A Mighty Fortress
Authors: S.D. Thames
Chapter Two - The Minarets of Tampa Bay
Chapter Three - A Mighty Fortress
Chapter Four - Winners and Losers
Chapter Seven - Monday Morning Coming Down
Chapter Eight - The Firing Squad
Chapter Nine - Wilcox & Associates, P.A.
Chapter Eleven - Rico's House of Pain
Chapter Twelve - The Palma Ceia Country Club
Chapter Thirteen - A Porn Flick
Chapter Fourteen - A Naked Crime Scene
Chapter Fifteen - A Romantic Evening In the Woods
Chapter Sixteen - Blackmail and a Funeral
Chapter Seventeen - Quid Pro Quo
Chapter Eighteen - Iron Sharpens Iron
Chapter Nineteen - The Halls of Justice
Chapter Twenty - The View From the Top
Chapter Twenty-One - Love Like This
Chapter Twenty-Two - An Open Door
Chapter Twenty-Three - A Mighty Fortress Is Our God
Chapter Twenty-Four - The Unusual Suspects
Chapter Twenty-Five - Unannounced Visitors
Chapter Twenty-Six - Under the Cover of Night
Chapter Twenty-Seven - A Cheeseburger To Go
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Tough Love
Chapter Twenty-Nine - T.G.I.F.
Chapter Thirty - Tacos In the Country
Chapter Thirty-One - Love Like This, Revisited
Chapter Thirty-Two - A Diversion
Chapter Thirty-Three - The Truth and the Power
Chapter Thirty-Four - A Morning in Miami
Chapter Thirty-Five - The Reunion
Chapter Thirty-Six - The Long Drive Home
Chapter Thirty-Seven - Asleep with the Angels
Chapter Thirty-Eight - Sunday Morning Revisited
Chapter Thirty-Nine - Bayshore Beautiful
Chapter Forty-One - A Key to the Case
Chapter Forty-Two - A Morning Dismissal
Chapter Forty-Three - The Writing on the Wall
Chapter Forty-Four - The Smoking Video
Chapter Forty-Five - Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory
Chapter Forty-Six - The Rendezvous
Chapter Forty-Seven - The End of the Campaign
Chapter Forty-Eight - Rest & Resolution
Chapter Forty-Nine - The Man in Black
The wicked flee when no man pursueth; but the righteous are bold as a lion.
—Proverbs 28:1
Just because you’re paranoid, don’t mean they’re not after you.
—Kurt Cobain/Joseph Heller
The Wakeup Call
It started with a dreadful droning. Artillery shells were exploding everywhere around me, kicking up the familiar taste of sand, smoke, and death. I felt hidden, but simultaneously exposed. I knew this firefight, and I knew how it would end... And I knew I was dreaming. It was a cruel trick I often played on myself during sleep. I knew I could wake up at any moment and leave Fallujah behind.
I also knew my mind and body weren’t ready for that.
Sunday morning, I was clinging to much-needed REM sleep after a hell of a week. The day before, I’d competed with Rico’s powerlifting team at a raw meet up in New Port Richey. Work, too, was busy. As of that Friday, I’d served ten complaints and twenty-two subpoenas all over the Tampa Bay area. I’d also had to testify at an evidentiary hearing in Hillsborough County, because some deadbeat lied about the papers I’d left with his wife at a trailer park north of the Air Force base. After hearing my testimony, the judge turned livid on the deadbeat for wasting the honorable court’s time. I wasn’t paid for the three hours he wasted that day, but I left the courthouse with a renewed sense of respect for Florida’s judicial system. I’m sure it had eroded by the end of the day.
Beyond exhaustion and unable to feel anything but stiffness in my lower back, I lay in bed that morning for a good five minutes before I realized it was the doorbell chiming that had awakened me—three times every fifteen goddamn seconds. It may have been the first time I’d ever actually heard my doorbell. It made a dull, pitiful sound. I hoped that if I ignored it long enough, then whoever was ringing it might give up and leave, or the damn doorbell might give up and die. Ten minutes of waiting proved that to be wishful thinking. So I stumbled across my bedroom and glanced out the window: a red Porsche Boxster was parked crooked across my driveway. I still had no idea who was ringing the doorbell, but I figured whoever’d parked that car had to be some kind of prick.
Opening the front door confirmed my suspicion. Mattie Wilcox stood on my doorstep, gripping two Styrofoam cups. Mattie was a personal injury lawyer who gave his kind the reputation they deserved. I’d never been overly impressed with the intelligence of lawyers in general, but as a fellow New Yorker, I did appreciate the street smarts that growing up in Brooklyn had instilled in Mattie. I distrusted him for the same reason. I was used to seeing Mattie decked out in a tailored wool suit and the most obnoxious pastel shirts and ties money could buy at Nordstrom’s. Today, though, a casual Mattie stared me down, clad in an oversized oxford with light pinstripes and rolled sleeves, beige chino shorts that almost covered his knobby knees, and loosely-laced deck shoes.
Mattie had dark eyes and a long snout that reminded me of a marsupial’s. He was usually clean-shaven, but today his chin was smudged with uneven weekend stubble, and those beady eyes were hiding behind mirrored Costa Del Mars that reflected my own morning beard.
I rubbed my eyes as Mattie raised the cups. “Can you take one of these?” he said. “I’m about to shit my pants.”
Sweat was already building on my brow. This was my third August in Florida, but I didn’t feel a day more used to Tampa’s unrelenting humidity than when I’d first arrived. “Do I owe you something, Mattie?”
