The light came from behind as she walked through the bedroom door, but he could still make out that she was all but naked. Long legs, a flat stomach and platinum blond hair. She was way out of his league, but he didn’t care, she was here with him and that was the main thing. She had been wearing nothing but a small white tank-top, stretched tight across her firm breasts, but now even that was going as she began to straddled him on the bed…..
A noise. Shouting. Someone at the door? Confusion. The dream was shattered. As he struggled back into consciousness he heard wood splintering, boots running through his exclusive condo, his bedroom door crashed open and he was immediately blinded by a powerful flashlight attached to the front end of a submachine gun. Was this really happening or just another dream – a nightmare? He was frozen in fear.
More lights, more guns, and behind each gun he caught glimpses of men in black masks. Rough hands pulled him from his warm bed and threw him onto his stomach on the floor, too terrified to struggle. He felt a knee drive into his back, a cold muzzle pressed against his neck, hands pulling at his arms, steel handcuffs biting into his wrist, now he heard voices. “Are you Dominick Lunt?” a voice from behind a light. His voice failed him so he just tried to nod.
“Police. We have a warrant for your arrest. Do you have any weapons? Where is the dope? Where is Roberto Dolgos?”
He was confused. Dominick struggled to make sense of all this, but fear kept blocking his mind. He was paralyzed, incapable of speech let alone resistance. He had no guns or drugs and he had never heard of anyone named Dolgos.
Still face down on the rug, he managed to say, “Who are you? How can you do this? I am not a criminal. You have made a mistake.”
From behind he heard, “No mistake Mister Lunt. We did your office an hour ago and found all the evidence we needed for this warrant.”
His office? More confusion. What was there? Nothing! He heard someone reading him his Maranda rights, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will…. You have the right to an attorney…..”
All the time, he could hear others rummaging through his expensively decorated condo. He had represented clients who had been the targets of police warrants, but never dreamt that it would or could ever happen to him. He had even had warrants thrown out of court as unconstitutional, on some technicality, but now he couldn’t even focus on what was happening in his own place. All he could feel at that moment was an excruciating urge to pee.
He was pulled to his feet and led to the door. It was now hanging broken on the hinges, a heavy battering ram lay just inside on the floor. Just as they leave he hears one of the masked figures say “Bingo! It’s in this closet.” Before he can even ascertain what “it” is he is hustled down the stairs and into a waiting four door grey sedan. By now his neighbors are peering out through partially open doors and curtains. In the street, lit by flashing blue lights, there were more people, more police cars and even an ambulance.
Still trying to find answers, “Could these really be cops?” he wondered. In his experience police didn’t wear black masks. Was this a hit? Were they just going to take him out and shoot him? He had seen organized crime related executions on the news – one bullet in the back of the head – no muss, no fuss. He was almost relieved, a short time later, when they turned into a parking lot illuminated by a blue and white sign – “POLICE” – and then pulled into a chain-linked cage area in front of a door with a sign that just read, “BOOKING”.
Still in his pajamas and still in shock, his mind was numb as he went through the booking process, being searched again, hands roughly exploring his genitals, photos, finger prints, black ink on his hands, on his pajamas. One of the officers made a remark about, “the rare pleasure of locking-up a scum-bag attorney.” But he was still too dazed and confused, racking his brain for answers, hoping to wake up from this horrible nightmare.
“You can make one call.”
“Huh. What?” Dominick still deep in self pity, totally intimidated by the experience. No ability to resist or object to this dehumanizing experience.
“You can call your attorney now,” said the uniformed jailer.
Danica! He had to call Danica. She would know what to do. But for a quarter all he got was an answering machine. He left a pleading message, “Help!”
Now came the complete strip search. He hadn’t been naked in front of another man since showers after gym class in high school. He hung his head in shame.
“Bend over and spread ’em.” This couldn’t be happening to him.
He felt the rubber gloved finger enter his rectum. How much worse could it get? He was given an orange set of coveralls, two sizes too big, then led into a holding cell. The door slammed and he was alone.
It was a sterile room, about twenty feet square with pale green walls and three stainless-steel cots along each wall – six in all. In the corner stood a dirty stainless-steel toilet with no seat, and a wash basin bolted to the wall. The cell smelled of disinfectant, but not enough to hide the stench of urine and excrement.
