Unclean Hands, page 1
Unclean Hands
James Rosenberg
Copyright © 2021 by James Rosenberg
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.
This book is dedicated to those who work with passion to right injustices and inequities everywhere.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
About the Author
Also by James Rosenberg
Chapter One
The lanky man, clad only in black jockey shorts, squinted at the sun squeezing through the bent metal blinds he neglected to adjust before falling into bed the previous night. The sheets, unchanged for weeks, reeked of sweat and lay strewn at the foot of the bed.
Rick Waterston scratched at his face and the first conscious image to enter his mind was of a firm glass, two hefty cubes of ice and a healthy dose of whiskey. How ironic, he thought, two years since my last drink and still it's the first thing that comes into my head each morning.
The news, on all night, blurted out from the flat screen not yet mounted to the wall.
The effort of getting to a seated position made him want to drop his head back onto the pillow. He dragged his heavy legs over the edge of the bed. Small flecks fell into the air as his hands swiped at his eyes. His head bobbed from weariness, and despite the lack of brain activity, his schedule for the day popped into his head. It didn't take much energy to remember his one appointment today–an eleven o'clock court hearing, where he would present his motion to withdraw as counsel.
Waterston raked off his stubbly growth in the shower and pulled a suit out of his closet after patting his body dry. At least I still own some stylish threads, he thought, as he ran a hand over the delicate fabric.
"Thank you, Wilson, O'Malley and Sanders for the fine memories and the expensive wardrobe," he mumbled as he yanked up his pants. He made short work of tying his red tie allowing the front tip to rest on his belt buckle, exactly how his dad had taught him, and exactly how he had worn it at his dad’s funeral when he was thirteen.
His wavy, brown hair, combed straight back, glistened with moisture from his shower. A quick inspection of his hairline revealed it hadn't receded in the past day. He pointed double gun barrels at the mirror amazed he still could present the cocky guy image, despite the pangs of regret and doubt swirling in his gut.
Rick pulled on his suit jacket and grabbed his keys ready to trek to what passed for his office energized with the daily hope that new clients and additional work would appear in his waiting room. He pushed away the nagging fear that, like most days, when he returned in the evening, his future prospects would remain the same.
The latest iPhone lay on the table next to his bed, always the last item he gathered before his exit from the apartment. Three text alerts registered on the screen. "Damn, this can only be . . . ," he whispered, while unlocking the device.
His head nodded as he read them with his lips squeezed together. 12:30 a.m., marked the time the first arrived. "Are you up?"
Ten minutes later came the next one. “We need to talk."
The third showed up at 2:10 a.m., causing him to think, I was awake when you texted. I'm real sorry I didn't see it. His inward sarcasm made him grin.
The text read, "She's having a hard time. I need some assistance. Can you help? Will you? By the way, you still owe me for the last three months."
He placed the phone in his suit pocket. "Crap, Molly. Every night, you send me another missive to ruin my morning," he said, closing the door of his unit behind him.
Chapter Two
Jerry Hawkins sat across the small, wooden dinette from his wife who stared at him without a shred of facial movement. He possessed no idea what might be pinging around in her head, but didn't put much effort into figuring out her thoughts either.
She looked nice though. Still trim, with brown hair highlighting her blue eyes. She sported a tank top and shorts which showed a lot of leg. He liked that other men always turned their heads to catch a second glimpse of her.
He still loved her. Not for the sex, which happened with scheduled spontaneity the third Friday of each month. It wasn't her sense of humor, because she didn't have one and on the off chance she found something funny, her laugh echoed off the walls like a donkey's bray. Her family made his stomach churn–she was the only one among them who wasn't an abhorrent human being.
Rather, the bond keeping them together was their consensus on most important subjects–politics, money management and that he understood the ways of the world to a deeper degree than she and thus was in a superior position to make the major decisions in their lives.
Brown spots littered the small parcel of grass outside of their kitchen. Two wooden Adirondack chairs purchased at a garage sale sat in the middle of the small lot. A scattering of beer cans surrounded them.
