The Perfect Stroke (71 page)

1

Tess

I wake up with a migraine and feeling sick to my stomach. That is sign number one. Sign number two is my horoscope warning me I shouldn’t leave the house today. Sign number three is when I go outside to discover my old, beat up, 1990 something model Toyota, sitting on a flat. I’m stressed out already, and it’s only 7 am. I’m all set to call in sick when my boss calls me with his usual song and dance
. I’m sick today Tessa. I really need to take the day off. Clear all my appointments. Make up some excuse for me.
What he really means, is he and his wife are flying to Tahoe for the weekend. I know because Claire, the other secretary, let that little tidbit slip.

When I remind him that Judge Ryson appointed him as counsel in a case that was on the docket this morning, he goes silent. When I inform him it is a parole hearing and can’t be rescheduled, that sick feeling only increases. When he asks me to get Stuart to cover for him, we begin a ten-minute conversation on why Stuart is hopeless and will end up losing the case and destroying a man’s chance for freedom.

I’m not usually so concerned, but his client today is Max Kincaid, and I’m more than slightly obsessed with this case. Max deserves someone who will actually try to get him free.

I shouldn’t be that concerned with this case. I should have kept my fat mouth shut because the next thing I know, Charles, my boss, has volunteered me to go before the parole board and present the case as his proxy.  I try every way in the world to stress that I can’t do it. I point out that Mr. Kincaid was unlawfully put in jail, and he needs a real attorney looking out for him. I might as well have saved my breath. His response was that I know the case better than anyone and Mr. Kincaid would best be served with me, by his side.

“Tess you know the law inside and out. You can do this.” 
Click.
 

That’s the only response I get from my final plea for him to do what the freaking state pays him to do. I really should have quit this job ages ago. I haven’t because I can’t afford to. I would have loved to go on to law school, but I put myself through school to get my paralegal license. There’s no way I can work full time to pay back student loans, and go back to school. 

I was stupid enough to think that I would get a job right out of school. Well, not completely stupid. I did get a job immediately—at McDonald’s and then later at Shoe Warehouse and Dollar Mart.  I had three jobs and still could barely manage to pay rent on my apartment.  It was also an apartment I barely visited, unless it was to collapse on the bed to nap before my next shift started.

I was drowning in debt from school loans and so tired I could barely hold my eyes open.  When I walked into Charles Barger’s, and he offered me a paralegal position, it seemed like the answer to my dreams.

It turned out to be a nightmare.

It does keep a roof over my head though and the damn collection calls down.  That’s what I remind myself of again today, as I put on my big girl panties and suck it up. It’s a parole hearing and on a case I do, in fact, know inside and out. 

I get my tire changed and head to the office, grabbing the files and things I will need for the hearing, then head straight for the federal prison in Ormond. It takes a good hour to drive there, and the hearing is scheduled to start in forty minutes. That’s when yet another sign from the universe falls in my lap, in the form of a speeding ticket.
Fuck my life
!

I try to pay attention to my speedometer the rest of the trip, but it’s hard. My mind is swirling as I go over the facts I need to present to the panel.  My boss wasn’t lying when he said that I knew this case better than anyone. The truth is I’ve been consumed with Max Kincaid’s case. I must have read his file a thousand times. I know it’s not healthy.
I do
. I just can’t seem to make myself stop. I stare at his picture, and something about those dark, inky, onyx eyes call to me.  His features seem familiar, even though there’s no way that’s possible. 

I’ve even memorized his information. Max Kincaid, age thirty-six, date of birth February 11, 1979. Dark black hair, black eyes, and three distinct scars. A small one above his right eyebrow, one on his side from an appendectomy he had as a teen, and one jagged scar on his chest he received in the line of duty as a soldier in the Middle East. Max is a hero, awarded the Purple Heart for heroism in battle when he saved his entire platoon from a mortar attack by driving straight into the line of fire and drawing it away from his men. He had more men offer to stand up for him during his murder trial than the judge would allow to testify.  By all accounts, Max was the golden boy, the man that women loved, and men wanted to be. His downfall came from loving the wrong woman, marrying her, expecting a child with her and then brutally extracting revenge for their deaths.

