Rich Waters (Jason Rich), page 7
“Hey, this part here is good,” Chuck said.
Satch held up a finger. “If you ruin it for me, I will wipe my ass with your toothbrush.”
“God, forgive him,” Chuck said. “How many times you seen this, Colonel?”
“It gets better every time,” Satch said. “Now shut the hell up. Jock’s about to whup some ass.” He pointed at the screen, and Chuck and Mickey both stifled laughs.
“Dallas?” Jason whispered, looking to each of the brothers and then back at the screen, where Jock Ewing, the Ewing patriarch of the famous soap opera, played by the legendary character actor Jim Davis, was getting into a fistfight with another man. Jock’s sons Bobby and Ray—Jason couldn’t remember if Jock knew that Ray was his son yet—were also fighting off the other man’s friends, and the eldest son, J. R., ended the fight by taking a beer bottle to a man’s head.
Mickey nodded, whispering, “He watches Dallas and Falcon Crest every Friday night like he’s stuck in 1984. And he’ll only watch one episode a night.” He giggled and shook his head.
On the screen, Jock, Ray, Bobby, and J. R. were now walking out of the bar together arm in arm after winning the brawl.
“Thank you, guys,” Jason whispered. “I’ll clean up.” He backed away, but Satch’s gravelly voice stopped him. He turned and noticed that the television had been paused.
“You done good, Jason. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
“You bring my ice cream?”
“Yes, sir. Right here.” He held it up for the big man to see.
“Thank you. Put it in the freezer, would you?” Satch asked, his eyes glued again to the tube.
Jason fired off a salute and walked back to the front of the house. He put the carton in the freezer and then found a mop from the utility room.
He ran a hand through his sticky hair and chuckled. It was good to be home.
Thirty minutes later, Jason was sitting in the screened-in sunroom of his empty home. He gazed out at Lake Guntersville. He had showered and put his soaked suit in the dry cleaner’s box. He looked at his boathouse, thinking it would be lake weather soon. Time to get the Sea-Doo out.
The 1.5-carat diamond that Jason had bought Chase Wittschen, unless it had been stolen, should still be in the front console compartment of the watercraft. In his disappointment in the aftermath of coming home after his and Chase’s ill-fated voyage to Goat Island on Christmas Day, Jason had forgotten to remove the ring case before putting the cover back on the Sea-Doo. He’d realized his gaffe once he was inside the house, not having the energy to go get it.
So it had stayed behind.
Meanwhile, Chase had left the next morning, December 26. Jason had brought coffee over to her, hoping to patch things up. He’d found a note instead. Need some space. I’m sorry.
That’s all it had said.
And Jason hadn’t seen or spoken to her since. He knew she had been back a few times, but never when he was around. Always when he was out of town for travel.
Nola had mentioned seeing her. As had Satch. But she hadn’t called, texted, or left anything for Jason other than her original note.
None of it made sense, but Jason didn’t have the time or the wisdom to unravel what was going on. He couldn’t control Chase any more than he could control Nola. Or his deceased sister, Jana. Letting go of those things was one of the teachings of AA. The serenity prayer.
Jason said it every morning, but he still had a hard time abiding by it.
Since Chase’s departure, Jason had put a twin bed out on the sunporch, and this was where he slept best. Breathing the clean natural air as the sounds of nocturnal insects and the occasional breeze through the trees mixed with the whirring of cars passing over the Mill Creek overpass on Highway 79.
He lay back on his pillow and gazed again at the dark water. A few hours earlier, he had won for his client a $25 million verdict. An hour ago, he was being drenched with Gatorade by good friends who cared about him.
Now, though, Jason Rich felt completely alone.
12
Not drinking had become Jason’s “superpower.”
At least, that’s how he liked to think of it. He’d relapsed nine months ago after his reprimand in front of the Alabama State Bar. His fall off the wagon had been precipitated more by events in Jana’s murder case than the blowhards at the bar who’d given him his public shaming. Regardless, since then and especially in the six months after Jana’s trial, as his schedule had returned to normal, Jason had noticed that the simple act of not drinking alcohol had given him something that he’d chased his whole career.
Time.