They shoveled spoonful after spoonful of oatmeal into their mouths, having uttered less than ten sentences between them since sitting in the warped, metal chairs. The brand-new, too-large, television projected an image of a police car with flashing lights as the news anchor droned on about a series of petty thefts hitting the local commercial area.
Jerry didn't need much conversing. In fact, most of the time when his wife spoke her voice messed with the thoughts in his head. Every time she began to speak, he blinked rapidly, attempting to focus on her words, but would inevitably lower his head and return his attention to his cereal. He demanded near silence when they ate, no longer needing to yell at her when her rambling interrupted his solitude, confident she understood her babbling was unnecessary.
She stared at him as he lapped up the last morsels. He readied for her to spout about something he didn't want to discuss, so he grabbed his bowl to take it to the sink.
Before he stood, she said, with no emotion in her voice, "Anything planned for today?"
He placed his dish back on the table and took in a huge gulp of air. "Darling, I'm not sure what I will be doing, but don't you fret, my day will be productive."
Emily wiped her hands on a towel laying on the Formica counter. She glanced in the direction of her husband, but not quite into his eyes and waited a moment before replying, "Honey. I think your day will be so much more than you think it might be. It will be life changing."
Jerry rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. His wife's optimism often clashed with the reality of their lives.
The neck of his white t-shirt extended when he grabbed it. He snatched the bowl again and attempted to stand.
Emily reached across the table and put a firm hand on his arm. She cocked her head to the side. "What about the computer programming company?"
He pulled away. "What about it?"
She frowned, and he realized their conversation would extend further. "You promised you would give those people a call and sign up for an interview," she said.
"I don't remember saying that. I think I said, 'I would consider it,' which is, what I've done."
"And . . . . ?"
"It's not for me. Too much geeky technology. Do I seem like a programmer to you?"
"I don't know. You seem like someone who's not holding up his end of our bargain. We need the money and you promised you would be bringing more to the table by now."
"Did I?" Jerry flashed a smile, which melted into a frown. "We've discussed this. We're doing fine. Look at everything we got." He reached out with both hands. "You're familiar with my plan."
She stepped forward and allowed him t
"I'm leaving to do some shopping," he announced.
"Fine. Don't forget we need some other things for the house.
He looked at the three empty boxes by the back door and winked at her. "I know exactly what you want."
"How long will you be out?"
"At least a few hours."
"Good. That'll give me some free time." She said, almost under her breath.
He sidestepped his wife and grabbed his lucky windbreaker, throwing it over his shoulder as he yanked the handle to the back door, which closed with a dull thud. He gazed up to the sky and heaved a huge, cleansing sigh.
Chapter Three
"Sit up straight, son, you're slouching."
Morgan Askew looked up at his mother and raised his eyebrows. He had little interest in his posture while relaxing on the couch. I’m twenty seven. I can sit any way I want.
His mom’s voice sent his thoughts back to the series of detentions and poor grades in High School. Her scoffing sounds triggered his recollection of his two semesters at Lakehurst Community College.
He pushed the series of failing grades out of his head, but images of his drug and alcohol dominated life after college flooded his mind. He shook his head, like he had learned to in AA classes, to clear his thoughts.
He took in his mom’s squat frame and chuckled.
During the months after he dropped out, when he had loads of unscheduled free time, he hung out with a delinquent high school buddy, who espoused the brilliant idea to spend an afternoon throwing rocks at the windows at the rundown factory down by the river. Monica Askew didn't shame her son when the cops came to the house. She paid his fine and restitution, informing him he could reimburse her when there was something in his bank account.
Taking care of him was her responsibility, so she has cooked dinner for him every night since, including the two years when he didn't have any job. He still hasn't paid back the money for the windows.
Morgan adjusted his six-foot-two-inch body to square his shoulders and align his spine. He flashed a smile. At least she cared more about him than the disheveled mutt she brought into the house last year. He regretted how often he failed to meet her expectations, but believed, despite his prior poor decisions, she loved him. For every past disappointment, she responded with over-compensating bursts of support.
