Chapter Twenty-Two
Addie
Sam and I slide into David’s truck. My thigh is planted next to his, sittin’ country, as Quiche would say. He wears a navy sweatshirt that has a gold M, the insignia for the University of Michigan, stitched on the front.
“Thanks for the lift, babe.” I turn my head to kiss him, and my nose twitches. He smells like me.
Reading my mind, he laughs. “I know, I know. I ran out of shampoo. I’m sure yours costs a king’s ransom, so I’ll replenish my generic at the drugstore while you guys are in your meeting.”
We fasten our seat belts as he heads north toward Woodward and Grand Boulevard. An early-morning rain washed the patina of decay away from the streets, and the sidewalks are wet, shining like silver. Scattered, low-hanging clouds resemble dandelions trembling in a breeze. They hover in the sky, the palest of blues, pooling into and reflecting away from the Renaissance Center’s mirrored facade.
The RenCen, a group of interconnected skyscrapers, is world headquarters to General Motors. Last summer the GM logo was modernized, and “Reflecting a New Detroit” was introduced as the tagline. The buildings tower in the horizon, sparkling like crystals, commanding our attention in the distant sky.
We drive past one of the century-old churches lining the street. Grief-stricken angels, with their elegiac contours, and fierce, winged gargoyles, with their ragged stares and outstretched tongues, stand as sentinels at the entrance. A stained-glass window catches a ray of light, scattering a rainbow of hues across the damp street. The three of us are quiet, in awe before our city, which seems to stagger beneath this surfeit of beauty.
David stops in front of Tory and Wally’s office, located in an area known as the New Center. Sam hops from the truck, but I linger next to David as it idles.
“It’s hard letting you out of my sight, baby girl. Every time I think of that afternoon . . .” His face flushes, and his lips curl in disgust. “Damn it all. I should have been there to protect you.” He slams his fist against the steering wheel, and I take his hand.
“Silly. You were working. Are you offering to be my bodyguard?”
He nuzzles his nose into my neck. “If something ever happened to you, I couldn’t go on.” His words are muffled. It tickles and I giggle, pushing him away.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me.” Squeezing his hand, I smile into his eyes. “I promise.”
“Give me a call when you’re done. Man.” He swipes his bangs away from his eyes. “I can’t wait to hear how everything’s shaking out.”
I slide out of the truck to join Sam.
We take the elevator to the twentieth floor, and the doors open into one massive room. The entire floor is their office. Decorated in the style of chic, vintage Motown, the decor reflects the couple’s love of Detroit. Office chairs and sofa upholstery, as well as luxurious draperies, are designed in custom fabrics of royal purple, burgundy, gold, and black, and reflect the glamour of an era gone by. Framed albums of the Rolling Stones and magazine covers from Life adorn the walls, celebrating the spirit of the city.
“Your office is fabulous.” Dazzled by the opulence, I turn in a slow circle, trying to absorb every detail. “Motown’s my favorite era of Detroit history.”
A Detroit-based record company in the late fifties coined the name Motown, a combination of motor and town. The significance of the label was that it was African American owned, and it integrated popular music with soul.
“Our hope is that while doing business in our office, our clients don’t forget they’re in Detroit, and how fabulous our city was”—Tory sweeps her hand across the skyline, set in enormous windows—“how fabulous our city is.”
“No doubt,” replies Sam, walking to the wall to the left of the window, which is lined with vintage 45 records encased in acrylic. “Temptations, Four Tops, Spinners, Jackson Five . . . oh, you’ve got a couple of Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. They’re my favorite.”
Humming the tune to “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” she walks to the next record and studies it, wearing such a mouth-splitting grin her dimples appear to be bullet holes in her cheeks. Placing one hand on her hip, she swirls around to Tory, Wally, and me and thrusts her outstretched palm toward us. She sings the title phrase from the song, “Stop! In the Name of Love.”
“Sorry,” she says, tossing back her hair, her eyes sparkling. “I couldn’t resist.”
“You can’t imagine how many of our clients have that exact reaction when they see the forty-five.” Wally turns to his wife. “But no one to date has belted it out like Sam. Perhaps you missed your calling.” Sam’s cheeks become pink at his compliment. Uh-oh, don’t give the girl an inch.
“The song was number one on the Billboard chart once upon a time,” Tory muses.
I smile. “I’ve always loved the Supremes. Diana Ross reigns forever as queen of Motown. She’s still smokin’ hot today. Too bad she left The D for LA.”
Wally joins Sam, stands by her side, and directs her to the next series of records on the other side of the window.
“Ah yes, the sixties. Tory and I cut our teeth on Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye. An era of crossing bridges and making history. The music broke all of the nonsense down. Racial tension melted away every time Eddie Hendricks’s voice filled the stage. That man could sing like an angel.”
Tory turns to me. “Wally must have been his biggest fan. Still is,” she explains, love captured in the glow of her eyes. “When I first laid eyes on my husband, we were in our second year of law school at Wayne State. It was the early nineties. Our first date he took me to Fonte d’Amore for dinner. I remember the dish we shared, Spiedini alla Romano, made with fresh mozzarella.” She catches my eye, raises her brows. “Like you and Sam, they made everything from scratch. I was sad to see it go.”
