Forty Acres: A Thriller Read online

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  To the loving memory of my mother, Barbara Ann Lewis

  When I told her I wanted to make movies she bought me a Super 8 camera.

  When I told her I wanted to be a writer she bought me a word processor.

  When I told her I dropped out of college to chase a dream . . .

  She yelled at me and told me to get a job.

  Then she did everything she possibly could to help me catch that dream.

  Thanks, Mom.

  PROLOGUE

  Louis Ward walked across the Green Hill Mall parking lot in Southdale, Minnesota, reading the back cover of the Seinfeld: The Complete Series DVD box set that he had just purchased.

  He did not notice the black van with dark tinted windows creeping up behind him.

  Louis, who sported a T-shirt bearing the Seinfeld logo, was a huge fan of the show. So was his wife of nine years, Becky. Unfortunately, when the $250 box set was released seven years ago Louis was between jobs and they couldn’t afford to splurge. They continued to watch the reruns on TV, of course, but what they really wanted were all those fun DVD extras. Today the Seinfeld box set was rereleased, slimmer and less expensive, and Louis had promised Becky that he’d pick it up after work so they could watch it tonight. Both he and Becky were Irish Catholics. Neither one of them had ever been to New York City, so they had little in common with the characters in their favorite show, but that didn’t matter. Louis and Becky both agreed that Seinfeld was the funniest show ever, period. Funnier than Lucy or The Honeymooners or any of those old black-and-white shows that people loved to bring up whenever Louis raved about Seinfeld. Those shows were great, sure, but Seinfeld was in a class by itself. Louis even credited Seinfeld with saving his marriage. When he and Becky went through that weird year of too little sex and too many fights, their shared love of Seinfeld kept them together when most couples would have just given up. For that reason alone, Seinfeld held a special place in Louis’s heart.

  Unfortunately for Louis, his Seinfeld obsession would be a contributing factor in the nightmarish turn that his life was about to take.

  As Louis reached his beat-up old Honda Civic and fished for his keys, he noticed the black van easing to a stop in the lane. Despite the vehicle’s opaque tinted windows, Louis paid no particular attention to the battered old vehicle. He just assumed it was some guy waiting to take his space. Sure, there were plenty of available spaces nearby, but some people were real particular about where they parked their car. Go figure.

  Then Louis saw something crazy.

  The side door of the van flew open and two men wearing ski masks rushed toward him. Louis only had time to think, What the hell? before the two men were on top of him. One of the men jabbed Louis in the chest with a stun gun. Louis shuddered as six million volts of electricity coursed through him. Another piercing jolt and suddenly the world spun and went dark.

  The masked men tossed an unconscious Louis into the back of their van, slammed the door shut, and sped away.

  Two hours later a Green Hill Mall security guard would cruise by and notice a beat-up old Honda with its driver’s side door hanging open. And even stranger, an unopened copy of Seinfeld: The Complete Series lying on the ground beside it.

  CHAPTER 1

  Martin Grey stared out the backseat window at the crowd of reporters on the Foley Square Courthouse steps as the driver pulled the Lincoln Town Car to a stop. Martin watched as the first few newsmen noticed his arrival and bolted over, pursued by the rest. He watched as they swarmed around his car, tapping the windows, shouting questions, flashing their cameras. A pair of uniformed NYPD officers worked to hold back the mob, but they weren’t doing a great job.

  Martin couldn’t believe it. The small civil rights lawsuit that he had begun working on two years ago had blown up into the biggest case of his career. And today was the finale. The closing arguments. Martin’s last chance to sway the jury and win justice for his client—not to mention a hefty payday of $25 million.

  “Want me to try around the back?” the driver asked.

  Martin shook his head. “No. There’ll just be twice as many back there. This is fine.” Martin grabbed his briefcase and reached for the door.

  “Good luck, brother,” the driver said.

  Martin couldn’t help smiling when the driver called him “brother.” Actually, they did look a little like genuine siblings. The driver appeared to be in his early thirties, like Martin. They were both average height with average builds. Even their neat, short-cropped hairstyles were similar. Martin noted that on the surface the only striking difference was that one gripped a steering wheel and the other a briefcase. Well, Martin was dressed a little sharper too.

  Martin didn’t see the driver’s use of the label “brother” as a lack of respect, as some men in his position might. Martin took it instead as a sign of solidarity between two black men—something that Martin thought was sorely lacking in the African American community.

  Martin slapped a ten-dollar tip into the driver’s hand. “I work too damn hard to rely on luck,” Martin said, “but today I’ll take all the help I can get.”

  CHAPTER 2

  As Martin stepped out of the Town Car, the reporters closed in like vultures.

  “Do you really think you have a chance against Damon Darrell?”

  “Is it true Darrell offered you a last-minute deal?”

  “Is Darrell the toughest attorney you’ve ever faced?”

  There it was. The reason this case had skyrocketed into the media stratosphere. Damon Darrell, superstar attorney, jet-setter, and minor celebrity, was the opposing counsel. Every case that the flamboyant yet brilliant Darrell touched turned into a media circus. Especially a case like this.