"How's your day looking, sweetie?" Monica asked while tossing some dishes in the dishwasher.
"The same as every other." Morgan took another bite of his cereal. "Got a huge shipment of laundry detergent coming into the store.”
"Sound's nice," she responded without thought.
Morgan pushed away from the table and walked over to her give her a kiss. She blushed when he commented about how attractive she was.
Her cajoling had made him consider AA meetings, and he now respected her judgment despite sometimes resenting her intrusiveness. He was in a better place living under her roof and complying with her rules than having his own apartment, following his instincts. Plus, she didn't charge him any rent, so he had a few dollars saved.
The job at B & D wasn’t glamorous and when he told women about what he did, their eyes glazed over. Being Assistant Store Director didn't cause them fall into his arms, but it was better than telling them he didn’t have a job. Working an eight-hour shift, five days a week, helped to keep some of his demons at bay. If asked, he would admit he was almost happy.
A blue, plastic, grocery sack containing a turkey sandwich, celery sticks, three Oreos and a napkin appeared three inches in front of Morgan's eyes.
"Here's something to eat during your shift," she said.
"Dammit mom, I don't like to take my lunch to work." He glared at her and smacked the bag out of her hands. The meal landed on the carpet four feet away. She shuffled backward, her eyes widened.
"I can take care of myself." The shrillness of Morgan's tone and his volume rose with every word. She stood motionless as he lunged towards her. She tensed, but kept her eyes locked with her son's.
Morgan stopped a step away while she turned her head away exposing the left side of her face. Pausing for effect, he leaned over and placed his lips on her cheek. He erupted in laughter while bending over to pick up the grocery bag. "I like when you take care of me. You know how much I need you."
His mom allowed a scarcely audible breath to escape and let him hug her. She grimaced when he pulled away. "I love you, son. Have an amazing day at work."
Morgan grabbed his coat and headed towards the door. He smiled, confident his mom would always adore him.
Chapter Four
Rick Waterston sat alone in the first row of seats in the spectator section of the courtroom. The only other person present was a short, overweight, middle-aged man who threw fleeting glances in his direction. Despite a lack of coverage on top of the man's head, a ponytail draped down his neck and gyrated like a pendulum each time he moved.
Entranced with the swinging braid, Rick remained somewhat amused at the circumstances which had brought them into court.
The diminutive man, at least for the moment, was Rick's client. He had come into his office a year earlier spewing wild accusations against his business partner. They ran a wildlife zoo trading in exotic animals, opening their "reserve" to the public for the chance to pet a baby tiger in exchange for eighty-five bucks. Better yet, those willing to fork over a greater share of their money received the opportunity to party in a room with a wild cat or slimy reptile.
The short guy turned again and raised his hand to chest level and waved.
The inevitability of interacting with his client stared Rick in the face, so he trudged across the room and extended his hand.
"Billy, how’re you doing?"
Rick wiped his hand against his pants and grimaced after receiving a mealy handshake.
As they were about to engage in meaningless banter, the door in the front of the courtroom opened and the tipstaff appeared. The time was precisely 9:00 a.m.
"All rise," the woman yelled, standing near the witness box. "The Court of Common Pleas of Mahoney County is now in session. The Honorable Judge Raymond Markum presiding. All those with business before this tribunal may proceed."
The Judge, stocky with a full head of dark hair with hints of gray at the edges, strode in from the front of the courtroom with his black robe askew and walked up the three steps to his perch above the proceedings while carrying a single manila folder. He sat in his high-backed chair and muttered, "You can sit." He waved his right hand in the air without looking up.
Judge Markum raised his eyes to his almost empty courtroom.
"Apparently, most lawyers were able to resolve their motions without the court's involvement. Which leaves you, Mr. Waterston. Welcome.”
He leaned over to his tipstaff demanding a cup of coffee while Rick placed his papers on the lectern.
After a few moments of additional private discussion about getting muffins, the judge turned his head. "Go ahead Mr. Waterston, please."
