The Reform Artists: A Legal Suspense, Spy Thriller (The Reform Artists Series Book 1) (16 page)

“Tell him you won $500 on Power Ball.”

“You guys know I play the lottery?”

“No,” Dr. Merritt chuckled. “It’s just simple addition: Italian, divorced and short on cash!”

Then, he moved the beige box to one side, revealing the drawing of the right side of a man’s head. “We have a proven methodology for helping ‘reorient’ people’s thinking. It’s complicated, and I’m not going to go into detail except to say, this is not brain washing.

“I guess you could call it a form of dream manipulation. It’s designed to give the judge, who’s been conditioned to think favorably about the ‘petitioner’ in ex-parte cases, a new, vivid, and compelling experience that should make him more sensitive to the ‘respondent’s’ point-of-view.”

“And how is that not brain washing?” 

“If anything, it’s designed to temporarily counteract the brainwashing that’s already occurred.”

Sands’ right eyelid rose, skeptically.

“Here’s what has to happen,” Dr. Merritt said. “We’re going to give you a music CD. You’ll have to get the judge to listen to it through a set of headphones, while you inject the needle into his jugular vein and cut his hair.

“The tape contains subliminal messages that will relax him and give him suggestions for the dreams.”

“What if he doesn’t want to listen to it?”

“He has to,” Dr. Merritt said.

“Is the CD ready?”

“No. We’ll send it, along with the CD player, by messenger, to your shop tomorrow morning.”

“Listen,” Sands said. “I’ll check with my dad and see if he knows what type of music the Judge can’t resist. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

“OK,” Dr. Merritt said, “but you will need to call me tonight.”

“How risky is the operation...for me?” Sands asked.

Dr. Merritt considered that for a moment and smiled. “We haven’t lost anyone yet, if that’s what you mean.”

“It is.”

“So Tony—,” Merritt began.

“What, Doc?”

“Don’t be the first!”

“Yeah, right. I’ll keep that in mind!”

Tony leaned back against the dental office wall and folded his arms. “So, now that I know what’s expected of me, how am I supposed to pull it off? How am I going to inject him without arousing his suspicions?”

Dr. Merritt pulled out a small pump sprayer. “This contains a vanilla-scented spray that’s also a topical anesthetic. You’ll tell him it’s aroma therapy and a muscle relaxer.

“Spray a little around his head and spray the rest in the general area of the injection site. Then, use one of those scalp and neck massagers on his neck before injecting him.

“Now, let me show you how to find the jugular vein.”

Sands smiled. “No need, Doc. You forget; I’m a barber. They taught us anatomy from the neck up, in barber school.”

Dr. Merritt smiled. “Right! That’s normally the trickiest part of this. Just remember, you have to apply pressure on the inside of the collar bone, and palpate the skin above it to root out the vein for injection purposes.”

“Got it,” Sands said. “That’ll be much easier to do once I’ve applied the spray.”

“I’ve got one more item for you,” Dr. Merritt said, again, opening the drawer. This time he brought out a brand new, black barber’s bag.

“All the additional tools you’ll need for our operation have been made out of a highly rigid polymer that will not show up on the court-security, x-ray scanners. But just in case the guards inspect your bag, we want you to use this one. It has a false bottom where you can hide the syringe and pump sprayer.”

“What about the solution for the syringe?” Sands asked.

Dr. Merritt took the syringe and drew all the fluid from the vial into it. Then, he reapplied the cap and placed it securely in the foam, along with the pump sprayer and slipped them under the case’s false bottom. He tossed the empty vial, with its metal rim, into his office trash can.

“That does it,” he said, patting Sands on the back and showing him to the door. “Now, it’s time you let me get back to earning a living!”

“See you in another three years, Doc?” Sands asked.

Dr. Merritt rubbed his neck where Sands had pressed the syringe. “Not if I see you first!”

At five o’clock Thursday afternoon, on the way to her car, Katie Silkwood called Beverly West for a progress report.

“Beverly,” she said, “I’ve only got a minute, but I wanted to check in with you. Is the phone call with Justin on for tonight?”

“Yes, Katie. I just received a text message from your husband’s attorney. Martin will be available to speak with Justin at six forty-five tonight. You should call him on his cell phone.”

Katie sighed. “Thank God. Maybe Marty can get somewhere with that boy. Justin’s behavior is driving me crazy!”

“Let’s hope,” West said. She knew what was coming next, and she braced herself.

“Have you received a counter-offer from them yet?”

