The court appointed me to represent a man who had been on the lam for a few decades. I have no doubt he would have stayed free the rest of his life had he not had the misfortune to jilt the wrong woman. She figured him out and tipped off the authorities in Vegas, where he had been playing professional poker.
I didn’t know any of that when I first went to visit him at the jail, just that he had been indicted on flim-flam charges thirty years ago, and Georgia had extradited him, and the court had handed him over to me. I did take the time to get a verbal report on his sheet. He had never even been charged with another crime.
The jailer put me in the attorney-client meeting room, and I heard his footsteps eco down the dark concrete hallway, the keys jingle, and the cell door open to the tune of, “Slate! Your lawyer’s here!”
His indicted name was Albert Jackson Slate. I was surprised at his appearance. In his sixties, he had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, and he was slim and tan. With a big smile, he reached out his hand and said, “Jack Slate.”
The jailer went away, and we sat facing each other in plastic chairs. I explained the charges and the process, all of which he already knew, and he nodded as I cautioned him about discussing his case with anyone but me. Then I asked him what happened.
He crossed his legs, leaned back, and said, “Ah. What happened. Where to begin? Perhaps with a bit of background.
“When I was in college, we kept a poker game going in a back room in the student center. Spectators hung around, some hoping to gain a coveted seat at the table. We couldn’t openly gamble, so a mathematical genius who had dropped out of school due to a nervous condition kept points in his head. His name, of course, was Nerve, and each point was a nickel.
“Now, let’s say you were having a smoking hot day, Nerve’s head was lopsided with all the credits in your account, and it came time for class. You could skip class, or you could actually sell your seat – your “lucky” position at the table - for a profit above and beyond your winnings. It amazed me that so many guys not only believed in luck, they thought it could be bought like an appurtenance to a point in space.
“I began to see it all around me, this fascination with luck. It made guys bet on hands that should be folded, ball teams that were sure to lose, long shot horses, and deals too good to be true. I saw people of all ages and stations in life burn to part with their money based on this metaphysical concept called luck, and I felt called to accommodate them.”
I saw this was going to take a while. I laid my pen and pad aside and leaned back to listen. I took a rather holistic approach to criminal defense. Sometimes a guy needs to talk, and sometimes I heard something useful. Besides, he was pleasant, intelligent, and gifted with a lyrical voice. It’s nice to have a client who can do more than grunt.
“So,” he went on, “I deemed myself sufficiently educated and bid farewell to my potential alma mater, but my parents were united, for once, in denying my open-ended return to the nest. They cited excellent reasons pertinent to my wellbeing and advancement in life.
“I took a job selling televisions and stereos, and I was soon making decent commissions because all my customers were just so damn lucky to have come in right before prices went up, or supplies ran out, or some such rot. And I found a guy named Tyler Ray Kitchens who needed a housemate at a good rate.
“Tyler Ray, it turned out, was struggling. He, too, had dropped out of college, and was trying to sell real estate. He had made a couple of sales, got all excited, and bought the house. Then interest on new mortgages took one of its thoroughly unpredictable upturns and sales abruptly stopped. Ty chalked it up to bad luck. He was making birdhouses and dog houses and such in his little hobby shop in the basement, selling them from a booth in a junk store. Being naturally generous, I devised a plan by which we could both profit.
“The stereo speakers most coveted by the young crowd were expensive and mostly hype. I sold lots of them at the store. One day a damaged one was discovered in the storeroom, heaven knows how it happened. I rescued it from the dumpster, took it home, and studied its construction.
“It was quite basic. One bass, one midrange, and one tweeter fastened to the inside of a wooden box with stretchy material on the front that shook when the bass was turned up. I ordered the parts from a discount electronics outfit, and Tyler Ray replicated the boxes in his hobby shop. I sold them for forty percent off retail price to those who were lucky enough to get them.
“Now, every kid with a new pair of speakers does the exact same thing. He throws a big drunken party where they crank up the bass and rattle the windows. The ones who weren’t in dorms or commuting were mostly sharing apartments, and it seems those kids had incredibly back luck with complaining neighbors.
“Enter Tyler Ray. He put on a uniform and a stern look and banged on the door announcing himself as the police until some drunken kid heard him. First, the stereo was abruptly turned off and, after a period of shuffling and scurrying, a young man reeking of beer and trying to appear sober would open the door. He would learn that, luckily, he and his cotenants had a choice of being arrested or paying a fine on the spot. Nobody chose the former, and Tyler Ray had even made official receipts.
“It was a fun scam but limited in duration by nature. There was the matter of market saturation, of course, but it was the advancing threat of incarceration that ended it. One night when he was writing out a receipt, Ty heard whispering. Someone said he was the same cop who busted so-and-so’s party, and another said he looked like the same guy who raided his own party. Ty came home and gave his notice, effective immediately.