I lay awake at night recounting the facts of the case, and having my heart hurt for the man who lost so much, because of a decision filled with revenge. Truthfully, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have tried to do the same thing as he did if I were in his shoes. A part of me cheers for him.  That’s why I’m doing this; but find myself a little giddy at the chance to actually meet Max Kincaid and be close to him. 

Claire, my co-worker, likes to joke that I’m halfway in love with the man. If she knew some of the dreams I’ve had, that involve Max, she’d be ready to call the men in white coats.

This is important
. This could be the single most important thing I ever do. Not only will I get to meet the man, but I also get the chance to be the one to right a wrong. Yes, he killed a man, and yes, that is wrong. However, the circumstances of the case, the outstanding character witnesses that testified on his behalf and the fact that he has already served five years of his sentence without a single demerit or mark against him, all combine and tell me he should get parole. Now, if I can just convince the court of that.

I feel strongly that he was wronged. I think I’m supposed to do this.
I’m supposed to be the one to rescue him
. That’s the real reason why I ignore the signs the universe keeps throwing my way. It’s also why I don’t let the fear that floods me when I drive through the prison gates, after checking in at the guardhouse, overpower me.

I go through all of the security points at the main entrance and have my files, purse and items searched. I manage only to be five minutes late, but in the end that doesn’t matter since a couple members of the panel are running behind. That will give me a few minutes to meet with Max…I mean Mr. Kincaid before the hearing and go over our battle plan. 

“Could you have Mr. Kincaid brought down now? I’d like to meet with him before our hearing.”

“You’ll have to wait here until I have the prisoner brought in and settled,” the guard tells me.

“I…okay. That’s fine. I’ll just wait here.” He doesn’t reply and goes out. 

My heart is beating out of my chest.  I need to move past my excitement of getting to meet Max Kincaid and get my mind onto obtaining his freedom for him.  It’s another ten minutes; which only serves to increase my nerves, before the guard comes back and escorts me in.  For a minute, I think I stop breathing. Max is sitting at a table, and if I ignore the orange jumpsuit, he looks even better than he did in his pictures. His black hair is straight and lays lazily on his head, making it look like someone has lovingly run their fingers through it. His dark eyes pin me immediately and with such intensity it takes all I have not to hesitate when walking towards him.  His large hands are lying on the table with chains around them. I know that is normal procedure, but on him it feels wrong.

I don’t know what I imagined our first words would be to each other. In my daydreams of Max, I thought we’d meet, and I’d rescue him and he’d be the
one
. The man who would understand me, who would just…
fit me
. I thought somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind he might recognize that feeling when he saw me for the first time, too. It sounds all kinds of stupid and juvenile and normally I’m not that kind of woman. I don’t know why I am where Max is concerned.

All of those wishes and silly dreams are blown out of the water when his harsh, barking voice rings out and stops me in my tracks.

“Who the fuck are you?”

2

Max

I’ve given up on hope. Hope doesn’t exist. It hasn’t since five years ago when I heard the sound of cold metal slamming shut, and I began my stay at the Ormond County Correctional and Rehabilitation Institution. Hope left that day, and it hasn’t returned. Life took on the dull gray color of the prison itself, and I became a creature who didn’t live. I only existed.

Today is my parole hearing. My fourth to be exact. It doesn’t mean shit. They’re not going to set me free. That doesn’t happen when you kill a man. I don’t give a fuck. I find I don’t give a fuck about anything these days. I haven’t in a long time. I won’t get parole because every time a bunch of stiff-necked suits ask me if I feel remorse for my crime, I laugh.

I killed the man who murdered my wife. She was a whore. I didn’t love her, didn’t even like her.  But I did love the child she was carrying. So I hunted him down, and I squeezed the life out of him with my bare hands. I watched as, bit by bit, the light drained from his eyes and just when he was about to die, I let the pressure off his neck and allowed him to gasp another breath. Then, I did it again. Rinse and repeat until finally I ended the motherfucker. I relished it. I spit on his corpse as I let him fall to the ground. I didn’t feel remorse.
Shit, no
. Instead, I got the first fucking hard on I’d had in months. 