“No, Katie. In fact, the subject never even came up during the call this morning.”

Katie thought about that for a moment. “How long were you two on the phone?”

“About ten minutes.” West said. She sighed softly, “I’m sorry, Katie, but settling just doesn’t seem to be a priority for them at this point.”

Katie could feel her heart start to race. “Then, what do you think is a priority for them, Beverly?”

“I think they’re busy preparing for trial.”

Katie wanted to scream. “This is terrible! I can’t afford this.”

“I know. I know,” West said. “I wish I had better news…”

“What should we do?”

“For now, we only have one option, Katie. We wait.”

At the other end of the line, Katie scrunched her hands into fists and shook them violently. “I just want to scream!”

West tried to change the subject. “How are you coming along with your list of potential financial angels?”

“I-I finished it, Beverly,” Katie said, her voice sounding a bit shaky, “but – I will need their help to pay for the divorce trial. I don’t want to tap any of them now.”

West wanted to keep her client’s spirits up. “I’ve been getting ready for another round of negotiations,” West said. “I’ve worked up a revised settlement offer. Let me fax you a copy. You can review it, when you get home tonight. Then, we should talk.”

Katie sighed. “Thanks Beverly. That would be nice.”

“Meanwhile,” West said, “we’ll wait and see what happens.”

“We can’t wait too much longer, Beverly,” Katie said. “After all, the trial starts Monday!”

At her end of the line, West shook her head slowly. “I know, Katie. I know. Please be patient.”

Katie wanted to scream. She felt cornered and desperate. “All right, Beverly,” she said at last, trying to present a calm front. “I’ll try.”

Tony Sands left Dr. Merritt’s dental office and called his father on his way to his car. “Hey Pops. Sorry. I’m running about ten minutes late. But good news: I’ve got a surprise for you! Yeah. No, not telling. Great, I’ll be right over!”

His 2012 Mazda Miata purred to life, despite its seventy-six-thousand odd miles, and he quickly completed the five-mile trip back up Wisconsin Avenue to the barbershop in downtown Rockville. The Miata was the only “luxury” item Sands had purchased since his divorce. It had seventy-one thousand miles on it when he bought it, so “luxury” was a bit of an overstatement. But with no money to his name, a rundown apartment and debts galore, he needed some form of “chick magnet” or, he figured, he’d never get laid again.

Sands had bought shrewdly, casing the online classifieds for weeks until he found the right car and the motivated buyer he needed. Then, he completely refurbished the car and rebuilt the engine, leaning heavily on what he had learned in his high-school shop classes.

On the way to the barber shop, Sands called his father’s best friend and fishing buddy. “Sam? Hi, this is Tony, Tony Sand’s son. You doing anything tomorrow? Great, I’m treating Pops to a charter fishing trip on the bay—with Captain Sculley, out of St. Mary’s county.

“That’s right! And you’re invited to keep him company. No, I’m not shitting you! And I’m footing the bill. Yeah, I guess you have been living right! But, listen. It’s a surprise, so don’t go calling him about it. Wait for him to call
you.
I’m on my way to tell him now.

“They leave the dock early: at five o’clock in the morning, so I’ll bring him by your place no later than four, OK? Can you drive? Great!”

Sands pulled up to the barbershop just as Tony Sr. was drawing down the front-door shade that announced “Closed” in large, red letters. Under it he had printed the store’s general hours and phone number. It was 5:12 p.m. and none of the other barbers were anywhere in sight. His father was holding a blue, zipped canvass cash bag in his left hand as he slipped the key in the lock and worked it shut.

Then, he drew the wrought iron gates from the left and right side of the store front, slipped their footings into the holes drilled into the sidewalk in front of the door, and reached into his pocket for the large padlock. He opened it, slipped it in place, and then snapped it shut.

Sands studied his old man with admiration. He was turning sixty-three in several weeks, with a head of thick gray hair, but he still looked every bit as fit and trim as he had been when he was in his mid-thirties. Tony Sr. worked at it: walking three miles, three times a week and spending a half hour each night working out with weights and a bench press that he kept in the basement. He also got help from Angie Sands, who ruled the kitchen and carefully regulated how much bread, pasta, fat and sweets her husband consumed.

His father walked with a decided spring in his step as he crossed the sidewalk to Tony Jr.’s car. “Another day, another dollar!” he announced as he hopped in the front bucket seat next to his son. “I need you to stop by the bank on the way to the house, so I can deposit our ‘small’ fortune!”