“It was little more than a training exercise in any event, penny-ante stuff. We put our heads together and devised a scheme on a more appropriate scale for our talents. It required some knowledge of real estate financing, which Ty had, and we would need a hick town with a hick bank and a hick loan officer. Ty worked on that while I proceeded to become a respectable businessman.
“Through a friend of a friend, I found an old man called Rembrandt who had devoted his life to the arts of forgery and disguise. He was prepared to age me by fifteen years and provide me with the necessary documents, but I had underestimated the required funding.
“Rembrandt introduced me to a lender named Lips. His terms were daunting, to say the least, but I soon had a new persona, documented wealth, impeccable credentials, and a record of success in all my extensive past endeavors.
“Ty came up with a couple of alternative venues for our project so, sans the disguise, we went to those villages to check out the banks and the lending personnel. It only took one thorough recognizance. One of the towns had one bank with seasoned loan officers. The other had two banks: an old, venerable establishment, and a scrappy challenger. The latter’s lenders included a young woman eager to prove herself in a man’s world, where she was hit on and patronized every day.
“We found a large tract of idle land in an adjacent county, with a stretch of frontage on the scenic four-lane running through the mountains. It belonged to an investor in California. Rembrandt produced a recordable deed conveying the property to Ty, by another name, of course, in exchange for about one-point-five million, and a contract whereby he would sell it to my corporation for a tidy profit. We had impressive renderings of our designs for the property and proof of my investment in a few acres outside town for my soon to be constructed mountainside home.
“Marie Conrad was the loan officer’s name. I told her about my plans to build a home in the county and my desire to establish relations with a local bank. I hoped she would be willing to finance the relatively minor cost of the purchase, only a couple million, which would be paid off within a short time when my partners completed arrangements for the development. Verbal and documentary evidence of all this was provided by Rembrandt, who also had a gift for voices. But again, it was expensive. He worked strictly on a cash fee basis. He wasn’t interested in a piece of the action or any other contingencies.
“In the end, the con was easy. The closing was attended by Tyler, myself, Ms. Conrad, and the bank’s attorney, who had provided advance copies of the documents to our “attorneys” so they need not attend such a small transaction. Ty left with a check for two mill, back when a million dollars was a million dollars, as they say. He was to deposit it in a joint account we had established at another bank.
“But the money never made it into that account. Ty was in the wind. It turned out he wasn’t Tyler Ray Kitchens after all. He was Ray Conrad, Marie’s brother. Nobody has seen either of them since. All three of us were indicted in absentia.”
A bit of discussion later, I said, “You won’t get a bond, but I’ll file a motion for speedy trial. There’s a decent chance they won’t be able to prove the case after all this time. Witnesses disappear or die. Records get lost. But you can expect to be in here a few months regardless.”
“Let’s not be hasty with the motion,” he said.
“The sooner the better,” said I.
“For most, I’m sure, but I find myself needing to bide my time for other reasons.”
“It’s practically malpractice for me not to file the motion, Mr. Slate.”
“Please, call me Jack.”
“Okay, Jack. Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t provide you with competent representation."
"Ah, well, it's a matter of finances, you see. And longevity. Lips’ longevity, to be precise, which surely can’t last forever. I borrowed fifty-thousand dollars at, as I said, a Draconian rate. Fascinating how it adds up. I owe him several billion dollars. There’s little use nailing it down to the penny. The man is thoroughly unforgiving and much given to violence.”
Arraignment came and went, and I didn’t file the motion. Months went by, my client just sitting in jail with no trial in sight and me doing nothing about it. I’m sure the DA thought I was nuts.
One day I was scanning the obituaries in the Atlanta paper when I saw that a man named Morris “Lips” Lipschultz had met his demise. There was a twenty-year-old photograph of a stout man stuffed into a suit and tie. I cut it out and took it down to the jail. Slate looked at it and nodded.
“You can file that motion now,” he said.
I filed it, and we waited a few more months. But in the end, the state had to fold. Jack was released and I parted ways with one of the most interesting clients I ever had.
One day I was working in the office by myself when there was a knock on the door. It was a delivery man, which I thought odd for a Saturday. He gave me a large box. It contained a new briefcase. A card tied to the handle said “Thank you” on the outside and, on the inside in flowing script, it said, “Dear Counsel, thank you for your kind and patient representation. Please accept this token of my appreciation.” After a simple J for a signature, there was this: “P.S. I misled you a bit, my apologies. It was the siblings who wound up empty handed.”
It was a nice briefcase, but the contents were nicer: fifty-thousand dollars in cash. My ethical side wanted to be heard on whether I should keep it, so we had that argument. We eventually settled based on sound legal principle. Contractually, the money had belonged to Lips, and, luckily for me, there’s nothing wrong with diverting money from a loan shark.
Copyright Walker Bramblett 2022
Murder On Hickory Mountain, my novella, is available on Amazon, kindle & paperback, as well as Barnes & Nobles and a number of eBook sites. I hope you will enjoy it!
Thank you very much!
A creative grift to the very end.