Where to now? It is a question Len Arial repeatedly asks himself. As a personal injury lawyer, in the picturesque city of Charleston, SC, he is frustrated with his seemingly meaningless legal status. Once a dedicated prosecutor, Len is floundering in his own moral ambiguity, and sense of worth. Everything changes with one phone call. His closest friend,

Detective TJ Jackson, informs him that their old nemesis, simply known as Billy Jack, is out of prison and back to settle-up. Murder, terror, and extensive world-wide felonious activities are a way of life, for this diabolical, sophisticated, and highly intelligent master criminal. Facing off with Billy Jack, in a frantic struggle, are Arial, and three very close friends. TJ Jackson, the superlative cop, who came through the projects and his own version of hell. Josie Jackson, noted microbiologist, who supports her husband against Billy Jack. Hannah Baktiar, also an extraordinary cop, escaped the repressive regime in Iran. All, of these lives, and many more are stories within the story, each interesting, and desperate, in their own way. In a tale of suspense, intrigue and terror, four people, battling their own internal demons, are in a turbulent cauldron, where the perplexity, of good and evil, intermingle in a clash of cultural values. Who will survive to redefine themselves? Where to now?

Where to Now?

By ROD ROGERS

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Rod Rogers
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-0363-1

Chapter One

Where to now? The continuing question rattled in Len's head, yet again. He looked across his desk, at his potential clients, and literally wanted to scream the question at them. What was he doing here? Why was he doing this? What was he thinking, when he started practicing this kind of law? Who needs this? Indeed, where to now?

The obvious answer always was quick to jump out, and kick him in his vital senses. When $300,000 was considered a very bad year, this should be a good job. Oh yes, there was the $125,000 going toward his ex-wife's alimony, and child support, for his two teenagers. Their private school, and college on the horizon, was his responsibility. His mother was in a nursing home with Alzheimer's. There was not even sporadic help from his older brother, Conrad, and younger sister Katlin. That was the brother, who only came around with his hand out, or called when he was being arrested for drug possession. Good little brother, Len, was right there as his lawyer, on a pro bono basis, of course. Katlin followed very much the same path, leaning on her brother's legal background, for an assortment of self-inflicted legal issues.

"Our friend—got a cousin at law school—says we ougt'n git least a million—after yo fee." The large Caucasian woman nodded her head back and forth, very confidently. Her slightly built, African-American husband stared straight ahead, not very sure about the whole process. A million dollars sounded awfully good, though, whatever the procedure. He was already mentally spending the imaginary windfall.

"Mrs. Brown, would that be the cousin, or the friend?" The retort just jumped out, before Len could stop it. He had been through this same conversation many times. There was no shortage of people, hoping to get rich, using the legal system. His patience wore thin, very quickly.

"What you mean?" The terse reply went right past the avaricious Mrs. Brown. Right now, she was only interested in getting a big fat check.

"Which one says you should get the mill—never mind." Len put his hands to his face, avoiding the puzzled, but expectant, looks on the Brown's faces. They both looked much older, than their real age, somewhere in the mid-thirties. Neither had a steady job, but picked up employment on a random basis. SNAP benefits, or food stamps, and unemployment checks rounded out their subsistence. Without question, they thought they were owed something, and the law firm of Akins and Associates was supposed to get it for them. Why not? They lived in a crime infested trailer park, just outside of North Charleston. This could be their chance to really cash-in and get out. A lot of people had done it, why not them?

"Well, what'a ya think?" Mrs. Brown looked at her frowning husband. "How 'bout we get two million—dat 'bout right." She curled her mouth and chin together, nodding approval.

"Mrs. Brown," Len got out of his chair, and walked over to the window. From the fifth floor window, he could see a portion of historic Charleston SC, and even part of the harbor. There were the huge cranes, working the ships coming in and out. Maybe, he should be down there with the justice department, thwarting and prosecuting terrorists. After all, they jailed them in the Navy Brig, a few miles to the North. As a lawyer, prosecuting major international criminals had been his fantasy. Why not do it? Why? Even if he could make the change at 44 years old, he would make, at best, a third of his current earnings: government benefits notwithstanding. That would crimp a lot of people's life style.

"What?" Both Browns were waiting for the good news.

"Mrs. Brown—Mr. Brown," Len looked at his would-be clients. The words just blurted out. "Do you know the chances of the preverbal 'snowball in hell'?"

Mr. Brown suddenly came to life. "You sayin—we ain't git no money from dis—we wants big money, Mr. Lawyer Man. We been damaged—dat wat dey say—we been damaged."

Mrs. Brown rushed to agree. "God—damn right, dey got to pay up—we wants our money—now."

Len looked back out of the window. He took a deep breath, to keep from escalating the curtness of his rhetoric. His eyes wondered over the parking lot, across the street, where many of the paralegals parked their cars. They would fit very well with his five-year-old Buick Century. In the reserved covered parking deck, on the first floor, his car appeared very much out-of-place, with the BMW's, Mercedes, Cadillac's, etc of his colleagues. He made more money than just a couple, of the other fifteen, or so, personal injury lawyers, in the firm. It did not show up in personal life style. He talked into the window. "You don't have much of a case—in fact—you have no case."