  Martin’s client was suing his employer of twenty years, Autostone Industries, the largest manufacturer of automobile tires in the world, for blatant acts of racial discrimination. Several of these incidents had been caught by security cameras inside the main factory. One video clip actually leaked and went viral on YouTube. The evidence seemed insurmountable, but in a shrewd maneuver Autostone retained not just a brilliant attorney but a brilliant African American attorney to mount its defense.

  The press ate it right up; the irony was just too delicious to resist. And with Darrell fanning the flames with outrageous comments and courtroom antics, the crowd of reporters outside had exploded into a frenzied mob.

  Martin knew that until he tossed the reporters a bone, they would make it difficult for him to pass. He paused and turned to face a cluster of lenses and microphones. “I’d prefer to reserve my comments for today’s closing arguments. Thank you.”

  As Martin continued toward the entrance, a man shouted above the rest. “Better make your case out here, Grey, because inside you’re going to get crushed.”

  Martin recognized that voice. He glanced back and spotted an impeccably dressed black man standing just outside the crush of reporters, flashing a familiar sly grin. The newsmen were so busy hounding Martin that they hadn’t noticed Damon Darrell looming behind them.

  Damon Darrell was about Martin’s height and only eight years Martin’s senior, but his patented supreme confidence made him seem taller and shrewd beyond his years.

  Martin watched the reporters turn in unison to focus their electronics on the naturally telegenic Damon.

 
“Are you going to win, Mr. Darrell?”

  “What’s your confidence level, Mr. Darrell?”

  Damon raised his hands to stifle the barrage of questions like a holy man beckoning his flock to order. “I only have one comment and that’s for Mr. Grey.”

  Martin stood his ground as Darrell marched up the steps, cutting through the mob of riveted reporters, and squared off with him.

  “Be careful today,” Damon warned. “I still have a few surprises for you.”

  “Of course you do,” Martin answered. “Why would today’s sideshow be different from any other day?”

  As the reporters laughed, Martin noticed the devilish smile on Damon’s face, the way Damon’s eyes twinkled with the glee of a man who feeds on confrontation.

  Damon stepped even closer to Martin and laid a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Today I bring out my big guns. That’s what’s different, Mr. Grey.” Then Damon continued up the marble steps and disappeared into the courthouse.

  As the surrounding reporters clamored for a response, Martin could hear only Damon’s warning echoing over and over in his head. Sure, Martin realized that Damon’s posturing was just an act for the cameras, a shtick to nurture his legend, but there was still an intimidating air about the man. After all, behind all his shenanigans and theatrics, Damon Darrell was one of the best legal minds in the world.

  CHAPTER 3

  Damon wasn’t kidding about bringing out the big guns.

  After Martin’s concise twenty-five-minute summation, the entire courtroom sat enthralled as Damon Darrell delivered a closing that rivaled a one-man Broadway show. For ninety minutes he paced, pantomimed, and employed slick multimedia enhancements to underscore key moments.

  Throughout the seven-day trial, instead of attempting to downplay the video evidence, Damon had embraced it. He argued that instead of filing a timely complaint, the plaintiff endured the abuse in view of the cameras with the intent of concocting a fat, juicy lawsuit. After summing this argument up in his closing, Damon drove home his case with a final statement designed to stick in the jury’s mind. “Mr. Watson wasn’t denied his civil rights,” Damon said with a chuckle. “He’s here trying to cash them in.”

  Laughter erupted, which the judge silenced with a sharp strike of his gavel.

  Retaking his seat, Damon flashed Martin a smile that said, Let’s see you top that, kid.

  Martin knew Damon was right. How in the world would he be able to follow such a phenomenal presentation? Martin could stick to the standard point-by-point rebuttal, as planned, but in the wake of Damon’s fireworks he’d just bore the jury.

  “Mr. Grey.” The judge stared down from the bench. “It’s eleven forty-five. Would you like to begin your rebuttal now or wait until after lunch?”

  Even as the judge said it, Martin realized that this had to be another part of Damon’s strategy. Eat up the clock so that Martin would have to wrestle with the lunch break. With only thirty minutes until noon Martin had two choices. He could deliver his rebuttal after the break when the jury, drowsy from full bellies, would be less attentive, or he could ask the judge to postpone lunch until he finished. Not a great choice either, because the jury would blame him for their sore butts and growling stomachs.

  Martin’s suspicion was confirmed when Damon suddenly stood up and addressed the bench. “Your Honor, if Mr. Grey would like to push back lunch so that he can deliver his closing, I’d be more than happy to comply—although my stomach might be less forgiving.”

  Laughter filled the courtroom and Martin could see that annoying smirk on Damon’s face.

  The judge turned to Martin. “Mr. Grey, how would you like to proceed?”

  Martin was backed into a corner. The wrong decision now could do serious damage to his case. A case that, despite Damon’s best efforts, Martin felt was leaning in his client’s direction.

  “Mr. Grey, I need a decision.”

  Martin had an idea. It was risky, but after weighing all the options he was pretty sure it was his best play. Only one thing made him hesitate. This was a high-profile trial. The world was watching. If his ploy didn’t work, it could ruin his career.

