Guilty Blood Page 3

  What was happening to him right now? She’d heard horror stories about what happened in jails, particularly at night. And particularly to young men who were behind bars for the first time. Was her son being abused by older, hardened men? Maybe even raped by them?

  Everything in her screamed that she needed to protect him—but she couldn’t. It was awful. She could barely breathe.

  She got up and paced in the shadow-filled apartment, crying and praying.

  CHAPTER 8

  Brandon had been forced to read Kafka’s The Trial in his freshman English class, and he had neither liked nor understood it. His paper on the book came back with a D and a note saying that he failed to comprehend Josef K.’s point of view.

  He certainly comprehended it now. In fact, he felt as if he were living inside the story. Like Kafka’s hapless Josef K., Brandon was shunted through a menacing and opaque bureaucracy where everyone seemed to know the rules except him. Every now and then, he was hauled before a tribunal for some arcane ritual that made little sense.

  Like now, for example. He sat at a scuffed table in a courtroom in the Wiley Manuel Courthouse while a bored-looking judge in a frayed robe read complicated legalese to him. A woman in a suit sat at another table to Brandon’s right, listening attentively. The two cops who’d brought Brandon from the jail to the courthouse sat behind him. He couldn’t see what they were doing, of course, but he could hear them. One of them had a cold and cleared his throat every thirty seconds or so.

  Memories of the last day and a half lay jumbled in Brandon’s mind, like pages of a book that weren’t quite in the right order. The arrest; DNA swab of his cheek; long hours of interrogation; longer hours of waiting in various holding cells—often crowded with dangerous and deranged men; barked instructions from grim-faced men in uniforms; a sleepless night on a steel bunk. And then this morning he was ordered into a van and hauled to court.

  It was hard to believe that less than two days ago he had been in his apartment, studying for a test. The professor was probably handing out the problems and answer sheets right about now, Brandon realized. He automatically wondered whether he’d be able to make up the test later, then caught himself. He blew out a breath and shook his head, then tried to listen to what the judge was saying.

  Shock and exhaustion had numbed his brain to the point where it seemed to have shut down. Try as he might, he couldn’t focus on or make sense of the judge’s words. They slipped through his mind like minnows through the fingers of a boy playing in a stream.

  The judge stopped reading and looked at Brandon expectantly. The room was suddenly silent. Brandon glanced around and realized that everyone was watching him.

  “I’m sorry?” Brandon said, feeling his face flush as he spoke.

  “Do you want to enter a plea?” the judge asked.

  “I . . . I’m innocent, Your Honor.”

  The judge nodded and made a note on something. “All right, we’re adjourned until—”

  “Uh, excuse me, Your Honor,” Brandon said. “Can I talk to a lawyer?” Despite the police’s promise to call the Public Defender’s Office, no lawyer had yet appeared.

  The judge nodded. “Of course. Do you have an attorney already?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Do you have the ability to hire one?” the judge asked.

  “I’m not, uh, sure what you mean.”

  “Can you afford to hire a lawyer?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “All right. We’re adjourned until the public defender has had a chance to speak with the defendant and review the case file.” The judge turned to the clerk. “Let the PD know.”

  The clerk nodded to the judge, who got up without ceremony and disappeared through a door at the back of the courtroom.

  The clerk glanced at the cops behind Brandon and nodded to them too.

  The bench behind him creaked as the cops stood. One of them walked over to the clerk, who handed him a few sheets of paper. The cop accepted these wordlessly, then returned to Brandon and gave them to him. He looked down and saw that the top sheet was labeled COMPLAINT and was captioned People v. Brandon John Ames.

  “Let’s go,” one of the cops said, his voice rough. He cleared his throat loudly.

  “When will I get to talk to the public defender?” Brandon asked the older of his two guards.

  “When you hear from them,” he responded.

  “When will that be?”

  “When you hear from them,” the man repeated, placing a hand on Brandon’s back and pushing him down the courtroom aisle.

