Justice Hunter (36 page)
H
arper Dimmerman grew up and lives in Philly. He’s an adjunct professor at Temple U., a legal columnist and has a law firm.
T
he asphalt on the sultry summer day was finally cooling down. It was only the first week of July and the Northeast had been suffering from one of the season’s inevitable heat waves, when the temperatures soared and records were set as the Earth continued along its accelerated path to man-assisted annihilation.
A group of kids skateboarded around the middle-class suburban neighborhood, daring each other to “get more air” as they jumped a makeshift ramp designed to launch the kids, probably seven or eight years old, into a fleeting moment of euphoria. One bad fall after the other didn’t stop them from doing it again, springing wildly into the air, thrilled merely to have invented a way to do something out of the ordinary with their thrashed boards. Riding the bumpy suburban streets and jumping curbs had gotten old fast for this attention-deficient crowd.
There were about eight or nine of them, slinging the usual jibes and chatting about the typical subjects. The cute girls at school, their hatred for the teachers at the local elementary school, cool music. A few of them went shirtless, having given up on staying cool in the sweltering heat. A heavyset kid with a punk-rock hairdo courtesy of the local Hair Cuttery, seemed to be taking The Ramp of Stupidity the most seriously. It was obvious to Tobias Eakins, who’d been observing the group for the last half-hour or so, that he was the one in the group with something to prove. An obvious outsider trying to fit in.
The tallest boy, sporting a crew cut, bare-chested, a wifebeater stuffed neatly into the waist of his board shorts, egged him on while the others joined in. He was clearly the leader of the pack. He remained on the sidelines, far too wise to risk making a go of it himself. A couple of his underlings, who imitated the leader’s style and mannerisms, were doing the dirty work, ratcheting up the competition, willing to take a token injury. They were like Mafia henchmen.
Tobias’ blood boiled as he looked on, careful to position the rental car away from the glare of the setting sun. He had a clear line of sight that way, while the kids would’ve been blinded by the sun had their stares accidentally wandered in his direction. The initiation rituals of the leader, which would invariably lead to the chunky kid’s getting hurt, hopefully not too seriously, flooded his own disturbed mind with feelings of childhood rejection, bouncing from one foster home to another. Part of him felt like getting out of the silver Camry and taking a baseball bat to the leader’s shaved head. He’d be doing society a favor by eradicating it of a kid destined to become a hero in high school and a miserable failure after that, when his hair began to thin and popularity became a commodity reserved for those with a talent for making money.
Instead he bided his time, waiting for the opportunity to approach Donny McIntyre. Of course he had no way of knowing the kid’s name, the rail-thin one with short red hair, the one whom he had had his eyes set on since he took his Sunday afternoon detour on the way home from Mass.
He fancied himself a devout Episcopalian and rarely ever missed the weekly ritual of penance, except for the rare days when leaving the comfort of the estate proved too burdensome. Tobias was somewhat introverted and prone to bouts of manic depression, which prevented him from functioning and interacting with others. Although he’d purposefully joined a newer and less popular congregation, quite out of the way from his home, any human contact at all was sometimes still too much to bear. The slight inconvenience was well worth it, if only to keep the demons at bay.
Even if he had a bat or better yet, the lug wrench concealed somewhere in the rental’s trunk, he was still restricted by the bulge in his madras Bermuda shorts. Staring at Donny had led to a pleasant and unexpected surprise, something he hadn’t expected to happen so early on. Almost immediately, the boy’s mild disposition had given him an erection, which only grew stronger as he fantasized about deflowering him, his first redhead. The innocence radiating from the child conjured up images of cherubs adorning the church’s stained glass walls, as the music from one of his favorite hymns repeated in his head:
Hark! the loud celestial hymn
Angel choirs above are raising,
Cherubim and seraphim,
In unceasing chorus praising;
Fill the heavens with sweet accord:
Holy, holy, holy, Lord.
As he looked on, he slid his hand over his crotch, letting the sensation register for a moment. He wanted to see if masturbating was worth it. He peered in all directions, then got a quick visual from the side and rearview mirrors. No one. Or at least no one obvious. He never dismissed the idea of a nosy or even voyeuristic neighbor, standing strategically behind a curtain, keeping an inquisitive eye on the block. After finishing his cup of Starbucks coffee, he’d toss various sections of
The New York Times
on the floor of the passenger seat. Perhaps he could use them to conceal himself as he got off. But seeing the loose sheets only reminded him that he needed to move them before he managed to lure Donny to the car. After all, family friends, especially ones relied upon to drive their kids, wouldn’t dare keep a messy car. They were the kind to dress neatly and have everything in order. Give the impression of a conscientious parent, the type a strange child would be willing to trust. Any visual cues that undercut this perception had to be minimized. He’d wait for the perfect time, when a few of the others had disbanded or the excitement of playing daredevils had reached another crescendo. But he still didn’t want the kid to balk, which could always lead to a scene. All the while, he needed signs inside the vehicle to raise suspicions, just to get Red’s heart racing. Enough to get him second-guessing his decision to trust a complete stranger, leading to a healthy dose of adrenaline as panic began to take hold. This was the balance that invariably proved the most difficult part of the process—the form-over-function dilemma.
In the end, he decided to leave the papers where they were. He figured the gesture of moving them to the backseat would create the impression of spontaneity, which might be better, on second thought. Red’s parents got stuck somewhere and he was called in at the last minute for a quick favor, to grab him and bring him to them. They were out doing errands and their car broke down, perhaps.
He grinned smugly, even propping himself up to get a quick glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirror.
Everything is falling into place
, he assured himself, reaching around to unzipper a gym bag on the back seat. Inside, he found a woman’s hairbrush that he’d set on top of the towel and change of clothes. It was his favorite brush, one he’d decided to snatch from his sister Fiona when she was over a couple years ago. Before he ran it through his hair though, he slowly smelled it, letting the faint traces of the sweet Creamsicle odor permeate his nostrils. He tried to use it only once in a while, on special occasions. In fact, he’d toyed with the concept of buying the Frederic Fekkai product she swore by, just to recharge the smell. But he refrained. That wouldn’t have been the same. He couldn’t add to it. Too staged, especially for moments like these when he wanted his sister there with him. The thought of her presence gave him a rush, one which he savored as he fixated on Red and massaged his scalp tenderly with the large, soft bristles. He wanted to make a great first impression. First impressions were everything, as they say. He wanted to look handsome for the encounter. He so much wanted the boy to want him.
T
he author wishes to thank Raahsahn Bowden and Matt Schaeffer for their brotherhood and love, Scott Sigman, Esq. for his virtually immediate criminal law insights (you’ve got to know Scott to understand and the odds are you do) and my crew over at the Philadelphia Bar Association (cats like Kazaras, Tarasiewicz, Seefeld, Lyons and Cirucci before he moved on) for their constant friendship with a practicing lawyer of all people. Cheers.
If it’s not obvious by now,
Justice Hunter
is a product of my wretched imagination. Things like that don’t happen in real life. Right? I could never get in to a large firm when I finally decided to try so a lot of it is old-fashioned guesswork. But the story wouldn’t have been born without this beautiful and dynamic city (my hometown thanks to the world’s best parents), my loyal clients and the Philly legal community, quite the mosaic of colorful characters. You’ll have to trust me on that one.
And last but by no means least, Jimmy Lammendola, Esq., my partner in crime on the columns with the newspaper and the nicest guy this side of the Mason-Dixon. Thanks for putting up with my eccentric ways and introducing me to the wonder of teaching. I will always be indebted to you.