“Dad,” Sands said, as he steered the car into traffic, “how many times have I asked you not to carry that cash bag out in the open? Slip it under your jacket, for Christ sake. You don’t have to be so damned obvious about it, do you?” 

Tony Sr. looked at his son, squinted, then smiled. “Come on Junior, get serious. Yeah, we make a living, but it’s an
honest
living. No self-respecting thief is gonna want to do a smash-and-grab on your old man! They’d get accused of thinking too small.

“Now, if we operated a Seven-Eleven
®
that would be different. They’d get more cash, and they could bring home slushies and pizza slices for everyone! ‘Course those places are often crawling with cameras...and cops.”

“Right, Dad. You’re the easier target of opportunity. If they snatch the cash bag from you, they may get less money, even a few stray hairs on their clothes, but they won’t get caught!”

“All right,” Tony Sr. said. “It’s touching. You care. I get it. But, remember, I’m not some weak, senile old dude. I’m still in the game. I could probably beat you if we arm wrestled for a beer. Stick around for dinner, and we’ll see.”

“In your dreams, old man,” Sands said, smiling. “In your dreams.”

“So, what’s this about a surprise you have for me, Junior?” his father asked.

Tony reached into the left side of his wind breaker and withdrew an envelope. “Here it is, Pops. Enjoy!”

His dad eagerly opened the envelope and studied the brochure. “Wow! Sculley! He’s a first-rate operation. I know a couple of guys who’ve used him before. They raved about it! But they also said it cost a small fortune.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, no offense, son, but where’d you get the
do-re-mi
?”

“Pick three.”

“You don’t say? Nice picking!”

They had arrived at the bank. Tony Sr. got out of the car and made his night deposit.

“So, when do we go?” he asked, as he slipped back into his seat.

“Not we; you. Happy Birthday! You leave first thing in the morning! Sam’s going to keep you company. I’m supposed to deliver you to his place at four o’clock, sharp.”

“Well, that’s great!” Tony Sr. said, smiling. Then, almost as quickly, a frown appeared. “Wait a minute. Tomorrow’s Friday!”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t do it.”

“What are you talking about? I’ll manage the shop for you, Dad. This is your day. Enjoy!”

“But –—“

“But, what?”

“Mickey Farnsworth. I have a standing appointment to cut his hair every Friday, at one, in his chambers at district court.”

“So?”

“So, he’s expecting me! I’ve been cutting his hair in court for
ten years
, and I’ve never missed a date. I’m not about to start now.”

“What’s the matter, Pops? You afraid he’ll think you’re slipping?”

Tony Sr. waved his hand at his son, as if he were chasing off a fly. “Hardly. It’s difficult to explain, but we go way back, that’s all.”

“OK, so tell me what he likes and I’ll stand in for you.”

“It’s just not the same, Junior. No offense. The man has his routine and I’m part of it.”

Tony glanced over at his dad and saw the troubled look on his face.

“Dad, what’s the last time you took a day off from work?”

“I don’t know…. The last time I caught the flu, I guess.”

“That doesn’t count. I mean the last time you took a day off from work to do something for yourself?”

“Beats me, and what’s your point, anyway?”

“I don’t think you’ve missed a day the whole time I’ve been working with you. You’re due.”

Tony Sr. crossed his arms and stared ahead. ‘You’re not putting me out to pasture, Junior, not even for a day. You’re just going to have to reschedule this trip with Sculley.”

Tony shook his head. The old guy could be stubborn, but he hadn’t expected this. “I can’t do that, Dad.”

“Why the
hell
not?”

“Sculley gave me a special rate, for tomorrow only. He had a last-minute cancellation to fill. So, if you don’t go tomorrow, that’s it. I’m out five C-notes, and you and Sam will have to pay your own way to go another time.”

Tony Sr. sat quietly, letting his son’s comments sink in. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Tony Jr. said, “sure does. But what’s all this about being ‘put out to pasture?’ Where’d that come from?”

His father squirmed in his seat. “That’s how it starts. A day here. A day there. Then, half a week. I’ve talked with some of my gang. I know.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about on that score, Pops,” Tony Jr. said. “You’ve got more stamina than me!”

Tony Sr. smiled. “You got that right, boy!” he said, letting out a sigh. After another moment, he continued. “So, were you serious about filling in for me tomorrow, with Farnsworth?”

“Sure.”