  And with that, Brandon’s first day in court came to an end.

  CHAPTER 9

  Nate ended his call with Fortuna and smiled, savoring the moment. This was one of the best parts of his job, and he wanted to make it last. He wished he could walk out the door right now, go out to one of San Francisco’s finest restaurants—Olea, maybe—for a Sunday brunch of good champagne and caviar. After that, he would listen to Orff’s “O Fortuna” over and over, reveling in the splendid irony of the lyrics. But he knew that he couldn’t do any of that, at least not yet. Events were moving too fast.

  Ah, well. He would enjoy this next call too. He picked up the phone and dialed.

  Kevin answered before the phone had finished ringing once. “What happened?” he asked.

  “I just got a call from two members of Fortuna’s board, both of whom sit on the risk-management subcommittee,” Nate said. “They asked that we give them twenty-four hours to make their own disclosure to the SEC, and they said that they would very much like to resolve this lawsuit before they do that. They offered fifteen million dollars.”

  “That’s great! I only estimated the company to be worth $13,597,722. I’ll take it.”

  “That’s their initial offer, Kevin. I think they might be willing to go up to twenty million.” Nate privately thought that Fortuna would go higher than twenty, but he always liked to beat client expectations, not just meet them.

  “Okay, I’ll take that too.”

  “I thought you might. I’ll go back to them at forty and signal flexibility.”

  “Forty? You said twenty.”

  “This is a negotiation. The two sides start from positions that are far apart and they move toward each other. It’s sort of like a game. We did something similar in your patent case, remember?”

  “Yes. Okay. I trust you.”

  Nate smiled. “And I’ll do my best to reward that trust. We’re in a strong negotiating position, so I’m hopeful about the outcome.”

  “What about Harry?” Kevin asked. “Won’t he try to interfere?”

  “Harry Clarendon no longer works for Fortuna,” Nate said. “The board didn’t really have much choice. Harry either lied to investors or lied under oath yesterday. Either way, he had to go. The board couldn’t keep a CEO who made major misrepresentations about Fortuna’s business.”

  “Is that what they want to disclose to the SEC in twenty-four hours?”

  “Yes. If Harry were lying to investors, Fortuna would get hit with shareholder lawsuits in addition to whatever the SEC does to them. So the board plans to say that Harry was lying in this lawsuit. Specifically, they’ll say that he instructed Fortuna’s lawyers to make false statements in a court case in order to save the company money, and he then repeated those false statements under oath. Once the board discovered what happened, they immediately terminated him.”

  “I understand,” Kevin said. “That all makes sense, but why do they want to pay me more money?”

  “Because once they admit to the SEC that Harry lied under oath in our case, it will be very hard for them to mount a defense. Harry is a key witness for them. He was the only one on several important phone calls with you, and he was the mastermind behind the deal. We’ll be able to tell the judge and jury that he’s a liar. We’ll also be able to tell them that Fortuna now thinks that acquiring your company added fifty million to their bottom line—not the few thousand Harry claimed. D
o you think they’ll believe anything he has to say after that?”

  “No.”

  “I agree—and so does Fortuna’s board, apparently. That’s why they want a settlement with us before they contact the SEC.”

  “I see,” Kevin said. “All the pieces fit together now. Thank you, Nate. Thank you very much. Please let me know if I can ever do anything to pay you back.”

  Nate chuckled. “You do it every month when you pay our bills on time.”

  “Yes, but even if you can only get fifteen million from Fortuna, that will be a one-thousand-and-forty-six percent return on the total amount of your bills. That’s even better than the eight-hundred-and-twenty-three percent return in the patent case. I am very grateful. I would like to do something for you. Maybe I could write some software for you or do some database analysis. I could also test your online information for security vulnerabilities.”