Mrs. Brown exploded at that revelation. "Bullshit—that truck hurt me up bad—dey got to pay-up, now—we needs it."

There was no concern, about Mrs. Brown's commotion disturbing the office. This was not the first time; a potential client became irate, because they were not going to get their way. Len tried hard to keep his composure. He was not sure, whether his feelings had to do with unreasonable expectations, or because he increasingly hated his participation. "Mrs. Brown," Len's voice was benign, but his head was spinning. "You ran into that truck."

"Don't matter." Mrs. Brown was not backing off. "It was in da wrong and has to pay."

"It was parked, Mrs. Brown."

"It were stuck out too far."

"Mrs. Brown," Len came back and sat at his desk. "Here is the Police report, and granted, in South Carolina, you can get around that. But, the truck was parked in a designated loading zone—making deliveries. You hit it—they could sue you. Oh, wait a minute—you were cited for not having any insurance—so, there's no point in that—is there?"

Mr. Brown saw his sudden wealth going up in smoke. "Ain't right—we got damaged—that company wit da truck got dem ah—ah—." "Deep pockets?"

"Yeah—dat—dey can pay up—or we gone sue."

"Ah, Mr. Brown," Len sighed at the hopeless naivety. "Clips is a huge company, with trucks making deliveries all over the country. Don't you understand—they have gone through this a thousand times? They have huge legal resources that will chew-up any frivolous lawsuit."

Mr. Brown was livid. "Same old thing—white man screwin' da black man—same old thing." Len had heard this before, also. "Mr. Brown, your wife is white—."

"Don't matter—same old thing." Mr. Brown was not interested in any relevant facts, which took his mythical fortune away.

"Mr. Brown—your wife has a broken nose and bruises. She was not wearing a seat belt. It was Mrs. Brown's fault. There is no money in it for us, much less a million dollars."

Mrs. Brown was not ready to go quietly, either. "Yeah, you won't do nothing, if'n you don't get paid—you ain't wantin' to do it. Get some of doz experts to ah—ah—."

"Lie?" Len was tired of it. "We don't do that, but you are absolutely right. If there is no money for us, there is no money for you, and that is the point of the whole thing. I'm sorry—there is nothing we can do for you." Len stood up to signify that the meeting was over. "You certainly can try another firm, or you can talk to one of several African-American attorneys in our firm, if that is a concern."

Mrs. Brown pulled her large form to her feet. The bruises around her eyes were mostly gone, with some remaining Brownish patches. "Dat ad—you do on da TV—is just a great big lie—ain't it? You only care 'bout yourself—not us—like you say on TV."

Len cringed at the advertising, for which he had a personal distaste. "I'm sorry you feel—."

"Stop, with the bullshit." Mr. Brown backed toward the door. "You not sorry 'bout shit. We gone find someone to git our money. You wait—we git somebody."

"Good luck with that." Len was talking to an open door. He sat down and threw up his hands. He hated the ads, featuring the principal of Akins and Associates. The part about the free consultation was especially exasperating. In reality, though, that was the business, and had been for a long time. Len was a part of it, whatever his personal feelings happen to be. Modern marketing techniques, from TV to the internet, were major components of the business. Yes, that's what it was—a business. He and the rest of the people, in the office, were in it for the money. It might as well be an insurance or real estate office. In the end, you have to have clients, a-k-a customers, or you have nothing.

Lenmore Grant Ariel returned to the window, where he was spending an ever increasing amount of time. Once more, he replayed his life, trying to understand how he got here. He kept telling himself; it was a normal mid-life crises. Unfortunately, it did not matter what it was. It just was. In his soul, he did not like his life, or what he was doing, money or not. Certainly, he had helped many people, who rightfully deserved to be compensated, for their injuries and suffering. In those many cases, where the truth, at best, marginally favored his clients, he reverted to the principal of law; his obligation was to the client, not the truth. That is what made the system work, right—right—maybe? He had indeed learned to work the system.

What were the options? Were there any? Len often wished that he had talents as an artist, whether it was a painter, writer, actor, or whatever. If he had such a talent, perhaps before he was so overwhelmed, he could have pursued that kind of passion, even if it were to obscurity and poverty. At most, Len had tried to pick at the guitar, still encased in his condominium. At one time, he even tried out for a rock group, but was woefully lacking in skill. At least, he gave it a try. Len was not an artist. He was a lawyer—a personal injury lawyer.

How did he become a lawyer? Lenmore Arial literally stumbled into the profession. Yes, it was the money. There was money in the law. His father had been a career naval petty officer. Len had no idea, what he wanted to do in life, other than he did not want to be in the Navy, like his father. They were stationed in Hawaii, when he was born, and in Charleston, when Len finished High School. The state-supported College of Charleston was close by, and he qualified as an in-state student. With a student loan, partial baseball scholarship, and staying at home, he sought to secure a degree in English, and a minor in chemistry. Certification, as a high school teacher, at best, was a fallback position. If he could not find, whatever he wanted to do with his life, at least, Len would have the credentials to make a living.