She walks over to her husband, takes his hand, and squeezes it. “And you were so handsome. You looked just like Eddie, minus the beard. And, oh, that smile. A smile just like his.” Her eyes mist as she gazes at her husband. “You may have gained a belly—must be those gooey Italian cheeses you devour—but you still have that smile.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere. But I did resemble him, didn’t I?” He studies his wife thoughtfully, rubbing his chin, as if remembering their early years. They must have been good to them. Tory and Wally pull up chairs and place our file on the coffee table.
“Less intimidating than a desk, right?” She opens the folder.
Sam and I take a seat, joining them.
“Encouraging news regarding your linen man,” Tory says, settling into her seat. “The court denied him bail. Turns out he said he was going to use the girl as ransom to extort money from Welcome Home.”
“Money? Good luck with that.” Remembering that monstrous hand grabbing Sun Beam’s small shoulder, I feel a wave of acid well up from my gut. “I think he had more than extortion on his mind.”
“He said you ladies put a hex on him. And he was owed.” Wally’s eyes crinkle in incredulity. “In all our years of practicing law, we’ve never had a client accused of witchery.”
“Have you ever been around when our hot sauce was delivered?” I ask.
“You mean Jessie’s Hellfire and Redemption?”
“That’s the one,” I reply.
“We love the product,” Tory says. “It’s delicious. I stir it into the Root Vegetable Soup I always order.” Her eyes glaze over and then wander to the ceiling. “There’s this one flavor Wally and I try to pinpoint. It’s a flavor we’ve never before tasted. Tangy, spicy, and ethereal. Just like the name suggests.” Her eyes refocus and return to meet mine. “But, no, we haven’t met the woman who makes it.”
“Well, you’d remember Jessie. She can be a bit intimidating.” I exchange glances with Sam. “When Earl said we’d better watch our backs, Jessie was there and came to our defense. She may have said something about a curse, but believe me, she wouldn’t hurt a flea.” I’m doubtful my last statement is accurate, but it seems to be the thing to say at the moment.
“These days the courtroom doesn’t place credence on curses and hexes. This isn’t a Salem witch trial.” A smug tug pulls at the corners of Tory’s crimson mouth. “First, we’ll try settling out of court. If not, fingers crossed, let’s hope David Swartz will be our judge. He’ll laugh Earl out of the building.”
“Settling out of court? For what he did?”
“Settling a potential civil suit out of court would have no bearing on a criminal case. It wouldn’t even be admissible in one. No worries, ladies. When it’s all said and done, attempted kidnapping will translate to a significant amount of jail time. But we’ll see. The man’s likely deranged.” Tory taps her pen on a legal pad. “If he’s found to be legally insane, he’ll likely be found not guilty by reason of insanity, and hospitalized.”
“Given hospital time? He can’t get away with this.” I turn to Sam, grinding my jaws together. I swivel to face the lawyers. “Maybe he’s not crazy, after all.” My neck dampens as heat flushes through my body. “He’s simply evil to the core.”
“After the preliminary examination,” Wally continues, “the judge determines if there’s enough evidence for the case to go to trial.”
“When will that be?”
“Not for several months. Sentencing follows three weeks later.”
Sam stiffens, and the blue in her eyes seem to darken, taking on a hunted look. “Earl belongs under the jail, not in it.” Memories from that day haunt her just as much as they do me.
Wally clears his throat. “I’m reasonably confident he’ll receive the maximum sentencing. We’ll keep you posted.” He turns to his wife. “Shall I continue?”
“May as well. Gives them another reason to celebrate.”
“Turns out the whole of Detroit is not out to get Addie and Sam Jaworski.” He gives a thumbs-up. “Just one company. And only three people within said company—all folks with whom you’re familiar.”
I pull on Sam’s sleeve, and we lean in to hear more.
“When investigating the Twitter case,” he says, straightening his glasses, “we knew Brett and the electrician were brothers. But get this. Earl’s their first cousin.”
I glance at Sam, my mouth falling open. She cranes her neck toward Wally. “Come again?”
“Turns out they’re members of a notorious Detroit family. Their company operates out of a warehouse on 8 Mile. The operation serves as an umbrella corporation for a group of small businesses catering to the needs of restaurants. You may have heard of it. Restaurant Equipment Leases and Services.”
“I have,” Sam says, speaking quickly. “Before we opened, I looked up the business online. That’s where we found the electrician.” She nods at me. “You know, Brett’s brother. He works for the company. I also considered leasing a cooler from them, but their prices were absurd. I can’t imagine anyone renting equipment from that place.”
“Apparently, people anxious to expedite getting a liquor license for their establishment,” Tory says. She clears her throat and continues. “They’ve ties with the Alcoholic Beverage Control agency. They also have connections for obtaining code compliance certificates and are pros at fabricating bogus permits. That’s the part of their business—the most lucrative part of their business—not advertised. The operation is quite familiar with the inside of a courtroom, I can assure you. And surprise, surprise.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Their enterprises also include a linen company.”