  Most clients just sent a nice email or maybe some flowers when he got a good result. Only Kevin Fang would offer to hack his Facebook page. “That’s very generous of you, Kevin. But let’s wait until we actually have a signed settlement. Then we can talk about how to celebrate.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Brandon walked along the hallway leading to the visiting room at Tassajara Jail. The hall was lifeless, utilitarian, and it smelled of unwashed bodies and disinfectant. Brandon’s left shoulder rubbed against the wall, which was how inmates were required to walk. A burly guard walked a couple of yards to Brandon’s right and a little behind him.

  Brandon sneezed. The sudden movement from a prisoner caused the guard to tense slightly and his hand twitched toward his gun.

  Brandon glanced over. “Sorry.”

  “Eyes front, shoulder against the wall,” the guard said. But he seemed to relax a little.

  Then they were at the door to the visiting room. Brandon braced himself and went inside.

  His mother was already there, sitting on a chair on the other side of a thick glass window. She clutched a phone handset attached to the wall, her knuckles white. Her eyes were red, and worry lines creased her forehead, but she seemed composed.

  She was looking him up and down, apparently examining him for any sign of injury. He walked over, feeling awkward, and sat on the stool opposite her through the glass. He picked up the handset that hung on the wall and said, “Hi, Mom.”

  “Brandon, are you okay?” she asked, her voice worried and urgent.

  “I’m fine,” he said, trying to sound relaxed.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, her eyes searching him. “Has anyone . . . tried to hurt you?”

  “No one has tried to hurt me.” He smiled and sat up straight, which he knew showed off his muscular build. “Besides, I can take care of myself.”

  No need to tell her about the shouts of “Fresh meat” and worse when he was first brought in. That would just upset her. Besides, he hoped it wasn’t anything worse than a bunch of bored guys razzing a newcomer who looked young and out of place.

  “You’re sure?”

  He forced a chuckle. “I’m sure. Remember that I was an all-state wrestler and know my way around a boxing ring. And my cellmate is a friendly old guy who keeps to himself. Don’t worry about me in here. It’s not much worse than being locked into a dorm. In fact, the food is actually better.”

  She looked at him uncertainly, searching his face. “You’re telling me the truth?”

  “Of course.” Mostly.

  “Well, okay,” she replied, still not sounding convinced. “When will you be able to talk to a judge about getting out? What did your public defender say?”

  “I actually talked to a judge first thing this morning. I didn’t ask about getting out, though. I don’t think it would have done any good—he just read the charges to me and asked me if I wanted to enter a plea. I said I wanted to talk to a lawyer first. They said they’d contact the public defender, and then they brought me back here.”

  She looked horrified. “What? You were already in court and they didn’t give you a lawyer?”

  That had disturbed him too, but he shoved down his misgivings. There was nothing she could do, so it would be pointless to feed her anxieties. “It’s okay. This is just some sort of preliminary thing where they read the charges to me.”

  “Are you sure?” she said, her eyes flashing. “How can it be okay for you to have a lawyer who doesn’t see you until after you’ve been in court?”

  “It really is okay, Mom. I’m sure the defender will be just fine.”

  “Just fine isn’t good enough, Brandon. They’re accusing you of murder. You could spend the rest of your life in prison!”

  “You don’t think I know that, Mom?” he said, his composure cracking.

  “Why do they think you did it?” she asked, switching gears suddenly. “Did you know the victim?”

  “No, but let’s not talk about the case, okay? The police can listen to everything we say.”

  That brought her up short. “They can?”

  “Yes. In fact, they probably are listening to us right now.”

  “Oh.” She paused, as if at a loss for what she could say with the police listening. “Well, stay safe, will you? I’m going to do everything I can to get you out. I’ve already made some calls. Stay safe, okay?”

  Easier said than done. “Don’t worry, Mom. I will.”

  CHAPTER 11

  There was a sharp knock on Cole Jones’s door.

  He swiveled away from his dual computer monitors. “Come in.”

  Billy Chen opened the door. “Have a few minutes to talk about Brandon Ames?”