A machine-made sound buzzes and the retracting of my cell door begins. I stand there as Officer Jenkins comes into view. He’s a cocky asshole who gets his kicks out of beating prisoners, just because he can. I tower over him. Hell, I could snap him like a fucking twig. I’ve always restrained but as he looks at me a sneer on his face and spits at my shoes, I can’t help but wonder if two murders would send me to hell quicker? It might be worth the gamble.

“Let’s go, cupcake. Time for you to go and beg for freedom like the candy-ass you are,” he says, grabbing my arm and pulling me in front of him.

I don’t say anything; I don’t even change my facial expression. This piss-ant ain’t nothing to me. If I liked him, even marginally, I’d warn him there is a prison riot and break out planned for today. I might even go one step further and tell him he’s the one Hernandez, and his crew are planning on beating the shit out of. Hell, I’d even warn him about the jagged Coke bottle they had smuggled in and have been fixing up, just for his lily white ass. I don’t. The ass-reaming he’s going to get couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. We walk down a long hall, surrounded by prison cells on each side. I ignore the yelling, questions, and catcalls. I have a reputation as someone you do not fuck with, in this joint. That’s good enough for me.  Hernandez tried to get me to join his crew for the breakout. I didn’t. There’s nothing waiting for me outside these doors.
Not a fucking thing.
 

We make our way to the last set of steel doors, and they slide open as the guard on the other side lets us in. I’m escorted into an elevator where another guard joins us. I forget this one’s name. Byron or something like that, pretty decent guy. I’d warn him, but then he’d feel obligated to stop it, and that wouldn’t be good for me. So I don’t. My conscience has been colored gray like these fucking walls, too. 

The small room where they hold the parole hearings hasn’t changed; neither has the smell. The smell of the prison permeates every inch of the place. If there is one thing I fucking hate the most about this place, it is the stink of it.

I’m placed at a small table that will face the panel. It’s a familiar routine. There will be a bunch of tight assed, fancy dressed assholes, who look as if my presence offends them. Hell, they need to get in line. My presence offends my own damn self. 

I’m waiting for everyone to show up when
she
walks in.

Fucking hell!
Who let her in here?  She walks through the door looking lost.
She is.
She’s a damned baby thrown into an angry tank of sharks. She’s going to get eaten alive. She has hair the color of coffee, creamy and rich. It’s pulled on top of her head and wrapped in a bun. I’m sure it was meant to give her a matronly appearance. It does not. It exposes her neck and makes the beast in me want to bite into it while I bend her over the damn table she just put the briefcase on. She’s wearing black, dress pants that hug her slim thighs and a red silk shirt. I can’t even remember the last time I had sex and one look at her, and my dick is ready to come for days. Come all over her, to be exact. A picture of her buck-ass naked and covered in my jizz, from her thick apple lips to her fuck-me stilettos, cements in my mind.

“Who the fuck are you?” I bark at her, annoyed at the way my dick is standing at attention.

“I…I’m Mr. Barger’s paralegal,” she stumbles, her eyes widen in surprise, with a healthy dose of fear mixed in when she looks at me.

“Who the fuck is Mr. Barger?” I ask, doing my best to ignore the way her shirt exposes the mounds of her breasts when she bends over to look through her papers.

“Your lawyer, he was unavoidably detained. I’m here to stand in…”

“I don’t have a fucking lawyer!”

“The court appointed Mr. Barger to appear on your behalf.  Now, if you’ll give me just a few minutes, we can get started. There are some things I’d like to go over with you before I address the panel.”

“I don’t want you addressing the panel,” I respond, and when it appears like she’s going to argue with me, I look at the guard who stayed to monitor me.  “I don’t want her talking on my behalf. I want her
gone
.”

“Really Mr. Kincaid, if you would just…”

“Lady, my name is Max or Inmate number 91428, not Mr. Kincaid.”