2 Brooklyn James (2 page)

“What the hell is she doing?” Emily points to Gina, making her way back to her chair, sitting down agitatedly.

“You got that boy all ferklempt.” Aubrey takes her seat beside Emily, delving off into her drink. “And I thought he was kinda cute.”

Emily rolls her eyes. “You would.”

Lon follows her, plates in hand, setting the table. “Exactly, because he is a man, and
only
because he is a man. Not because he can do a better job.” He folds linen napkins, laying one neatly beside each plating. “These men you’re prosecuting, they’re not to be messed with, Brie. They’re on trial for brutally raping three women…”

“That we know of,” she interrupts. “Three women who are willing to come forward and testify. That’s not even a dent in the lives they have tortured and ruined.” She returns her potholders to the drawer beside the stove.

“A credit to my point,” he clarifies. “Women are not coming forward to testify because they’re scared. These men have ties to the most notorious gang in New Orleans. Why would you put yourself in this position?” He leans over the table, both hands firmly planted, his expression somewhere between authoritative and pleading. “I’ve never asked you to defer a case. But I am asking you to step down from this one. I don’t like it, baby. It scares me. It should scare you, too.”

“It does scare me.” She leans up against the counter, forcefully exhaling, tears on hold in her eyes, her emotion surfacing. Lon walks to her, to comfort her. She holds him at bay with her arm. He leans against the kitchen sink across from her, his concern palpable. “But I can’t quit. Those women…the three who came forward. They trust me, Lon. I told them if they testify those men will go away for a long time. Dean…he’s great. But he likes to make deals. He’ll agree to three years. They’ll do half of that with probation.” She busies herself wiping off the stovetop. “That’s not good enough. I can get ten…ten years for each one…I know I can.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Lon affirms, pride in his inflection. “I just want you to consider the position you’re putting yourself in.” From their viewpoint out the kitchen window, a school bus drives off in the distance as a little boy runs up the long driveway toward the house toting his backpack. His trusty companion, Boudreaux (Bou Bou for short) meets him halfway, barking jovially, his tail jousting from side to side with fervid excitement. “The position you’re putting your family in,” Lon continues solemnly.

Brianna smiles at the exuberant joy radiating from her son’s face. “Another reason I can’t quit.” She turns around, facing Lon. “Isn’t that what we do? As parents? We model for our children…hoping to instill in them pride, integrity, a sense of right and wrong. We tell him not to be afraid of the dark. We tell him school is not scary. We tell him to be brave and always stand up for what is right.” She runs her hand down the side of Lon’s handsome face. “I never fancied myself a hypocrite.”

Gina quickly deviates her memory to something more stimulating, more ominous. Snapshots of Lon and Braydon lying on the floor of the bedroom in their suburban New Orleans estate flood her memory, blood encompassing their lifeless bodies. The sound of a twelve-gauge firing followed by Bou Bou’s whining rings in her ears. The images cause her jaw to clench, her grip on the steering wheel ever-tightening. She remembers her struggle. Her violated, battered body held fast to the bed beneath her, the vile sweat and stench of the man above. The spider web tattoo revealed on his neck. His menacing chuckle causing her to grow manic, accompanied by his sentiments, “What’s the matter,
lawyer lady,
cat got your tongue?”

Gina shakes her head, the memories causing too much emotion, stifling her clarity. She looks over at Aubrey who is lost in her music, and in the rearview mirror at Emily who remains deep in her meditation. After a few hard blinks her mind returns to her past, continuing to connect the dots.

She stands astute in front of a witness railing in a courtroom, one assigned to her case by the State of Louisiana. As Brianna Castille, attorney-at-law, a life only a few years departed, however seemingly a lifetime ago, she questions the witness. Manny Briggs sinks back into the witness chair, his lips twisted in a permanent smirk, his body language relaxed and confident, tending toward audacious. He is an average-sized man, nothing remarkable to note, with the exception of his greasy, black, curly hair pulled snugly into a low ponytail and a formidable spider web tattoo proudly displayed on his neck.

“Mr. Briggs, please state your occupation for the court,” Brianna directs.

“I’m an independent contractor,” he says.

“An independent contractor of what?”

“You could say I’m a Jack of all trades,” he replies with a smile.

Brianna smiles back, taking a step toward him. “Construction, waste management, plumbing…show tunes.” She shrugs her shoulders, turning her palms up to the ceiling. “An independent contractor of what?” she reiterates.