  “Sure. Come on in, and shut the door behind you.”

  Billy did as instructed and sat in one of Cole’s guest chairs. “I’ve got the background you wanted,” he announced. “There are some interesting nuggets.”

  “Any connection to Lan Long?”

  “Nothing definitive yet, but I’ve got a hunch that he knows the Blue Dragon,” Billy said, using the English translation of Lan Long.

  “Really.” Cole leaned back in his chair. He had the same hunch, but wanted to test Billy’s thinking. They needed to be right on this. “Why exactly is that?”

  “Start with the obvious: Lan Long would want Linc dead if they knew he was working with us.”

  “True. Are they the only ones?”

  “Not sure,” Billy admitted. “I’m still looking at that.”

  “Okay. Go on. Why do you think Ames killed Linc for Lan Long?”

  “For starters, he had no other motive. I’ve checked for any relationship between Ames and Linc. Nothing. So it was either a totally random thing—they just happened to run into each other in a deserted alley and get in a fight. Or it was Lan Long.”

  “Uh-huh,” Cole said dubiously. “What else?”

  “Ames’s girlfriend is second-generation Chinese, and her uncle is in the military.”

  “Okay. Anything else on her or her uncle?”

  “Not yet. We’re looking.”

  “Anything else on Ames?”

  “Well, there’s how he looks.”

  Cole looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

  “He looks like a kid,” Billy said. “A baby-faced white kid. Linc wouldn’t be on the lookout for someone like that. If he knew he was in danger at all, he’d be watching for Asian tough guys. Ames could walk right up to him and have a knife in his heart before he knew what was happening.”

  “Is that all you’ve got?” Cole asked.

  Billy shook his head. “Of course not. Did you know Ames is an athlete?”

  Cole checked his notes and nodded. “He wrestled in high school, right?”

  “And boxed. And kickboxed. He still does, and the word is he’s pretty good at both. I’m guessing you already know he was all-state in wrestling.”

  “No, but all that proves is that he can probably fight. Why would he kill Linc?”

  Billy leaned back and crossed his arms. “Money.”

  Cole sat forward
and his chair snapped upright. “How much?”

  “Don’t know. Enough to take care of his mother. It’s just the two of them, and I’ll bet he’s protective of her. Her husband, Brandon’s dad, died three years ago, and she’s struggled financially ever since. She had to sell her house, and now she lives in a little condo. She works in a tiny antique shop and has side jobs on the weekends. I’m guessing she doesn’t make much—not enough to pay for herself and a kid in college.”

  Cole nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Not yet. Like I said, I’ve got a hunch.”

  Cole nodded. “And some facts that are consistent with that hunch. But we’re going to need a lot more before we can make a move against Lan Long.”

  “Like what?”

  Cole shrugged. “Emails or texts from China instructing Ames to kill Linc. A wire transfer from a Lan Long operative to his mother’s bank account. Something like that.”

  Billy scoffed. “Good luck. They’re too smart for that. The most we’ll get is more of the sort of stuff I’ve been finding. When do you think the front office will be ready to move against the Blue Dragon?”

  Cole sat back and looked off into space. He rocked gently as his mind worked. “That’s going to depend on when other things happen. Like when the next shipment comes in. Do we have any clue when that will be?”

  “Soon, but not that soon. Maybe a couple of weeks; maybe a couple of months. That’s all we got. Linc was the only one who knew more.”

  Cole nodded. “That’s what I thought. The OPD is the other wild card. If they figure out what’s going on, things could get very complicated very fast.”

  “They won’t,” Billy said. “We’ve put out some feelers—very discreetly—and it’s pretty clear that the cops think this case is already closed. They’ve got a DNA match and they found the murder weapon near Ames’s apartment building. They’re not going to do any more digging.”

  “Good.” Cole mused for a few seconds. “Yes, very good. We have some time. Use it well—we don’t know when it will be up.”