Mattie stuck a cup of coffee in my hand and barged into my living room. “I’m serious, Milo, I’m about to make a mess on your floor if you don’t get out of the way.” He set his coffee on my end table and disappeared around the corner as though he’d been in my pad often enough to know his way around. He found the bathroom—the second door on his left—and was lofting his business in no time. Apparently, by the sound of it, with the door wide open. “This place works for you,” he yelled over the disgusting cacophony of whatever digestive disease plagued him. “Surprised how clean you keep it.”
I was now awake and coherent enough to review my work assignments for the past few weeks. I concluded that I owed Mattie no work. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time he’d given me a job. “What are you doing here, Mattie?”
He didn’t answer; he just moaned painfully. At least he’d brought me a decent
café con leche
. I took a swig and gave up on going back to sleep.
“You have any air freshener?” he yelled as he flushed.
I sure wished I did. “You could have used a 7-Eleven. West Tampa has one on about every corner.”
He rounded the corner, still rubbing his gut, and found his coffee. “Damn IBS gets bad when I’m going to trial.” He raised his coffee off the end table but stopped short of taking a drink. “I tried your office.”
“I don’t have an office.”
He shrugged. “Guess that’s why you weren’t there.”
“What do you want?” My tone told him that this would be the last time I asked.
He winced at the taste of his coffee as his right shoe tapped nervously on my tile floor. “I really need your help, Porter.”
“With what?”
“A trial subpoena.”
“You’re waking me up on a Sunday morning, my
only
day off, to serve a trial subpoena?” I may have whimpered.
He hoisted his shades onto his brow and nodded. “A friendly witness isn’t so friendly anymore. We’re going to trial a week from tomorrow, and he’s leaving town in the morning. So if I don’t get him served today, I’m screwed.”
I glanced at the Bible on my coffee table. He seemed to miss the connection, if there was one. “Service on a Sunday is void.”
“You know, you learned just enough in law school to think you have a clue.”
I stood up straight, crossed my arms, and took in enough air to remind him that I had a good six inches and fifty pounds on him.
“Okay, Porter, I’m sorry. Your jaw is clenching. I don’t like it when your jaw clenches.”
I didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.
But he wasn’t giving up. “Just hear me out. The judge gave me an order approving Sunday service this time. This is urgent, man. He’s leaving tomorrow.”
“So I’ll serve him at the airport tomorrow.”
He shook his head. “Too risky. We know nothing about his flight plans.”
“I can find that out.”
“I want him served today.” Mattie placed his free hand on his stomach as though he were trying to soothe a crying newborn.
“So you can sleep better tonight?”
“So my client will leave me the hell alone and I can concentrate on getting this case ready for trial.”
I took another sip of the coffee. It was lukewarm already. “When’s the trial?”
“We pick a jury next Monday unless we get a continuance tomorrow afternoon. Which is about as likely as you shaving.” I nodded at the compliment. “For whatever reason, Judge Sanders has this one on a fast track to trial.”
Judge Sanders, I knew, was the chief judge in Tampa, and probably the most-respected jurist in Hillsborough County. “I can’t do it today. My girlfriend will kill me if I don’t take her out tonight.”
“I’ll make it worth your while, Porter.”
“It’s not about the money. It’s about—”
“I’ll pay you five grand.”
“Five grand?” I glanced at the Bible again and thought of my good friend Rico, and what he could do with that money.
He nodded. “Five grand.”
“You really are desperate. What kind of case is it?”
“What the hell does it matter?” His voice had turned whiny, and he took a deep breath as if to stop himself from saying something he’d regret. He was desperate, all right. “It’s a landlord-tenant dispute.”
“Really?” I was just pushing his buttons now. “That sounds pretty vanilla for the great Mattie Wilcox.”
He closed his eyes as his stomach gurgled like a broken radiator. “I just want to know if you’ll take the job.” It seemed like he was counting to ten before he opened his eyes.
Mattie was offering me nearly twenty times my normal fee for serving a subpoena. Though I could certainly use the money, I didn’t need it
that
badly. But five grand would get Rico caught up with the bank and keep his gym open for at least a few more months. Still, there was something unsettling about getting five grand for serving one subpoena. “So what’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch—other than that I’m desperate.” His eyes looked naked and urgent, but they were hiding something too. “Here’s your one opportunity to take advantage of me, Milo.”
“You’re not telling me the full story.”
He nodded, an admission of guilt. “Sure. Okay. See, this guy I need to serve, he could cause some problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Your kind of problems.”
I sighed. “Who is he?”
“Chad Scalzo.”
He studied me, apparently to see if I recognized the name. I didn’t, but I held that close. “Milo, are you going to take this job or not?”
I nodded. “Make it six.”
“Six grand?” I could see the gears turning in his head, the insults ready to launch off the tip of his tongue. But then his stomach growled again, and his face melted with desperation. “Three now, three when he’s served.”
We shook on it, and then I wiped my hand on my shorts as I followed him outside to get the subpoena from his car. It wasn’t nine yet, but it felt like the temperature was already pushing ninety-five.
Mattie grimaced at my beard. “How the hell you breathe with that thing in this weather?”
“It brings me good luck.” I hadn’t shaved since my discharge, and I had no intention of changing that anytime soon. “And my girlfriend loves it.”
“What’s with all this girlfriend talk? When do I get to meet her?”
My girlfriend was Valencia, but I called her Val. She was Rico’s younger sister, but about the only thing they had in common was that they could both squat three times their bodyweight. And there wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to introduce either one of them to Mattie Wilcox any time soon. “Sorry, Mattie, she doesn’t like ambulance chasers.”
“Hey, everyone hates us until they need one.” He reached into his glove box and handed me a legal-sized manila envelope. I took a peek and saw the subpoena, the order authorizing Sunday service, and a modest wad of Benjamins.
