CHAPTER 86: COURTROOM CHRONICLES CHAPTER THREE: RAT BASTARDS AND THE FINKS Part 3

AARON

Why God, WHY? Is all I can think as I sit here listening to the male equivalent of Lindsay Peterson. I couldn’t possibly have been such a terrible person in my former life that I now deserve to be punished with this version of Hell. Whatever happened to the days when people took responsibility for their own enormous fuckups and miscalculations? Where have the days gone when a person realized that the best way to beat the system was to STAY OUT of it? 

Instead, I have two clients- no, make that three- who for whatever reason thought that Karma would never come for them, regardless of all the shit they’ve done. I hadn’t even been sitting down a full ten seconds before he started on what he expected to happen. Sound familiar? It should, since his female counterpart had the same notion, which I was all too happy to disabuse her of. And what’s funny is that I haven’t even been able to speak to Claire Kinney to get her side of things as of yet. 

“Are you listening to me?!” Perkins yells at me, at which point I narrow my eyes.

“No. I was waiting for you to run out of hot air. Right now, you just sound like the teacher from the Peanuts cartoons. You know… whomp, whomp, waaaaa, waaa, whomp whomp,” I respond, not even caring how bored or insensitive I might sound. As far as I’m concerned, he’s wasting his breath should he be looking for a sympathetic ear to hear his bullshit reasons. I decide to cut to the crux of the matter. “Mr. Perkins, let me first list the charges against you, and then we’ll have an actual conversation about what you can expect, sans the fantasy of entitlement you’ve managed to think up all by yourself. I can assure you, it will be enlightening.”

“I already told you my expectations!”

“No. Again, I’ll remind you that your expectations are equivalent to fantasies. If you’re interested in becoming a writer, might I suggest sci-fi, horror, or even the dystopian genre, since neither are based in reality… Kind of like your expectations of having the charges dropped, short of you dying. With the evidence against you, the most you can hope for is a reduced sentence in exchange for your cooperation. THAT is the reality of your situation. So let’s start at the beginning, shall we?”

I deliberately open my briefcase, and pull out my legal pad. Honestly, I know all I need to know about this particular client in terms of his motives. The thing I can’t really figure out is why. It’s not that he’s unattractive, or that he couldn’t have found a sugar daddy among his many, MANY clients. But I simply don’t buy the ready-made excuse that he is in love with Brian Taylor-Kinney, who hired him as a part of his boyfriend replacement therapy when he was split-up for a time from his now-husband. 

There has to be more to this, and I think I know just where to begin. Settling myself into the surprisingly comfortable chair the bailiff provided for me, I set my phone to record, as well as poise my pen to write his responses before I ask, “So, what prompted you to begin working at the Pep-N-Pant Escort Agency?”

At first, he blinks at me blankly, as an owl would. I can only assume he wasn’t expecting that to be my first question, since he was arrested after being fired from Kinnetik. I suppose he thought my first question would be when he began conspiring with Gardner Vance, but no. I have to understand how someone with the same upbringing as Lindsay Peterson and Justin Taylor-Kinney ended up selling his ass for money. Call it my curiosity and penchant for getting to root causes, but considering that Lindsay Peterson had even less resources than the Perkins family as a whole, yet never resorted to escorting, Whoring, which is what Lindsay does with an eye towards blackmail and information, is a much different thing. So I really want to understand why this young man felt he had to.

“Look, I needed the money to pay for college once my father kicked me out after a youthful indiscretion during my senior year of high school.”

“What was it?”

“What does that have to do with this case?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at me. I can tell he doesn’t want to answer, but he doesn’t get to hide it from me.

“We need to establish a timeline leading to your initial meeting Brian Taylor-Kinney.”

“His name is KINNEY! Not Taylor anything!”

“Ah, I think I see part of your problem right there.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Denial. The bottom line is that Brian has married Justin Taylor-Kinney, and both have opted to hyphenate their last names. It was THEIR decision to do so; not anyone else’s. What I can’t figure out is why you have a problem with that. It’s not like you ever stood a chance to turn the elder Mr. Taylor-Kinney’s head. You were quite simply the PAID receptacle to slob his knob, not rock his world the way I'm sure you tried to yet failed. The postion of toe-curling orgasmic bliss by the Taylor-Kinneys standards was filled long before you were even on his Pep-N-Pant radar. To put it a little milder, you were the equivalent to vegetarian dessert when a man used to having sugar. You looked good, but you were lacking the same fundamental sweetness he was being served on a regular. However, if I’m inclined to listen to the gossip around town about their relationship, Brian would have confirmed that truth for you through his actions. Did you ever stay longer than the time it took for him to get off?”

