28.

To Jack, Brent appeared to be babbling, as he attempted to speak through the pain killers.

"Don't try to speak, buddy," he said.

"Not safe," said Brent.

"You're safe, you're safe everything will be alright."

"No, no, no, not safe!" Brent struggled to form the words with his dry, broken swollen lips.

"Just try to calm down, you've been beat up really bad."

A male doctor in a white gown entered the room with a nurse. "Ah, Mr. Marks. You're up," he said.

"Not... not safe. George not safe."

"Don't try to speak, Mr. Marks. Just relax," said the doctor. "When you're ready to talk, there are some gentlemen from the police department who want to talk to you."

Brent, animated, tried to scream. "Not safe. George not safe...tell...police!"

Suddenly, Jack realized what Brent was trying to say. "I've got it, we'll make sure he has round the clock protection," he said, and he quickly left the room.

Brent fell back against the hospital bed, reeling from the pain, and the aching in his head, which was swimming in a cocktail of pain killers. The doctor made some notes as the nurse checked Brent's vital signs on the monitor. "You've got four broken ribs, a broken nose, and a lot of bruising, but we are going to take care of everything. Don't worry, you'll be back to normal in no time," said the doctor, as he shot the syringe into Brent's IV tube. Brent looked up at the doctor, and tried to speak, but he slowly faded into sleep.

Sharp pangs of pain accompanied the blurry face of Jack Ruder as Brent came to.

"George, is he?" Jack shook his head.

"They're saying it's an accident. Passed away in his sleep."

"Of course they are," said Brent, trying to sit up, then he fell back, grimacing."

"Here, use the controls," said Jack, handing him the bed controls. "The cops picked up that religious lunatic for beating you up."

"Banks? It's not him."

"That's not what he says."

"He confessed? Shit, Jack, he's a nut."

"Well, did you see who it was?"

"No, they had masks."

"Well, then..."

"I know it's not him. He's not big enough. Besides, he threatened to shoot me, not beat me up. These guys were big strong."

Brent coughed, and a searing, burning pain shot to his head from the rib cage through the spine.

"This hurts like hell. So they got my files, identified George as a viable witness, and took him out."

"We don't know that."

"Right. Where's April?"

"At the cop shop now, pleading her case."

"I should go to her." Brent tried to move again, but his body was not cooperating.

"Whoa, wait a minute. You're not going anywhere. I'll go."

"Take Angela with you. She might be able to help somehow."

"I'll ask."

"Everything's gone? My hard drives, the laptop?"

"Yeah. Here," said Jack, holding out a brand new laptop. "I picked up one for you. Knew you'd want to get right back to it."

"Thanks. What about my phone?"

"Found it on you. It's on the table by your bed." Brent looked over and saw the phone.

"Great."

"And I loaded the back-up drive you gave me into the new laptop."

"Well, then all is not lost. I'm only missing a month of work now."

"If anyone can..."

"Right. Bring April over to me as soon as you can."

"I will."

One of the rules of the lawyering game that Brent had learned from his mentor, Charles Stinson, was not to get emotionally attached to a case or a client. But, God damn it, this had gone too far. So far he had lost his best friend, had the shit kicked out of him, his star witness had been killed and his case entirely screwed up. Fuck the rules, he thought, someone has to pay.

29.

On a rare cloudy day for Santa Barbara, before the elegant altar under the golden cupola of the appropriately named Our Lady of Sorrows Church, lay the coffin of George Marsh; devoted father, husband, and the latest victim of Prudent Bank. The tearful ceremony was highlighted by the poignant eulogy given by April Marsh, who described a great man whom Brent had never really known, followed by a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye.

Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift, uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.

As Brent and Jack held the rails of George Marsh's casket on the way out of the church, they each made a silent promise to him that justice would be done.

The clang of the sally port door slamming brought back unpleasant memories to Brent as the first door closed and he waited for the second door to open to the visiting room at the Santa Barbara County Jail. After Brent had passed the bar exam, Charles Stinson put him on the public defender's list for appointed counsel for parole violators. The memory of the scummy feeling that he felt looking into the empty eyes of thieves, rapists and child molesters came creeping back like a black shadow as Brent walked into the visiting room and took a seat at a window. After about five minutes, a deputy led Joshua Banks, dressed in scrubs, to a small stool on the opposite side of the glass and handcuffed his ankle to it.

"Hello, Mr. Banks."

Banks cocked his little head right, then left, as if he was examining Brent. The grey stubble on his chin matched the fuzz on top of his skull cap, and his stormy grey eyes seemed to focus somewhere in the distance, instead of on Brent's.

"Ah, the heathen has come. What say you, non-believer?"

"Mr. Banks, I know you weren't the one who beat me up."

"I am sworn before God to strike you down, heretic."

"But you didn't strike me down this time, did you, Mr. Banks? Why did you confess to something you didn't do?"

Banks continued to speak in riddled verse. "The Lord works in mysterious ways. God sends His angels to do His bidding."

"So, were you or were you not one of the two men who attacked me in my office?"

"Be gone, demon, I must continue my quest."

"Mr. Banks, this is not a game. People have been killed. You need to tell the truth."

"Of course. The truth shall be revealed to every man."

That meeting was about as helpful to Brent as another punch in his already tender ribcage. One thing was for certain, and that was that the police had closed the case and nobody would be looking for the two who really beat him up.

Brent rose as Angela entered the patio at the El Paseo restaurant, and held her chair as she sat down. She graciously slipped into her chair, keeping her soft, sympathetic eyes trained on Brent.

"There's really no need to be so formal, especially for an injured man," she quipped.

"A lovely lady such as you mandates a sacrifice."

"How are you feeling? I see the black eyes are fading away."

"The ribs are the worst thing. I can't seem to find a comfortable position to sleep in."

The Waiter brought an iron platter of steaming, sizzling fajitas to the table, along with a generous accompaniment of rice, beans and cheese. Angela prepared one for each of them as Brent nursed his Margarita.

"Brent, I think this case is becoming much too dangerous."

"It was dangerous from the start."

"But I worry for you if it continues this way."

"I can't quit, Angela, not now. Too much has been lost."

"I know."

"I think we should try to match those hair fibers you found to the two men who followed me," said Brent.

"Is this another hunch?"

"I guess you could call it that."

"The problem is that we have no probable cause to search them."

"What if they were to get arrested for something?"

"Brent, what's bubbling in your brain besides that frozen Margarita?"

"Just asking."

"Of course, depending on the crime they were accused of, we could take samples while they were in custody. I could arrange that."

Visiting scumbags in jail was not the only remnant of Brent's former life as a poor man's lawyer. He had also done more than a few divorces for bikers and their biker bitches. Of the many offers Brent had received during those times, many included lines of coke or lids of weed in return for legal services, which he politely declined. But the most interesting offer was a "biker party." Basically, for a case or a keg of beer, an entire biker gang would show up at the home of your "friend" and have a party, driving motorcycles in and out of the house, swimming naked in your swimming pool, trashing your living room, and spinning donuts on your front lawn with their hogs. Of course, Brent had always declined these offers as well, but there was a particular job he thought suitable for these ex-clients, who owed him numerous favors.

Brent waited in his car at Tucker's Grove Park. The unmistakable distinctive sound of a Harley Davidson preceded the dust cloud as the bearded, pot-bellied biker road up to Brent's window. Letting the hog idle, the biker smiled a mouthful of yellow teeth.

"Hey counselor. You've looked better."

"Thanks. Now, remember, nothing criminal. You just verbally provoke them and let them start the fight."

"Nothing criminal? What fun would that be? And no repeat business for you, counselor."

"You promised."