Where to now? It is a question Len Arial repeatedly asks himself. As a personal injury lawyer, in the picturesque city of Charleston, SC, he is frustrated with his seemingly meaningless legal status. Once a dedicated prosecutor, Len is floundering in his own moral ambiguity, and sense of worth. Everything changes with one phone call. His closest friend, Detective TJ Jackson, informs him that their old nemesis, simply known as Billy Jack, is out of prison and back to settle-up. Murder, terror, and extensive world-wide felonious activities are a way of life, for this diabolical, sophisticated, and highly intelligent master criminal. Facing off with Billy Jack, in a frantic struggle, are Arial, and three very close friends. TJ Jackson, the superlative cop, who came through the projects and his own version of hell. Josie Jackson, noted microbiologist, who supports her husband against Billy Jack. Hannah Baktiar, also an extraordinary cop, escaped the repressive regime in Iran. All, of these lives, and many more are stories within the story, each interesting, and desperate, in their own way. In a tale of suspense, intrigue and terror, four people, battling their own internal demons, are in a turbulent cauldron, where the perplexity, of good and evil, intermingle in a clash of cultural values. Who will survive to redefine themselves? Where to now?

Where to Now?

By ROD ROGERS

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Rod Rogers
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-0363-1

Chapter One

Where to now? The continuing question rattled in Len's head, yet again. He looked across his desk, at his potential clients, and literally wanted to scream the question at them. What was he doing here? Why was he doing this? What was he thinking, when he started practicing this kind of law? Who needs this? Indeed, where to now?

The obvious answer always was quick to jump out, and kick him in his vital senses. When $300,000 was considered a very bad year, this should be a good job. Oh yes, there was the $125,000 going toward his ex-wife's alimony, and child support, for his two teenagers. Their private school, and college on the horizon, was his responsibility. His mother was in a nursing home with Alzheimer's. There was not even sporadic help from his older brother, Conrad, and younger sister Katlin. That was the brother, who only came around with his hand out, or called when he was being arrested for drug possession. Good little brother, Len, was right there as his lawyer, on a pro bono basis, of course. Katlin followed very much the same path, leaning on her brother's legal background, for an assortment of self-inflicted legal issues.

"Our friend—got a cousin at law school—says we ougt'n git least a million—after yo fee." The large Caucasian woman nodded her head back and forth, very confidently. Her slightly built, African-American husband stared straight ahead, not very sure about the whole process. A million dollars sounded awfully good, though, whatever the procedure. He was already mentally spending the imaginary windfall.

"Mrs. Brown, would that be the cousin, or the friend?" The retort just jumped out, before Len could stop it. He had been through this same conversation many times. There was no shortage of people, hoping to get rich, using the legal system. His patience wore thin, very quickly.

"What you mean?" The terse reply went right past the avaricious Mrs. Brown. Right now, she was only interested in getting a big fat check.

"Which one says you should get the mill—never mind." Len put his hands to his face, avoiding the puzzled, but expectant, looks on the Brown's faces. They both looked much older, than their real age, somewhere in the mid-thirties. Neither had a steady job, but picked up employment on a random basis. SNAP benefits, or food stamps, and unemployment checks rounded out their subsistence. Without question, they thought they were owed something, and the law firm of Akins and Associates was supposed to get it for them. Why not? They lived in a crime infested trailer park, just outside of North Charleston. This could be their chance to really cash-in and get out. A lot of people had done it, why not them?

"Well, what'a ya think?" Mrs. Brown looked at her frowning husband. "How 'bout we get two million—dat 'bout right." She curled her mouth and chin together, nodding approval.

"Mrs. Brown," Len got out of his chair, and walked over to the window. From the fifth floor window, he could see a portion of historic Charleston SC, and even part of the harbor. There were the huge cranes, working the ships coming in and out. Maybe, he should be down there with the justice department, thwarting and prosecuting terrorists. After all, they jailed them in the Navy Brig, a few miles to the North. As a lawyer, prosecuting major international criminals had been his fantasy. Why not do it? Why? Even if he could make the change at 44 years old, he would make, at best, a third of his current earnings: government benefits notwithstanding. That would crimp a lot of people's life style.

"What?" Both Browns were waiting for the good news.

"Mrs. Brown—Mr. Brown," Len looked at his would-be clients. The words just blurted out. "Do you know the chances of the preverbal 'snowball in hell'?"

Mr. Brown suddenly came to life. "You sayin—we ain't git no money from dis—we wants big money, Mr. Lawyer Man. We been damaged—dat wat dey say—we been damaged."

Mrs. Brown rushed to agree. "God—damn right, dey got to pay up—we wants our money—now."

Len looked back out of the window. He took a deep breath, to keep from escalating the curtness of his rhetoric. His eyes wondered over the parking lot, across the street, where many of the paralegals parked their cars. They would fit very well with his five-year-old Buick Century. In the reserved covered parking deck, on the first floor, his car appeared very much out-of-place, with the BMW's, Mercedes, Cadillac's, etc of his colleagues. He made more money than just a couple, of the other fifteen, or so, personal injury lawyers, in the firm. It did not show up in personal life style. He talked into the window. "You don't have much of a case—in fact—you have no case."

Mrs. Brown exploded at that revelation. "Bullshit—that truck hurt me up bad—dey got to pay-up, now—we needs it."

There was no concern, about Mrs. Brown's commotion disturbing the office. This was not the first time; a potential client became irate, because they were not going to get their way. Len tried hard to keep his composure. He was not sure, whether his feelings had to do with unreasonable expectations, or because he increasingly hated his participation. "Mrs. Brown," Len's voice was benign, but his head was spinning. "You ran into that truck."

"Don't matter." Mrs. Brown was not backing off. "It was in da wrong and has to pay."

"It was parked, Mrs. Brown."

"It were stuck out too far."

"Mrs. Brown," Len came back and sat at his desk. "Here is the Police report, and granted, in South Carolina, you can get around that. But, the truck was parked in a designated loading zone—making deliveries. You hit it—they could sue you. Oh, wait a minute—you were cited for not having any insurance—so, there's no point in that—is there?"

Mr. Brown saw his sudden wealth going up in smoke. "Ain't right—we got damaged—that company wit da truck got dem ah—ah—." "Deep pockets?"

"Yeah—dat—dey can pay up—or we gone sue."

"Ah, Mr. Brown," Len sighed at the hopeless naivety. "Clips is a huge company, with trucks making deliveries all over the country. Don't you understand—they have gone through this a thousand times? They have huge legal resources that will chew-up any frivolous lawsuit."

Mr. Brown was livid. "Same old thing—white man screwin' da black man—same old thing." Len had heard this before, also. "Mr. Brown, your wife is white—."

"Don't matter—same old thing." Mr. Brown was not interested in any relevant facts, which took his mythical fortune away.

"Mr. Brown—your wife has a broken nose and bruises. She was not wearing a seat belt. It was Mrs. Brown's fault. There is no money in it for us, much less a million dollars."

Mrs. Brown was not ready to go quietly, either. "Yeah, you won't do nothing, if'n you don't get paid—you ain't wantin' to do it. Get some of doz experts to ah—ah—."

"Lie?" Len was tired of it. "We don't do that, but you are absolutely right. If there is no money for us, there is no money for you, and that is the point of the whole thing. I'm sorry—there is nothing we can do for you." Len stood up to signify that the meeting was over. "You certainly can try another firm, or you can talk to one of several African-American attorneys in our firm,...