At first, I didn’t think he was going to answer. But after a few moments, with an annoyed narrowing of his eyes at me, he did. “No.”

“Did he pay you up front or allow you to keep the delusion that fucking you actually meant more than a means to an end regarding the constant craving he couldn’t satisfy at the time?” His fulminating silence was answer enough, even if he would have liked nothing more than to verbally deny what I said. 

He knew there wasn’t anything he could have said at this moment that I couldn’t refute. So I decided to ask the one question that would cause him to really understand the trouble he’s in. Perhaps it will put things into a clear cut perspective for him, instead of allowing him to keep living on Fantasy Island, mentally. We’ll just call it my small spot of altruism in the hopes it will put me one step closer to seeing God one day. Not saying it will, but hey, even the most jaded and cynical of people have a spot of hope left in them somewhere.

I mean, look at Brian Taylor-Kinney, right? The guy is MARRIED for Christ crackers sake! So I’m just saying, if that’s possible...

I mentally shake myself out of my momentary reverie, in favor of administering a healthy dose of truth to this entitled pain in the ass. Clearing my throat, and shuffling my papers a bit, I say, “According to your former boss, Nate Rochester, you have always attracted the high-rollers for clientele. I suppose it’s the picture-perfect good looks that made it possible for you to do so. You were also putting yourself through college, so it’s obvious you had the ability to make wise decisions in some capacity. So the question is: why did you allow this one man- a man you had absolutely NO CHANCE OF GETTING- to turn you into a jailbird?”

I sit back in my chair, waiting patiently for his answer. I think I know, but well, he has to say it aloud. There isn’t any room for speculation if I’m going to do my job, even if it’s with minimum effort. The trouble- or not, if one was to look at it objectively- is that although I’m a defense attorney, I also have a high moral standard. Whereas I believe that everyone is entitled to due process, I also believe that people should pay for the crimes they are responsible for. 

I don’t believe in slaps on the wrists unless they are truly warranted and the perpetrator is truly remorseful. Those are not the type of people I am dealing with here. No. I’m representing entitled people, those who know right from wrong yet still engage in illegal activities simply because they believe they can’t, or won’t, get caught and punished for their greed and jealousy. Because that’s really what this all boils down to; the If I can’t have it, you shouldn’t either mentality. It’s like they learned the word ‘no’, but deliberately ignored how it’s effectively applied. 

Well, now they will finally get the message of no means NO that should have been delivered with a fist and some Holy water back when they were five!

“You don’t understand…”

“Try me,” I reply, already beyond bored with his forced bravado, and now the canned-ham version of his theatrics. He definitely could be Lindsay Peterson’s twin.

He rolls his eyes at me, before sighing. “Did you ever have to stand idly by while watching someone else get everything you wanted without any effort?”

“Sure. But that’s where understanding that the world does not solely exist to revolve around me and my wants comes into play. It’s about knowing that if you don’t get a certain thing in life, it’s because you’re not prepared for the reality of having it.”

“And you think Justin is?”

I shrug. “Obviously he’s built to handle all that being the beloved of Brian Taylor-Kinney entails.”

“I could have been…”

“No, you could NOT have handled all that those young men have had to go through in order to be together. You would have fallen over faster than a deck of cards if the winds of life blew too hard in your direction. Hell, according to the information I’ve been able to amass on you, you already have, numerous times.”

“Those weren’t my fault!”

“Oh? They weren't? Let me guess… it was your father’s fault, the Hobbs family’s fault, Justin’s fault, the earth being round and still spinning on its axis is also at fault for your bad decisions? It also has to be the fact that the sun rose in the east, and will set in the west as it does every single day, yet all of that is to blame for your piss-poor decisions?” I ask, sardonically and I know the inflection in my voice wasn’t missed by Troy Perkins.

