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“But for today, sir, you have nothing?”
“That’s right, Your Honor,” the ADA said.
“Then you give me no choice but to grant Miss Ward’s request and drop the charges against her client.”
“But Your Honor…” Lane tried. Naomi actually felt sorry for the guy. His boss was going to fry his ass.
“No buts, Mr. Lane. Do you have any other compelling evidence to present?”
“I have a DEA agent that was working the case who will testify.”
The judge briefly read over the files in front of him. “I see that. An Agent Dillon. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I have no choice.” The judge looked about as happy as the ADA regarding the decision he was being forced to make. “You know you can’t present a case without evidence, Mr. Lane, and one DEA agent does not evidence make. Mr. Styles?”
Ayden stood up, along with Naomi, and the judge said, “The charges of drug trafficking brought against you by the State of Texas are hereby dropped, and you are released without prejudice. Stay out of trouble.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Naomi and Ayden both spoke at the same time.
“Buy you a drink, counselor?” Ayden asked her.
Not in this lifetime. “No, thank you. I’m still working. Ayden… stay out of trouble.”
“Always, Naomi. Always.”
Naomi packed her things into her briefcase, trying not to let her disappointment show. In a way, she was glad she was being spared having to sit through a trial with Ayden. But she also realized the huge injustice that had just occurred. Ayden deserved to be behind bars. Just as she decided the worst part of the day was over, the assistant district attorney approached her, and the rest of her day rapidly went to hell.
Samuel Dillon waited in one of the conference rooms with the director, who had yet to leave his side. Ayden Styles had been Sam’s collar, and he had been subpoenaed to testify this week. They had sat in that stuffy room most of Monday, just to be told the trial had been postponed until Tuesday. Now they sat and waited again.
On Monday, Sam had to go outside every so often to smoke. The director went with him the first time, but after that, he told Sam, “Smoke out here by the window so I can see you.”
Sam knew that he didn’t have a right, but he was still pissed about being treated like a child. “Can I stop and take a piss on my way?” he had asked him.
The director gave him a look that both acknowledged the question and warned him off the sarcasm in his tone. He allowed him his bathroom break.
Tuesday, Sam had automatically parked himself underneath the tree outside the window. It was nice there, anyway. At least he wasn’t behind bars. That knowledge was sweeter than anything he could smoke.
Brownsville, Texas
Tuesday, 9:00 A.M.
Corbett parkedStella outside of a bar in Brownsville. His escort for the trip, a three-hundred-pound guy named Mick, parked his hog next to him. While Corbett had been in lock-up, he’d told Ayden he was tired of being a Nomad. He wanted to be part of a group. Ayden told him he had something new in the works. He was sending a guy out to Brownsville on Tuesday, and if Corbett really wanted to prove himself, he could go along. That, and the fact they were meeting with “a bunch of Mexicans,” was as much information as Ayden would give him. He told him his boy Mick would contact him with the details. Corbett had gotten a call from Mick on Monday night, and they arranged to meet the next morning.
Mick was even less forthcoming with information than Ayden had been. Corbett had no idea why they were meeting with the Mexicans, but he knew it wasn’t good. As they entered the bar, Corbett instantly had his guard up. It was so small and creepy it couldn’t even call itself a dive. Corbett wasn’t a fan of confined spaces, and with a capacity of twenty that now held thirty plus Mick, it was hard to breathe. When you coupled that with being the only two white faces, and with swastika tattoos to boot, Corbett had to hope this wasn’t going to be the last place on Earth he remembered when he reached the pearly gates.
Mick sauntered in like he owned the place and bellied up to the bar. It was too crowded for Corbett to step up, so he hung back slightly, making sure he didn’t put his back to the crowd.
Mick looked at the bartender and said, “Pablo Lopez?”
The bartender pointed at a sheltered booth in the back of the room, which, given the size of the bar, wasn’t that far away. Mick started towards it, and Corbett followed. The thin wooden divider meant they couldn’t see who was sitting in the booth until they got there, but when they reached the table, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. At least, not for this place. A young man in the center, probably Pablo, was accompanied by three other men. They wore white T-shirts, jeans, and dark blue bandanas. The guy on Pablo’s right had a tattoo on his neck that read:Enrique. Corbett hoped that was his name, and not the name of his last cellmate.
“Pablo Lopez?” Mick said again.
The man in the center stood up and asked, “Ayden?”
“I’m Mick, and this here’s Caleb. Ayden sent us.”
