to Gigi.

  She began talking a mile a minute about Daddy being back in prison and new grandbabies running around. However, the one saving grace she managed to give me was the news her brother had just suffered a massive stroke. She insisted since I was already a nurse, it was my responsibility to go and take care of him.

  I jumped up and down after I got off the phone. I wouldn’t have to deal with the scrutiny I was certain would come my way now that I was a professional.

  Uncle Melvin lived in Charleston, South Carolina in a small house near a major hospital. I spoke with the lady who was currently helping him. She said she would tell him to expect me as soon as he woke from his nap.

  Charleston was far enough away from Kentucky I wouldn’t have to worry about the family. Georgia, the lady who was taking care of Uncle Melvin, was the poster child of what a mother should be. She took me by the hand and showed me around the area. She brought over hot meals and even taught me how to cook.

  Uncle Melvin, who was a soft-spoken, kind old man, contacted a friend of his in the State Senate to help me obtain my nursing license. He wanted me to thrive and go on to become someone special. He knew his time was limited; the stroke had taken so much from him.

  He died on a Friday afternoon. I called Shane’s phone to tell Gigi her brother had passed, but all she wanted to know was when his will would be read. I hung up on her.

  “Code blue. Emergency room, bed two. Code blue. Emergency room, bed two.”

  The hospital operator announced, ending my walk down nightmare lane. Bed two was Mr. Peterson, my patient and my responsibility.

  Show someone hate and malice and it will come back to bite you… show them mercy and love and you’re taking giant steps to building a better humanity.

  ~ Thomas Pina

  Market street precinct housed my office and doubled as my second home. In the early years, during the time where horsepower was of the four-legged kind and not mass-produced by the plants in Detroit, the building was known to be a brothel. It served as a refuge to tired military soldiers as they fought proudly for their beliefs, while other gentlemen patrons escaped the drama which filled their Southern plantations.

  Not surprising was the circular plate on the front of the building, a banner of sorts, telling firefighters the building was to be protected in case a fire broke out. Not every building in the area could claim the standing; they didn’t supply the same service either.

  After my run with Carson, I headed here to get ready for the hellish day the city had planned for me. Celia, my secretary, greeted me with a cup of much needed coffee and a copy of the video footage from last night’s attack. Being division Captain allowed me a few liberties, such as a private shower and pull-out couch in my office.

  Once I was rid of the stench of my workout and half a cup of coffee doing its magic to my brain function, I cued up the video and began to watch.

  The first few frames showed a vacant Charleston parking lot with the occasional stream of headlights from a passing car. Then, around a minute and a half in, three individuals entered the frame. At first, they seemed to be waiting on something—standing on the corner of the parking lot, heads turning like on a hinge.

  Thirty seconds later, a man in a lab coat entered the screen as he passed the three individuals, nodding a hello in their direction. All three watched him without reacting as he walked by.

  Then, at the five-minute mark, the man in the lab coat entered the frame again. This time, the three men attacked, hitting him from behind. My anger built as I watched them kicking him repeatedly as his body lay prone on the concrete. It was a full four minutes before hospital security arrived to assist the man.

  According to the responding officer’s report, Dr. William Gillman, the victim in the case, was taking a break after treating several car crash patients earlier in the evening. Now, he was one of the patients receiving overnight observation at University Hospital.

  Physician examination showed four broken ribs, a mild concussion, and an eye they weren’t entirely certain about. They would need to wait until the swelling diminished before any answers could be given.

  “Sir, the hospital called, said to tell you Gillman just woke up.” Celia, spoke from the next room. She had been a street cop for the city until about ten years ago, when a gang shooting ended her career. When she applied for the job; I made a few calls to ensure she was offered the position. I needed someone who could separate important information from the bullshit rumors, which seemed to come through faster.

  Her reputation for being a street-smart cop came in handy on many occasions. However, based on the cut and dry evidence on the tape, we wouldn’t need her this time.

  “Thanks, Celia. Do we know if the bastards bonded out yet?”

  She entered my office, a number two pencil tucked behind her left ear. My guys had once asked her if she ever removed it. Without looking them in the eye, she responded she did everything with the pencil in place, even sucked her husband’s dick at night. She was one of the guys and she never let any of us forget it.

  “Nope, but Anderson has already been called in. One of the accused is a member of the Street Crew gang.”

  Fuck my life, Corbin Anderson was a well-known attorney in town. He and my father were once partners. Their friendship, and professional relationship, ended when Anderson wanted to become a “voice of the people,” a term he coined. Anderson wanted to have huge billboards around the city, specializing in civil action lawsuits. Primarily dealing with accidental injury, workers’ comp and wrongful death. He wanted to have a paralegal on hand in every emergency room waiting area, to answer legal questions, of course.