“Really? Because, it’s a big schlep over there from the shop, and, now that you mention it, you
do
look a bit out of shape. You don’t think you’ll get too winded, do you?”

Tony Jr. smiled. “I think I’ll survive, Pops.”

“OK, then. No point in ruining your surprise and blowin’ all your dough. As for the haircut, it’s pretty simple, really. Razor cut. Take off no more than a week’s growth. He also likes a bracer of Vitalis
®
, for some ungodly reason, and a neck and scalp massage. “Think you can remember all of that?”

“I’ll do my best, Dad. Listen, I’d like to do something extra special for the judge, to make up for the fact that he won’t get to spend time with you. I thought I’d bring him a CD to listen to, while I cut his hair. After all, he and I probably won’t have much to talk about. Any thoughts about what music he’d find irresistible?”

“That’s easy:
La traviata.
”

“The opera?”

“Yep. He first got smitten, when he was visiting our house as a kid.”

Tony Jr. made a mental note to call the title in to Dr. Merritt, as soon as he dropped his father off at home.

“How far back do you and the judge go, Pops, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Quite a way. I met Mickey Farnsworth a lifetime ago, in Little League. I was thirteen and Mickey had just turned twelve. Coach Richards assigned him to play second base.”

“What was the name of your team, Dad? I always forget.”

“The Silver Spring Tigers: We had a near-perfect record that year. I was starting my second season as the first-string catcher and team captain. And Mickey,” he said, with a chuckle, “he was a complete mess: tall, gawky, extremely gung-ho...a real nerd. (We just didn’t call them that, then.) He had a $64 vocabulary, which he couldn’t turn off to save his life. He’d spout his big words at the coach, and you could just see them sailing right over his head, like frozen ropes lined over the pitcher’s head and into center field. Every time he opened his mouth, the coach felt like a dummy. Not good.

“Mickey was a misfit, no way around it, and I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for misfits. I took him under my wing, so to speak, showed him the ropes, introduced him around the clubhouse and filled him in on each teammate.

“We were about as different as two kids could be. Mickey came from an old, ‘up county’ family of doctors, lawyers, accountants and landowners. Meanwhile, as you know, I came from the streets—albeit the ‘not-so-mean’ streets—of Silver Spring.”

“Getting a bit overly dramatic, there, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tony Sr. said. Then, he continued, “Mickey was the older of the two Farnsworth kids. He and his sister, Penny, and their parents, lived with a parakeet and a golden retriever in a gargantuan, wood-framed Georgian-style mansion on New Hampshire Avenue, extended. Their annual Christmas photo looked like a Norman Rockwell painting.

“Mickey’s dad was a surgeon at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center. He had Mickey focused on getting into an Ivy League college even back then.”

“That was another big difference between you two, huh?” Sands said, with a grunt.

“Sure. Your grandad wasn’t sending the six Sands boys to community college, let alone to an Ivy League school. He was a small-time residential contractor, who ran a crew of ‘Paisans’ as he called them. He did single-family home renovations and, occasionally, a small apartment complex or two. He supported us while your grandma, Roberta, took care of the home, volunteered as a Cub Scout den mother for each of us, in turn; prepared my dad’s company’s books; and provided him with ‘unofficial’ marketing consulting services.

“My dad had simple ambitions for me,” Tony Sr. said. “He wanted me to go to barber school. He was proud that I would be earning a living, still with my hands, but indoors, out of the burning sun and with refined tools and schooling, rather than with hammers, saws, and heavy lifting.”  

“I think Mickey had a not-too-secret crush on your granny. She was quite a looker, back then. She could have passed for a slightly older version of Annette Funicello. Remember her?

“Not really, Pops.”

“Wow, what a body! She was a Disney Mouseketeer, who eventually grew up, filled out and starred in the movie, ‘Beach Blanket Bingo.’ You should rent it sometime.”

Sands looked ahead, smiled and rolled his eyes.

Tony Sr. continued. “Mickey used to have an odd sense of humor. Perhaps you’ll see it in action, but I think he’s toned it down since becoming a judge.”

“Wasn’t that like thirty years ago, or something?”

“Somewhere in that neighborhood. Mickey had been practicing law for eight years – we both had moved back to the area by then, and his career, as a litigator, was going nowhere fast. At thirty-four, he started campaigning for an open spot on the district court bench. He made the rounds to his friends’ and colleagues’ law offices and country clubs, and soon he had his judgeship. He owes many of them favors, too. He’s told me as much.”

“So, how did you get the weekly gig at the courthouse?”