“You’re completely out of line! I ought to f-”

“Fire me? That is what you were going to say, wasn’t it? You could, but you would also have to show just cause why my services proved to be inadequate for your defense. And since my patience with you alone should earn me sainthood, I would certainly advise against popping the cork on that particular genie bottle. The judges for these cases are not in the mood to show an ounce of leniency, especially since they are all tied together in one form or another.” 

“Okay so I’m just supposed to sit here and say nothing as you speak down to me as if you’re some fucking middle Eastern pasha? Well fuck that!”

I take a deep breath, trying to call on my last reserve of patience. Between Troy Perkins and Lindsay Peterson, I find it’s being tested way beyond the limits of all that is reasonable. Once again, I feel I need to lay out some hard truths for him. “You had the information to stop all of this foolishness before it went this far, yet you did nothing. Well, nothing except to keep attempting to reach a new level of assholery, as if you were living in some video game where you get ‘x’ amount of lives to get your schemes right. Which brings the question of why didn’t you? Did Vance promise you something in exchange for your help in sabotaging the Taylor-Kinneys? What were you hoping to gain besides an unpaid invitation back to the former Stud of Liberty Avenue’s bed? And what is your connection to Gary Sapperstein in all of this?”

Bingo! The sharp gasp that left his throat let’s me know he’s more involved in this beyond the Federal charges he’s facing. My nephew said as much this morning when he called to let me know he’d skipped town for a while, but was being safe. He told me he’d tell me the whole story later this evening when he calls me again. Sadly, he could have been Troy Perkins in this scenario if his heart wasn’t so good. But something has him running scared, and I’m determined to find out what it is. 

If it takes breaking this fucker in order to get the information that would allow Tommy to come back home, then so be it. I’ll do my job under the law, but I’ll also be making damn sure that whatever is threatening Tommy is eradicated as soon as possible. If my sister wasn’t already dead, I’d kill her for marrying the asshole who so loved to beat on Tommy while she stood by and did nothing! No wonder he ran away and started working as an escort! I wish…

“I’ll tell you everything you need to know, but you have to get me out of here,” Perkins says, almost brokenly. And yes, I’ll admit that I’m relishing in the fear he’s now projecting.

“You’re going to be held without bail, Mr. Perkins.”

“What? Why?”

“Your track record and ability to hide in plain sight is well known now,” I answer simply. “Considering the high-priced company you were keeping when you worked for Nate Rochester, there’s no doubt you’d be able to turn a trick or two and accumulate some cold hard cash fast in order to skip town. The prosecution is sure to bring that up, and declare you a flight risk.”

“Well, can you at least move me out of this place?”

“No. What the hell do you think this is? The Holiday Inn? You can’t just switch establishments without cause. And according to your file, on paper you look like you were bosom buddies with a few of the accused, both here in the Federal pen as well as the State prisons.”

“Well you’re just full of fucking sunshine, aren’t you?”

I laugh, but there is no humor in the sound. “Yes, I am, but as soon as I’m able to fart rainbows and leprechaun gold I’ll let you know. I’ll truly be magical then, which is what it’s going to take to get you out of the crap you’re in. The only way to exercise at least a modicum of self-preservation is to tell me your story from beginning to end. I'm pretty sure it will read like a bad porn script, but that’s neither here nor there right now.”

After another deep sigh, he begins to unfold his story for me. And let me tell you ladies and gentlemen, if I didn’t want to punch his fucking lights out before, I sure as hell do now. But at least I have a few more names involved in this mess, which will go a long way in keeping my nephew alive and healthy. But first, I have to stop at the District Attorney’s office. I may have to abide by attorney-client privilege regarding my client, but that’s so NOT the case where the rest of the other arrogant fuckers involved in this elaborate plot are concerned. 

Karma is coming for all of them in the form of a catty gay man with an axe as large as the Empire State Building to grind. And if I just happen to be dressed for this monumental occasion like a boss clad in Boss, well… So be it. Just call me a fucking undertaker. Even though, if I had my way right now, I’d rather take on the persona of Dexter Morgan and kill all of them my damn self. Yes, I’m feeling just that murderous as I continue listening to this little bastard metaphorically puke his guts up in exchange for the false sense of hope that I’m going to get him out. 

NOPE! People often say revenge is a dish best served cold, and Baby right now, I’m the fucking Arctic!