&nb
sp; My father had a more simple and less corporate term for what he wanted, “Ambulance Chaser.” Anderson opened his own firm, working out of a van for nearly a year. Now he had three offices, several partners and one of those billboards on every street corner.

  His third wife just left him for one of my father’s junior associates. Seemed being a “voice of the people” could lead to going without a paycheck, due to court systems taking such a long time to get around to your case or the multitude of appeals adding years to the final result.

  My father, Dean Morgan, was the senior partner in the law firm he took over from my granddad, Forrest VanBuren. When he met and married my mother, Priscilla, Granddad made it clear he had aspirations to fill a Senate seat. Once he was comfortable with my father at the helm, he ran unopposed in the election.

  “Good luck with the interrogation, Dylan.” Celia returned to her desk; an all-knowing chuckle coating her words. She had been here long enough to know I didn’t always follow the rules when it came to interrogating a suspect. Especially one with a record as long as I suspected for this particular scumbag.

  If Celia’s information was correct, one of Anderson’s paralegals would be greeting me the second I crossed the threshold to the jail. Didn’t matter, he or she wouldn’t be the first paralegal I made piss their pants.

  Navy blue pinstripes were a signature look for any newly employed paralegal. You could smell the remnants of the cellophane he was pulled from as he received his assignment. Eagerness to please his new boss reflected in the bounce he was trying to hide.

  Today I was feeling generous and planned to say good morning and be on my way, see if his boss filled him in on who to watch for. Checking up the street for cars, I headed in his direction. He was looking side to side, hands deep in his most likely empty pockets, hair still pressed back against his head.

  As a street cop, a guy like this would worry me, wrong clothes for this part of town. I would have recommended he move along unless he was looking for trouble.

  “Mornin’,” I called casually as I opened the glass door. I was greeted by the sounds of phones ringing and arrestees proclaiming their innocence. Against the far wall sat a pair of hookers, their clothes giving their profession and any person for thirty feet a clear view of what they had to offer.

  “Mr. Morgan.” A shout from behind me caused a smirk to form on my face; seemed our newbie finally woke up. I ignored the suit on purpose, continuing down the hall in the direction of central lockup.

  “Excuse me, Captain.” He shouted a little louder this time. Andrea, the front desk girl, shook her head in amusement. She had seen me do this very thing one too many times.

  “Captain,” he tried shouting again. “Captain Morgan.”

  My footsteps stopped, but I remained facing away from him. When we first learned I was making Captain, my little brother Chase threatened to buy me a pirate hat and a parrot; he was the funny one among the three of us. Austin questioned if I was going to be bringing rum to the family dinners from then on.

  It was one thing for my brother to tease me, we did that sort of thing to one another all the time. My reputation of being tough as nails as a street cop followed me as I went up in rank. Now, cops would call me, Morgan or Captain. Never Captain Morgan, at least not if they wanted to keep their teeth.

  Again, I was feeling generous today, so the newbie would keep his smile for now. Slowly, I turned my body in his advancing direction. His hair, which minutes ago was slicked back against his head, was now in oily strands around his face. Jacket hanging open, the tails flopping in the breeze behind him.

  “Sir, it’s important I speak with you.” His labored breathing gave me reason to chuckle. He was going to need to be in better shape if he wanted to keep up with my team. I feared he might vomit as he finally reached where I’d stopped. I gave him a minute to catch his breath and find his balls.

  “Sir, I’m P…Pre…” He tried to speak through his body’s need for oxygen. His face showing signs of air loss—skin flushed, perspiration flowing down the sides of his face in streams. His tie was too tight, suit too stiff, and his entire body flexed with his intake of air.

  I never wore suits like the rest of the Detectives, even when I was brand new like this guy. I wanted to blend in when doing an investigation, jeans and a T-shirt and always my boots.

  “Sorry, it’s my first day.” He finally regained his breath, his balls still questionable.

  “Let’s see if it’s your last?” My generosity was rapidly reaching its limit. My hands crossed against my chest, sending him a clear signal he was wasting my time. I wanted to see how much he paid attention in school.

  Taking one last, deep breath, followed by two steps back, his fingers reached for his tie, loosening the constricting band. “Sorry, my name is Preston Daniels. I’m a new paralegal for Anderson and Associates. “ With the tie in a more comfortable constriction, he adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses I hadn’t noticed before and continued. “I was sent here to wait for your arrival and to be present during your questioning of our client until Mr. Anderson arrives.”