He shifts his weight in the chair beneath him, propping himself up on his elbow. “You could say I do a little construction. Yeah, I’m pretty good with my hands. And I take the trash out, so I guess you could say I do a little waste management, too. Never had an interest in plumbing though.” He grins, prepping for his big finish. “Maybe I should look into show tunes. I do a pretty good Sinatra impersonation.” He eyes the jury, assessing their response, if any. “I could give you a little taste, if you’d like.” He winks, causing Brianna to grow nauseous at the flirtatious gesture.

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Briggs. For all his flair and swagger, Sinatra was a bully.” She eyes him accusingly. “Never could stand a bully.” She circles the area between him and the jury. “Who do you work for, Mr. Briggs, as an independent contractor?”

“The highest bidder,” he says, his smirk slowly retracting. “Hence,
independent
contractor.”

“What was the name of the employer on your last paycheck, Mr. Briggs?” Brianna continues to dig.

He raises his eyebrows thoughtfully. “I don’t recall.”

Brianna pulls a file from her briefcase at the prosecution table. “Funny you should mention that.” She holds the file up for the courtroom to see. “You know who else doesn’t recall? The State of Louisiana nor the federal government. They have no record of you employed as an independent contractor, or any occupation for that matter. Why is that, Mr. Briggs?” She places the file on top of the judge’s bench as evidence.

“Objection,” the defense calls. “My client is not on trial for his work history.”

“You don’t find it odd that your client has no record of employment?” Brianna argues. “No record of payment of taxes. No W-4, no I-9, no IRS withholding whatsoever. That doesn’t make you question your client’s line of
work?”
She enunciates sarcastically.

“Overruled,” the judge confirms, looking over the evidence provided in the prosecution’s mock-up.

Brianna nods, turning her attention back to the witness stand. “Can you explain why the federal government and the State of Louisiana have no employment records for you, Mr. Briggs? Why they have no record of IRS withholding nor payment from one Manuel Theodore Briggs?” she reads his given birth name from her paperwork.

He leans forward in his chair, his once permanent smirk fully extinguished. “Some of us prefer to fly under the radar,
lawyer lady.
Maybe you should, too,” he states, a hint of warning in his inflection.

“Is that a threat, Mr. Briggs?” Brianna asks, her head tilted slightly to the side.

“I don’t make threats.” His smirk returns.

“Only promises,” she deduces.

He holds his hands up, palms out at shoulder level, dismissively. “Those are your words, not mine,
lawyer lady.”

“Mr. Briggs,” the judge scolds. “The woman whom you are addressing is an attorney-at-law. On the basis of her education alone, you will refrain from calling her
lawyer lady
in this courtroom. You may address her as Ms. Castille or Ma’am, respectfully. Understood?”

Manny nods one solitary gesture, avoiding eye contact with the judge, maintaining an underlying tone of defiance.

“I can think of only a few reasons why a fully functional, able-bodied man would have no records, or chooses to
fly under the radar,
as you like to put it,” Brianna returns to her point. “You’re either, one, a recluse…anti-social, preferring to live your life off the grid. Or, two, you think you’re above the law and shouldn’t have to pay taxes the way the rest of us do in this country. Or, three, your work is illegal, thereby requiring you to live your life in stealth-mode so as not to get caught.”

“Objection. Speculation,” the defense calls.

“Sustained,” the judge backs him. “Get to your question, Ms. Castille.”

Brianna approaches the witness stand, her arm casually resting on the railing. Her closeness is physically upsetting to Manny Briggs. Answering to women is a concept completely foreign to him. He all but scowls at her, his eyes laced with contempt. “Do you get paid in cash, Mr. Briggs?” she prods.

“No.”

“By all statutes of the law, is the work you perform illegal, Mr. Briggs?”

“No,” he continues with his short answers, refusing to insert a title of any form in addressing Brianna Castille.

“My sources tell me you work for one of the most notorious gangs in New Orleans…the Gambinis. Is that true, Mr. Briggs?”

“The Gambinis are not some run-of-the-mill street gang. They’re Mafia. Get your terminology down,” he scoffs. “And no, I don’t work for the Mafia.”

“Are you in fact, an independent contractor for the Gambinis? The muscle…the beef…Guido…whatever they’re calling it these days?” Brianna presses on, building imagery for the jury.

He chuckles. “You watch too many movies,
lawyer…”
He catches himself, refraining from finishing the derogatory handle.