Instead of drinking four or five beers starting at 6:00 p.m., he was able to use that time to make a few extra phone calls, read over a deposition, reply to emails, and assist Izzy with the screening of new cases. Likewise, he went to bed earlier and got up clearheaded. In the lead-up to big mediations and especially in the month prior to the Reginald Jackson trial, Jason felt that he was as good a lawyer as he’d ever been. Since he couldn’t drink to burn off steam, he’d done other things to combat the stress of practicing law. He almost always listened to music now. Something . . . anything . . . was better than nothing. He also read books, both fiction and nonfiction—self-help entries like The Secret and The Power of Positive Thinking. He got eight hours of sleep most nights. Finally, with an assist from Chuck Tonidandel, he’d started doing something he’d never done before in his life.
Jason Rich, whose only brand of working out prior to sobriety was lifting twelve-ounce longnecks, had started a strength-training program.
Relishing these positive thoughts, Jason grasped the bar with both hands. Then he adjusted and readjusted his grip. He sucked in a deep breath and lifted the bar off the rack, exhaling just before bringing the weight down to his chest and pressing it back up. “One,” he said out loud, lowering the weight again. “Two.” This time, he held the bar up for a split second. On the loudspeakers, he could hear AC/DC’s “Shoot to Thrill” drop into the chorus. His goal was three reps, which he had never done before with 205 pounds. He exhaled again and lowered the weight, then thrust the bar up with all his strength. “Three!” he screamed and reracked the bar.
He sat up on the bench and gazed out the open door of the garage. At this time of morning, the rays of bright sunshine made the water of Lake Guntersville glisten.
Jason stood up from the bench and flexed like he might be Hulk Hogan after winning a match. Then he screamed out his best Ric Flair “Wooooo!” as the AC/DC track switched to “Hells Bells.”
A fisherman in a bass boat who had parked for a few minutes by his boathouse glanced his way with a startled expression on his face.
Jason waved, but the man didn’t return the gesture. He backed his boat up and drifted down the line to the next boathouse.
Bad form to yell while a person is fishing, Jason thought, his face turning serious for a second. Then, another thought popped into his mind. Fuck it.
“Wooooo!” he screamed again, arching his back and tilting his head to the sky. Then he strutted toward the front of the garage like the Nature Boy did after taking off his robe to start a match. The boat continued to move past the next boathouse and began to speed away. The fisherman looked over his shoulder and extended his middle finger to Jason.
Jason guffawed and turned up his right thumb. His universal retort after receiving the bird. The fisherman shook his head and swatted at him like he might be a fly.
“What?” Jason asked out loud, holding out his palms and grinning. “Hey, Alexa,” he said, turning to the small cylinder. He tried to think of an appropriate song, and then snapped his fingers, thinking of something that Holly Trimble had said yesterday: “Play ‘Asshole,’ by Denis Leary.”
Jason moved the bench from underneath the rack and cranked out a set of twelve pull-ups. Then he loaded a trap bar with forty-five-pound plates and did a set of ten dead lifts. Sweat streamed down his forehead, and Jason wiped at it with his T-shirt. It was 9:30 a.m. on Saturday, and Jason, fresh off a huge verdict and almost ten hours of decent sleep, was feeling good.
Alive. Which was why he enjoyed lifting weights so much.
Jason hung two more forty-fives on the trap bar. He walked out of the garage and spat on the grass. Then, after taking a long sip of Gatorade, he walked with purpose back to the bar. Stepping inside the opening in the middle, Jason grabbed the handles, squatted, and pulled upward with his glutes, hamstrings, and back. He did five reps and then let the weight fall to the ground.
But this time, he didn’t scream. Instead, he put his hands on his knees as Denis Leary ranted about the virtues of being an asshole.
Jason had made a fortune settling personal injury cases. But since he’d shown his chops in the courtroom by obtaining a not-guilty verdict for his sister in her murder trial, the dam had broken. And yesterday’s win solidified that he was here to stay. Not just a billboard attorney. A trial lawyer . . .
Jason and Izzy had added two associates to help with the caseload, and they were still having to turn good files away due to the volume. Jason ought to be happy. Ecstatic even. He was thirty-seven years old. He was a multimillionaire several times over. He was a hot commodity.