  Preston Daniels seemed to catch on quick. He was also either undereducated or misinformed as to what he could legally do in this state. Since he did back away and not try my patients, I would give him an ounce of advice.

  “Well, Daniels. Since you’ve already admitted this is your first day, I’m going to hand you some free advice.” My index and middle finger tapping his suit covered chest. I’d give him credit for being a brave man, as he didn’t look at my fingers or back away from me.

  “Don’t ever call me Captain and Morgan in the same breath, pick one or the other when addressing me.” I could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed my words.

  “Next, your job as a paralegal gets you a seat in a courtroom, a desk at your office and a warning from me. What it doesn’t get you, is the right to sit in when I interrogate the suspect your boss is trying to defend.” He opened his mouth to argue, but a look from me stopped him. If I knew Anderson the way I did, he told this guy he was going to mentor and help him to become an attorney if he showed promise. I’d lost track of how many of Anderson’s minions he had told the same bullshit.

  “Now the last piece of advice…” I adjusted my stance, my boots thumping on the wooden floor. “Turn back the way you came, get in your car and drive yourself over to twenty-two Grave Street.” I pointed behind me in the direction of my father’s office. “Walk in the double doors with gold letters spelling out VanBuren and Morgan.” Emphasizing my point by drawing an invisible banner in the air above his head. “Tell the beautiful woman at the front desk you spoke with Dylan. Tell her you want to work for a real paycheck and not bullshit excuses.”

  He shook his head and tried to speak. My fingers pressed firmly in his chest discouraged him from going any further with his thoughts.

  “Trust me, the money you have in your pocket right now is the only money you may see for a long while. If you choose to ignore me, fine. But when your pretty girlfriend wants to go out to dinner and you haven’t gotten a single dime in wages, I can assure you as soon as she and I have finished our dinner, I will be fucking her tight ass over the sink in your bathroom. The choice is yours.”

  I walked around him, his hand raised to argue, his brain still fixed on the warning I gave as his eyes blinked rapidly and his mouth hung open. Time would tell if he was a smart guy or if I would be having a new piece of ass to pound into.

  After securing both of my weapons with the officer at the processing desk, I listened for the buzz sound of the unlocked doors. I noticed several of my men standing outside one of the interrogation rooms.

  Simpson and Rogers, the arresting officers, were also standing outside the closed door. As I approached, the four broke their circle and faced me.

  “Morning, Captain.” My two female Detectives, Kennedy and Murphy, spoke in unison. When I learned I would have two women on my team, I prayed it would be these two ladies.

  Sabrin
a Kennedy, a blonde bombshell with a mean right hook and a mouth foul enough to make a sailor blush, originally from New Orleans, Louisiana. When hurricane Katrina forced her family to relocate to Charleston, she had to prove herself a worthy candidate against the other guys competing. Story I heard, she made two of them cry and drop out when she took them by the balls…literally.

  Christy Murphy, a raven-haired heartbreaker. She was my kind of girl the first time I saw her, trouble was, I had all the wrong equipment. Born and raised right here in Charleston, she had three older brothers…and one bathroom. She learned how to pee fast and fight tough.

  “What bestselling form of fiction is he selling in there today?” I questioned, a phrase my mother once said to my middle brother Austin when he got caught coming in after curfew.

  “Nothing original. He’s plagiarizing every other fucker we’ve had in there lately,” Murphy returned, not missing my attempt at levity.

  “Says he was banging his girlfriend at the time of the attack, told us she will testify for him.” By the glint in her eye, she knew this was about to get real interesting.

  “Well, let’s go break the bad news to Largo that his girl’s mouth is as big as her ass.”

  I pushed open the door as Murphy and Kennedy walked in behind me. Kevin North, aka Largo as his thug friends called him, sat in the metal chair adjacent to the single table in the room; his hands in handcuffs attached to an iron bolt in the center of the table.

  Kevin was no stranger to the judicial system. His first arrest was the day he turned thirteen. Ten years and seventy-two arrests later, he would be going to prison for a long visit.

  “Lardo,” I announced, my tone that of an old friend, intentionally bashing his street name. My granddad told us if you wanted to get a man angry and fast, mess with his name or mess with his girl. If you wanted him to lose complete control, do both at once.

  “I hear you were fucking your girl last night while that doc over at University was getting the shit beat out of him.” I pulled the opposite chair away from the table, spinning it around and straddling it. My forearms parallel to my chest, eyes locked on the piece of shit.