  “Mr. Grey!”

  Martin stood up. “I’m ready to proceed now, Your Honor.”

  “Are you requesting a postponement of lunch?”

  “No. That won’t be necessary.”

  The judge looked surprised. So did Damon.

  Glancing at the clock, the judge warned, “You now only have fifteen minutes. Are you sure, Mr. Grey?”

  A troubled murmur rippled through the gallery. Mr. Watson could sense something was wrong and shot Martin an anxious look. Martin reassured him with a confident nod, then turned back to the judge. “Absolutely sure, Your Honor.”

  “Very well. Proceed.”

  Martin could feel every eye in the courtroom staring as he approached the jury box. The textbook would tell you to smile when you approach the jury. Look friendly. Martin did the exact opposite. He paused and looked each juror straight in the eye. Not in anger but in extreme seriousness. A stern look that said, No more fun and games. When Martin finally spoke, his voice was firm and authoritative. A voice that could not be denied.

  “My colleague took an hour and a half to try to convince you of what he claims was in my client’s mind. Something we can never know for sure. But what we do know for sure, what even Mr. Darrell agrees with, is that the video evidence clearly shows that my client, Mr. Watson, was a victim of repeated racial bias. I don’t need an hour and a half because the truth is plain to see. You know what justice requires of you. Thank you.”

  As Martin strode back to his seat, he noticed that Damon’s ever-present smirk had vanished, replaced by an expression he had never seen on his opponent’s face before—uncertainty.

  That was all the reassurance Martin needed.

  CHAPTER 4

  The party filled the Jamaica, Queens, storefront law offices of Grey and Grossman. For nearly three years, Martin and his partner, Glen Grossman, had shared the cramped space with the two clerks they employed. With all the file cabinets and stacks of file boxes piled ceiling-high, there was never enough room, but on that glorious night, Martin’s friends, family, and colleagues drank champagne and danced around the tiny space as if they were inside a ballroom.

  Printed headlines from law blogs and news websites papered the peeling walls.

  “Autostone Defeated in Key Race Discrimination Case.”

  “Autostone to Pay 25.5 Million for Civil Rights Violation.”

  “Storefront Attorney Slays Corporate Giant.”

  Martin, nursing a beer, stood back from the festivities in a fog of disbelief that had persisted since he watched the jury deliver the verdict. Martin had always believed he could win, but considering his legendary opponent, there had inevitably been a cloud of doubt. Still, Martin had pulled it out. He’d outfoxed the fox in front of the whole world and now nothing would be the same. His voicemail was already full with dozens of requests for television interviews. The publicity would attract bigger clients, not only for him but for Glen as well. Yes, sir, Martin thought, the clouds had cleared and now he could see forever. And forever looked pretty good.

  “Why are you hiding in the corner?”

  Martin turned and saw Glen Grossman approaching with his wife, Lisa, in tow. Both were holding drinks and were a little tipsy.

  “This is all for you, amigo,” Glen said. “You should be out there celebrating.”

  “I’m just taking it all in. You know, savoring the moment. Besides, this party isn’t just for me.” Martin wrapped an arm around Glen. “This is for us, partner. This is going to blow up Grey and Grossman, big-time. I hope you’re ready.”

  Lisa chuckled. “Oh, he’s ready all right. I just caught him at his computer searching for new office space on Craigslist.”

  Martin laughed. Yeah, that was Glen all right. Big dreams and an endless supply of energy to turn them into reality. Martin had met Glen while attending
the NYU School of Law. Martin was an African American fresh out of Syracuse University. Glen was a New York Jew with an NYU undergraduate degree. They had differences too numerous to count, but one common thread shared by both their families was all that mattered.

  In the sixties, Jewish lawyers played an invaluable role in the civil rights movement, and Glen’s grandfather had been one of the most dedicated. On a few occasions he had even worked directly with Reverend King, a fact that Glen often found cause to mention.

  Martin’s grandfather owned a family bakery in Harlem but he had also been one of the movement’s top leaders in the Northeast. When he wasn’t pounding dough, he pounded the streets to organize marches and rallies. He was known not only for rallying protestors but for helping to feed them as well. It was at the famous ’63 March on Washington that Martin’s grandparents first met.

  Trading stories about their ancestors’ bit parts in history soon transformed roommates into great friends. After graduating, they clerked at the ACLU’s New York office during the day and studied together for the bar exam at night. Just three years after they passed the bar, it was Glen’s crazy idea for them to team up and hang their own shingle. Martin had concerns that they weren’t ready, but Glen’s answer to that was, “We’ll get ready.” How could Martin argue with that?

  The first year and a half had been tough, but with hard work and lots of hustle, cases started coming in, and soon they were making a respectable living specializing in civil rights cases.

  Then the Autostone case walked in off the street along with the great Damon Darrell and suddenly the world was at their door.

  “Hey, what’s Anna doing?” Lisa pointed across the room.

  Martin turned and to his astonishment spotted his wife, Anna, climbing onto a desk, clutching a slip of paper.