But one overpowering thought kept him restless and on edge. Waiting for karma or God or some other cosmic force to strike him down.
I represented a guilty client.
His sister, Jana, had killed her husband, Braxton Waters, on July 4, 2018. She’d hired a handyman named Waylon Pike to do the deed, all part of her master plan. Jason had learned the truth a week after the trial.
He closed his eyes and placed his sweaty face into his T-shirt. Then, shaking his head hard, he stood and walked back to the trap bar. But before he could add any more weight, a figure appeared in the opening to the garage.
Satch Tonidandel’s eyes had a permanent reptilian narrowness to them, and they were creased even farther than usual.
“What’s up, Colonel?” Jason asked.
“Nothing good,” the big man said, his voice grave. “He wants another meeting.”
“Who?”
Satch frowned. “You know who.”
Tyson Cade.
Just hearing the name in his thoughts sent a shiver of cold through Jason’s body. He finished his workout in a daze, going through the motions in an effort to steady himself. Satch said the meeting would be at 10:00 p.m. on the third hole of the Goose Pond Colony golf course. Jason was to arrive by water and come alone.
“I guess proposing that he drop by the office on Monday was out of the question?” Jason had asked.
“You know how Cade operates,” Satch had fired back.
Jason did. He had made the acquaintance of the methamphetamine czar of Sand Mountain last year during Jana’s case, and the young drug lord had initiated several surprise visits and clandestine meetings.
What now? Jason wondered, as he backed his Sea-Doo out of its space in the boathouse. He’d spent the last twelve hours pondering that very question, and he was still at a loss.
He had no one outside of the Tonidandel brothers he could confide in, and they hadn’t offered much in the way of assurances. “Can’t be a good thing,” Satch had said, as they had come up with their plan a few hours earlier. “No shit,” Jason had fired back, causing Mickey to guffaw and Chuck to bow his head for a silent prayer. The Tonidandels were all a little off, but Jason felt fortunate to have some protection, and he’d leaned on the brothers, especially Satch, in the months after his sister’s death.
Tonight, he would rely on them again. Jason flipped the lights on the watercraft and did a loop around the cove at Mill Creek. At 9:00 p.m., the lights were on in most of the houses on both sides of the slough. Jason steered the Sea-Doo toward the back of the cove, idling where the water began to shallow out and become marshy. Beyond this point, the lake narrowed into a creek, and a cold spring percolated. Jason had enjoyed two of the best times of his life at that spring, which could only be reached with a canoe or a kayak. He peered past the grassy marsh toward the back of the cove, taking in the sounds of crickets and the occasional frog. For mid-April, the night was uncharacteristically sticky, and Jason felt his neck beginning to sweat. Jason wondered if it was the humidity in the air or the anxiety that had engulfed his being that was making him perspire.
He took in a deep breath and clicked open the console where he had put his driver’s license and phone. Tonight, he had also placed a small handgun inside, courtesy of Satch Tonidandel. “Probably won’t do you no good, but it’s better than nothing,” Satch had said. “Just in case you need more cover than what we’re providing.”
Jason touched the gun and then removed his hand as if he’d had it on a hot iron. Satch and Chase had both taken him shooting since his return to Guntersville, but he was a terrible shot. He smirked at the tiny pistol, figuring some garlic and holy water would provide better protection. Up above the main compartment, there was a smaller pouch to keep valuables. After hesitating, he clicked it open and gazed at the black felt case that held Chase’s engagement ring. For a long moment, he glared at the object, which seemed to embody all of his failures.
Finally, taking in another breath and slamming the pouch and console shut, he squeezed down on the throttle, and the Sea-Doo took off toward the bridge. As he approached the tunnel, he glanced toward his own house, where all the lights were off but the upstairs kitchen lamp. He’d left it on for Nola, who still hadn’t come home from Harley’s house. He hadn’t bothered to tell her about Cade’s request, because he didn’t want to upset her. Things were already volatile enough. Before Christmas, Jason had turned to Chase for help with Nola. But then Chase had gone AWOL.
Jason glanced at the dark and empty home of Chase Wittschen and gave his head a jerk. If Chase had gone off on a drinking binge, he hoped it wasn’t because of him.
