Page 21 of Dance of Devils
“Brooklyn, hi,” he says curtly. It’s his way of starting almost every phone call we’ve ever had—which at this point is, frankly, a lot.
Derrick, my stepfather, has always been one of those guys who just has a way of finding trouble. He’s a not a bad man, and hereallydid try after mom OD-ed and left him to care for me without any help at all.
He worked every odd job, watched YouTube videos to learn how to braid my hair, and kept me safe, clothed, and fed. Well, mostly.
It was the second time I showed up to school with lice, no socks, in clothes thatdefinitelycould have used a wash, and with a sandwich on moldy bread for lunch, that the school called CPS for a wellness check.
Again, Derrick’s not a bad man. And he really did his best for me. But everyone has unlucky days. This was one of Derrick’s.
When they showed up for the wellness check he was high, and in the middle of selling a bag of oxy to some buddies.
To be clear, he was never high aroundme, not that I knew of. But I was sleeping over at a friend’s house that night, and I guess he just felt like he could…unwind.
Bad timing. Bad luck. Bad circumstances. Whatever you call it, that’s the day I went into “the system”.
Since then, Derrick’s bad luck streak hasn’t ever really ended. He’s been in and out of jail a couple of times, mostly for things like petty theft. It was probably so he could eat or keep a roof over his head, still, a crime is a crime.
The last time I saw him, a little over two years ago, he was really turning things around. He was sober, going to meetings, staying in a clean halfway house, and had a good job working for this high-end shop that did aftermarket work and fancy paint jobs onstreet racing cars. He even had a pretty decent-sized envelope of cash for me, which heinsistedI take.
Then, bingo, a month later he was looking at federal grand larceny charges.
And that’s when I met Diego Padilla, Derrick’s lawyer.
The owners of the car shop claimed he’d been selling racing merch out of the back of the shop at night, to the tune of a million bucks. But IknowDerrick didn’t do it. I can hear it in his voice when he calls me on the phone from prison. The owners of the shop saw a guy no one would believe, ran some kind of insurance scam for “stolen parts”, and dumped the whole thing on my stepdad.
The legal system iscruelif you’re poor, and it’s been a spiraling nightmare of bureaucracy, bullshit, and bills ever since. There’s Diego’s fee, because there’s no way I’m letting a public defender decide Derrick’s fate. Forensic accountants. Third party evidence auditors. Witness coaches. The court costs themselves.
It goes on and on. So between themountainsof money I put toward that, and the fact that ballet pays a poverty wage unless you’re one of the superstars, you can see how shaking your ass on a pole for crumpled dollar bills suddenly becomes a viable option.
“Hey, Diego,” I smile wryly. “Long time no talk.”
It’s a joke. I saw him two nights ago, when I gave him that wad of cash for Derrick’s newest forensic accounting expert.
He sighs.
Fuck.
I know that long, drawn-out sigh. It means “You’re not going to like this, and your wallet is going to like it even less.”
“The Gordon brothers’ counsel is claiming our forensic specialist is a nonstarter. He has a criminal record that wasn’t disclosed.”
I blink.
“What??”
“The guy stole a Mets jersey from a store. He was seventeen, but he was charged as an adult.” Diego sighs again. “It’s stupid kid bullshit, obviously, and it was forty fucking years ago. But…their legal counseldoeshave the right to challenge him, since he didn’t disclose it.”
I groan. “Okay, fine. So we get a refund and just use another?—”
“Unfortunately, as soon as he was hired, he took a cursory look at the books. Technically speaking, services have already been rendered.”
My stomach drops. “So…no refund.”
Ten thousand dollars. Gone. Just like that.
“I’m sorry, Brooklyn,” Diego sighs. “Look, I’ve got another guy, and I’ve thoroughly vetted him personally. He’s good, but he’s also fifteen Gs.”
I want to cry.