Just when Dominick thought it was bad enough being alone, it got worse as others were put into the same cell. Half a dozen of them. They didn’t look scared. They didn’t look uncomfortable. They looked like they were at home here. Shaved heads, tattoos on their faces and necks, baggy pants and long-sleeved shirts – hard men, gang members. He wasn’t sure but he had seen people like that on the evening news. There weren’t any in Beverly Hills but he knew they existed to the East and to the South of downtown. Now they were looking at him sitting on the bunk.
Five of them sat down on the hard steel cots, the sixth just stood looking at Dominick sitting on the only remaining bunk. He was sizing Dominick up, like a shark circling a weaker, slower fish.
“Hey fucker, that’s mine. Get off,” he indicated the bunk and glared at Dominick with crazy eyes.
Bile rose into Dominick’s throat and again his voice failed him. He didn’t know how to respond. It was so illogical. He was there first, but before his mind could grasp the problem, he was grabbed by the hair, pulled roughly from the bunk and thrown into the corner where he crashed heavily into the steel shitter. A sharp pain shot through his shoulder as he landed face down in the wet corner. He heard the others laugh as he struggled back to his feet.
His antagonist stood, braced, ready to fight, not realizing that Dominick had no fight in him. When there was no attack, the tattooed hood walked over and bitch-slapped Dominick across the face. The blow split his lip and made his vision blur. In a panic he called for the guard. No response. He called again. Nothing. All six just leaned back on their bunks and laughed.
Dominick slumped back into the corner by the toilet, if not physically beaten, psychologically beaten. He was too scared to even try and cross to the opposite corner since that would mean passing through the midst of the group.
With his head between his legs and totally immersed in his own misery, he didn’t even notice when one of them came over to the bowl and began to urinate. Suddenly the stream of hot urine was hitting his feet, then his legs and then all over his head and hands. This drew a great cheer from the others but only made Dominick cringe and try to curl into an even smaller ball.
The rest of the night was spent in nervous terror; trying not to look at the gang bangers who seemed to sleep comfortably; too scared to even use the toilet, even though his bladder was bursting. He was terrified that if he fell asleep they would attack him, rape him, even kill him. But then, perhaps death would be a welcome relief from this hell.
It was eight o’clock in the morning when the jailer came and led him to an interview room. Danica was waiting.
“Dominick. Thank God. I didn’t get your message until early this morning. Are you OK?” she asked with real concern in her voice.
The guard handcuffed him to a ring in the steel table and left. Danica reached out and touched the side of his face where it also had hit the toilet. At that point all of the fear and tension flooded to the surface. Dominick broke down, dropping into the chair sobbing and shaking. Danica tried to comfort him but not understanding what he had just been through.
When he was finally able to trust his voice, he looked at Danica and pleaded, “Don’t let them put me back in there. Please.”
She reached out and held his hand. “We go before the judge at ten for a bail hearing. It will be OK.” She continued, “But until then we have some work to do. I don’t know what you are involved in but the charges are possession and trafficking in narcotics; possession and sale of automatic weapons; money laundering; tax evasion; attempt to defraud the United States government; and various other customs and monetary violations.”
“No! Oh shit. Danica, you have got to believe me, this is all a big mistake. I have never done anything like that,” he cried in desperation.
“I know. But someone has done a damn good job of setting you up. You have made a powerful enemy somewhere,” she responded. “Your office, your car and your condo all had massive amounts of evidence. I understand they also have your phone records linking you to some known heavy hitters in the drug world. It doesn’t look good.”
Dominick Lunt handed his keys to the parking attendant as he took an expense briefcase from the trunk of his dark green Mercedes SEL 500 coup. As he crossed the parking structure to the lower lobby he looked like any other successful Beverly Hills attorney. The twelve hundred dollar suit, three hundred dollar shoes, expensive silk shirt and tie and gold Rolex had all once given his clients confidence in his legal ability. But as with many of his colleagues, even a tailored suit could not hide the deteriorating physical condition.
Several years of law school, cramming for exams, living on pizza and coffee; followed by the thousands of hours of burning the midnight oil, researching and handling minor cases to get established, had all taken their toll. The soft stomach strained against his jacket buttons, his lower back was killing him, his posture was poor, and the hair was thinning. Now with recent events it was worse. He had been drinking too much and the stress was showing in his face. His skin was pale and there were dark bags under his eyes. Even his neck and chin were beginning to look soft and flabby. He made a mental note to see about some liposuction and a little face lift when this was over – hopefully soon.