But it probably is, he thought. She’d so much as told him last year that he was a trigger for her alcoholism. Then, in their last conversation on Christmas Day under the cliffs at Goat Island, she’d said she was barely hanging on. He had pushed too hard for her to be a part of his life, and she hadn’t been ready. Like the Tonidandels, Chase had to deal with nightmares and anxiety from her time in the service as a helicopter pilot. As a kid, she’d always been quiet and unassuming. Jason had never had a relationship with her beyond the waters of Mill Creek and, truth be known, didn’t know a lot about Chase’s life outside of their time together. She’d told him little snippets about her experience in the army, but nothing about the time period between high school graduation and enlisting. She’d gone out West for a time to work on a ranch—he remembered hearing that from his mother. She had no brothers or sisters, and she never talked much about her parents. To Jason, Chase was similar to the swamp girl from the book Where the Crawdads Sing, one of his favorite reads of the past year. His knowledge of her was almost solely limited to seeing her in this tiny pocket of Lake Guntersville.
But she’s more than that, Jason thought. That’s just all I’ve cared to know. That’s what she was trying to tell me at the cliffs. He spat in the water and shook his head. What had Chase said last year as they were reconnecting as friends?
“It’s always about you, Jason.”
He pressed the throttle down with his right hand, and the Sea-Doo plunged forward. Regrets about Chase and Nola weren’t going to help him tonight. He needed to be alert and focused. And lucky, his subconscious added.
Jason tapped the ceiling of the concrete overpass as he crossed under the bridge into the main channel. As always, the view of the water took his breath away. That was why he loved Mill Creek so much. The cove had its own private slough of water, but if a person were to venture under the bridge, all of Lake Guntersville and the Tennessee River awaited. The feeling of seeing the channel open up normally gave him a thrill, but tonight it only added to his increasing angst. He hardly ever got out on the water after dark, and he wasn’t too keen on making the trip to Goose Pond regardless of how beautiful it was.
Jason engaged the throttle and took off down the lake, his hair blowing in the breeze. At this time of night, there were no other watercraft in sight, and the water looked like a sheet of glass. As he watched the speedometer climb—thirty-five, forty-five, fifty-five, sixty—he sucked the air into his lungs and prayed that whatever lay ahead on the third hole of Goose Pond Colony golf course was a small inconvenience.
But, as he passed the Docks restaurant and rounded toward the marina, Jason had a sinking feeling. As if he were being pulled back down into quicksand after having finally extricated himself from the mire.
He parked his watercraft and hopped onto the dock. Cade’s instructions were to go to the marina via Sea-Doo and walk the rest of the way.
The golf course was about a mile away. Jason glanced at his phone. 9:30 p.m. The Sea-Doo trip had been quicker than he’d expected, but he still had at least a mile and a half walk in front of him. Jason glanced down at his feet. He’d worn Tevas for the ride but wished he had thought to bring tennis shoes for the walk.
Good grief, he thought, as he forced his feet to start moving. I obtained a $25 million verdict yesterday . . .
But here he was. Meeting with the meth king of Sand Mountain in the middle of a public golf course in the dark of night to talk about God knows what.
The sad part was that he hadn’t even considered not going. Hadn’t even bothered to ask Satch if he could blow it off.
He knew he had to go. When it came to Tyson Cade, free will and choice flew out the window.
Feeling his heart thudding in his chest, Jason picked up his pace.
Twenty-two minutes later, at 9:52 p.m., Jason arrived at the tee box of the third hole at Goose Pond Colony golf course. Had he not been as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, he might have enjoyed the nostalgia of walking one of his favorite local courses under the moonlight. Jason had played on the golf team at Davidson College and, for a New York minute, considered playing professionally. He’d always loved playing “the Pond,” as he and his high school teammates had called the lakeside golf course. The first hole was a straightaway par four that went slightly downhill. Even in the near darkness, Jason had been able to picture the thousands of tee shots he’d hit on the hole, which usually left a short iron to the green. Jason had walked from the first fairway to the second tee box and gazed up the hill at the quirky par five, which was a sharp dogleg right that went up a steep hill and then down to the right. As Jason trudged up the hill, he almost ran into a gaggle of geese, and the momma goose had hissed at him, causing him to yell out loud and then curse under his breath.