Whatever never seemed to jump out, so when he entered his senior year, Len considered some kind of graduate school. When that last year began, Len's father, a decorated Viet Nam and thirty-year Veteran, dropped dead with an aneurysm. It was only six months, before he was to retire from the navy. It was surprisingly easy, for Len to get through that, as he realized later. His father had been gone, on extended tours of shipboard duty, for most of Len's life. Winslow Ariel drank heavily. When at home, he spent most of his time, drinking with his navy cronies. It was Len's mother, with whom he was close and dependent. Now, she was dependent on him. Conrad came for the military funeral, and left immediately after. Katlin showed up in an acute drunken stupor. She was left at home to sleep it off. As soon as she was somewhere near sobriety, Katlin took off.

Len had to take care of his mother, as well as, finish school. After all the years of coping, with an absentee husband and three children, Sarah Ariel broke down and never fully recovered. Len, using navy benefits, was able to buy a modest house in Mt Pleasant, where they lived his senior year. Sarah required constant attention, forcing him to forego his final college baseball season, as an outfielder, and sometime relief pitcher. It did not turn out to be a major sacrifice. Advancement, beyond college baseball, was not going to happen. He was one, of a few team members, who received modest scholarship money, for their efforts. It was necessary, therefore, to find a way to make that up. He managed, with an obscure scholarship for children of service veterans.

With the demands of his mother, Len found himself loping through his last year. One thing, he discovered about himself; Len Arial was an intelligent person. His grades, with half of his former study time, did not suffer greatly. The experience, in that year, gave him confidence in his intellect, and his ability to cope with life's real problems. Looking out the window of Akins and Associates, Len was not particularly impressed with his intellect, or the choices, he had made with his life. Coping was just not good enough. Lenmore Grant Ariel was floundering in a sea of ambiguity, without a life preserver in sight.

"I take it—there's no money with the Browns." The smallish sixty-two year Nathaniel Akins was more serious, than he tried to sound. As a thirty-seven year New Jersey transplant, with a Yale law degree, his accent was all over the place. If anyone fit the "ambulance chaser" image, it was Nate Akins. From the top of his dyed implanted brown hair, to his expensive suits, and wing tip shoes, Akins looked the part. He also talked and acted the part. The ads, in which he was the spokesperson, on local television, made him appear as a grandfatherly persona. Nate was the image of a kindly caring man, who was going to look after the powerless. In reality, he was the modern version of the personal injury lawyer. Akins would take the most marginal of clients, and push the law to the very edge of its tolerance.

"No, Nate," Len had been through this post interview interrogation, many times. If Nate believed, there was any money here; another interview would be scheduled, by another lawyer. Nate wanted to assure himself that several thousand dollars did not walk out the door. "The Clips lawyer told me not to even think about it. Nate, there is no case—not even close."

Nate nodded his head. "They'll go to the mat, huh. A lot of time and no money—guess it's better to let it go. You know Clips can pay out a lot of dough—wish there was something there for us." Nate's mouth almost salivated at the deep money well, represented by the huge office supply company. He was not even close to being intimidated, by the Clips' legal powerhouse. He represented the "little people". Nate could win the public relations battle every time, against the big corporations. On the rare times, they actually went to trial; the jury was almost always sympathetic to the "little people".

"Yeah, well, maybe next time, the Clips truck will be more accommodating, and do something close to negligence. We really don't want these law abiding Clips' drivers on the street—where are the reckless drunk ones?"

Nate made no effort to strike back at the sarcasm. He knew Len was a first rate lawyer. More importantly, he brought in a lot of money. His sense of honor, though, often in the way, made him an excellent representative for the firm, in many situations. Nate only regretted that, even at his high level of performance, Len was just scratching the surface of his potential. "Okay, we'll get the next one. What's up with that Thomas thing?"

"Oh yes," Len expected Nate to be pleased with this news. "The insurance company is going to pony up a hundred twelve thousand, for medical, lost of work, and, of course, pain and suffering."

"All right!" Nate was too far away, to give Len a high five, or fist shake, so he threw both hands in the air, like they scored a touchdown. "We would have been happy with half of that. Man, you are good."

Len did not share his boss's enthusiasm. "Yeah, Mr. Thomas is going to take his pain and suffering, on a 'well deserved' vacation. Apparently, he is going to rent a place up at Myrtle Beach, and see a few shows, or go to Disney World. His limp will be miraculously cured, just as he passes the Charleston City Limits."

"That's what we are here for." Nate always tried to match Len's sarcasm with reality. "We insure the big guys compensate our clients for their injuries. You're doing a heck of job for us." As much as he would like to verbally chastise, instead of praise Len, for his disdain, Nate was always focused on the mission of his law firm. That mission had made him an extremely wealthy man. He was a mega-millionaire, but Nate Akins wanted much more.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Where to Now?by ROD ROGERS Copyright © 2011 by Rod Rogers. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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