With a start, my hand flies to my mouth. “Oh God. Linen Express.”
Tory nods. “Normally the linen company wouldn’t have approached the diner to solicit business. You’re small potatoes compared to their other clients.”
“The company boss couldn’t have cared less about you,” Wally adds. “He had no idea what his nephews were up to. In fact, the last thing he wants is additional scrutiny via litigation. But the three men took your review on Angie’s List personally. It pissed them off so much they decided to mess with you. In as many ways as they could think of. I imagine they had a grand time.” He puffs out his cheeks. “Until ol’ Earl got out of hand.”
“So how can you prove that Brett was our troll?”
“We secured a crucial bit of evidence that links him to the defamation of Welcome Home,” Tory says.
“It’s the most important piece in the puzzle,” Wally adds. “I had a hunch some of those tweets could have been made from the man’s office at work. As part of discovery, we were allowed to subpoena the hard drives from the computers he used at the warehouse.” Tory nods at her husband in admiration.
“You can subpoena a hard drive?” I ask.
“In certain matters of civil disputes, yes,” Tory says. “We believed it would have been tricky subpoenaing his personal PC—invasion of privacy, and so on and so forth. But not computers from his office. Fortunately, he doesn’t own the equipment. It’s all owned by the corporation. Usage is not the same thing as ownership.”
“As a rule,” Wally continues, “we can seek material regarding any nonprivileged matter pertaining to our claims. The court allows this as long as it’s reasonable and will lead to the discovery of admissible evidence.” His fingertips drum the tabletop. “The hard drive was imaged. A computer forensic expert inspected the files and shared what was relevant to our case. And certain juicy morsels of those files, my fine young women, are our smoking gun.” Leaning back in his chair, he takes a deep breath, as if to savor the moment.
“Bravo,” Sam says, clapping her hands in glee. She grins at me. “Of all the diners, in all the towns, in all the world, the two most brilliant lawyers walk into ours.”
“Oh, please,” Tory says, wagging her finger at us. “Payback is a wonderful thing. We’re having the time of our lives. Attempted kidnapping is one thing,” she continues, her voice growing serious. “But with online defamation, we’re treading terrain in a brave new world. And we’ve only just begun.”
Her eyes harden. “The bad news is that in the end it’s unlikely your troll will get the justice he deserves. Maybe a fine, at best.” She shrugs. “Who knows? But the good news is their family name will, once again, be dragged through the mud. Especially in the kidnapping case.” She leans back in her chair, stroking her neck while looking at the ceiling. “Maybe one day we’ll be able to bring the company down. I shudder to think of what that family has gotten away with through the years.”
“What about Gary?” I nod at Sam. “We’re worried he may have violated parole getting involved in the fight.”
“Please let Gary know that while he’s on parole his involvement may be subject to parole board review,” Wally says. “But since he helped stop a crime, it would be extremely unlikely that his behavior would result in a violation.” He knits his hands behind his neck and puffs out his chest, stretching his upper back.
Sam smiles. “Gary said he’d take a life sentence if it meant saving Sun Beam and Hero.”
“You should warn your staff they’ll likely be called in as witnesses,” Wally says. “Most certainly you two. This could be going on for months.”
“No worries,” I say, dreading the thought of having to see the Cyclops again. I now understand how Sylvia must have felt when she testified against her pimp. I nod at Sam. “We’re not going anywhere.” Her eyes flicker at me nervously as she clasps and unclasps her hands. I shake my head incredulously. “All of this stemmed from my giving that dude a bad review on Angie’s List? Everything I wrote about his work was the truth. I wasn’t being nasty or vindictive, just relating my experience. People need to be warned. But everything he wrote about us was a lie.”
She looks at me, smiling sadly. “It’s OK, Addie. It all makes sense. It was their form of payback.”
This is too much to wrap my brain around. I’ll have to assimilate it later. I’m ready to put this conversation to bed. I sigh, my shoulders sinking as I turn back to the attorneys.
“When you dealt with the contract, you said your time would be pro bono. That was so generous of you. But since you’ve taken on the troll and Earl, we aren’t comfortable with that arrangement anymore.”
“Addie,” Wally says, removing his glasses and leaning toward me to peer into my eyes. “You must understand. As we’ve told you many times, you two have sparked an energy that’s revitalizing the East Side. Tory and I want to be on that train when it pulls into the station.” He places his palm over Tory’s hand. “This is sport for us. Why deny us the many pleasures life has to offer?”
Tory smiles, nodding in agreement with her husband. I shrug, holding my hands helplessly in the air.
“We’ll be seeing you often in the coming months,” Tory says. “You should be proud of yourselves. We’ll all have a fine time sweeping up the mess in this city.”
Relief runs through my body at the thought of these nightmares at last being resolved. I smile at Sam, in an attempt to catch her eye. She doesn’t seem to notice. Her face is flushed, and she appears uneasy, her fingers raking through her hair. Then she reaches for her bag, making a great effort to look for something.
This behavior’s not characteristic of my cousin. She’s the one who’s carefree, the one who’d normally be jumping up and down in glee, practically airborne at this point. What’s up with her?