As he rode the elevator to the twelfth floor he tried to grasp the enormity of his predicament and where it had all gone wrong. Dominick had been near the top – an expert at getting his rich, but guilty, clients off on technicalities. He had even been offered a chance to sit on the OJ Simpson dream team. If he had just taken that job he would be safely seated in Judge Ito’s court room now, making interminable objections to the prosecution’s arguments, getting his face on the daily news, doing celebrity talk shows and being paid handsomely for it all. The fact that he thought OJ was guilty had no bearing on the matter.
The elevator doors sliding open snapped him out of his reverie and he entered the tastefully decorated reception area of the law firm of Panitch, Brennen & Kovacs. The receptionist looked up as he entered. “Oh, Mr Lunt, Ms Kovacs is waiting for you in the conference room. Go on through”
Danica Kovacs, glasses on and studying a document looked as beautiful as ever. Every time Dominick saw her he felt something primal stir in his Calvin Kleins. Even in a conservative brown pin-stripe and her blond hair tied back she was striking with long legs, a perfect body and the face of an angel. Though she featured prominently in his more erotic dreams and fantasies, he had never even had the guts to ask her out.
She looked up, concern showing on her face, “Dominick. Good morning. Sit – please”
“You don’t look happy,” he said as he lowered himself into a comfortable chair.
“Are you ready to head over to the courthouse. The jury will be back in this morning,” she changed the subject.
“I can’t do time Danica. I am an attorney not a convict. They will eat me alive in there.”
“We talked about this, Dom. You knew the odds of beating this when we went into it. We were lucky to beat the Federal stuff but the State case proved unshakable. Even though we got the phone records thrown out, there was just too much physical evidence.”
Dominick with panic showing in his voice, “But I am not equipped to survive in prison. Hell, my folks wouldn’t even let me go out for football in high school. Luckily I was fleet of feet and could out run the school yard bullies, but in prison there is only so far one can run – then what? A wall, barbed wire, guards with guns. I will be dead in a week, or worse, a sexual boy-toy for some three hundred pound hairy, tattooed ape named Bubba. You’ve heard the horror stories.” He shuddered, turning pale at the mere thought.
“Well you can’t just skip out. You would lose everything and your folks would lose their house, which if you will recall, they put up for your bail. As long as you play the game, we stand a chance of beating this. You run, then it is as good as an admission of guilt.”
“Help me Danica. What do I do?” Dominick pleaded, almost breaking down again.
“Let’s see what the jury and judge have to say first. You never know. The jury may surprise us.”
“And if it is Guilty?” Dom shot back.
“Worst case scenario, if it looks like you are going to have to go to prison, there is someone I want you to meet. He was a client of mine when I worked in New Orleans – Monk. He lives out here now. He has done time and may be able to give you some advice or help prepare you for what looks like the inevitable.”
“Oh, this is just great. How is some ex-con gonna be able to help me? And what sort of name is Monk?”
Danica’s eyes flash with anger. “Listen you jerk. First, he is not a con nor your basic career criminal. His real name is Michael Kagan, he is a decorated veteran and he did some hard time on a bullshit charge. I was his assigned public defender but couldn’t help him. He wouldn’t even take the stand to defend himself. I think he was protecting someone ….. but that’s another story.”
Calming down, she continues, “Hey, you have a Harley, he works on bikes, you guys may have something in common.” Even though to herself she wondered just how much this pampered yuppie would have in common with real bikers. Her mind wandered back to some of the long rides she had taken on the back of Michael’s bike and the tough crowd he ran with. A private smile tugged at the corner of her mouth at the thought of him.
She quickly hid it by adding, “Listen, I will drop by and see him on the way home to set this up.”
“Why not just call him?” Dominick asked.
“He doesn’t have a phone. Doesn’t like them and doesn’t trust them. But it is still too early to even consider that. We are going to get you off,” Danica said hopefully.
Sitting in the court room, a place he had spent all together too much time over the past few months, Dominick had time to reflect. He sat there now, fear crawling up his spine. One night in jail was enough to tell him that he was totally unprepared for prison. He had heard the gruesome stories; the brutality, the sodomy, the male rape, the murder. He would almost prefer death over forced oral copulation or anal intercourse – but even that choice may not be his to make.
He tried to block those morbid thoughts by thinking about better times. Having breakfast with his buddies on a Sunday morning and then riding up the coast to Malibu. Then cutting into the mountains and winding their way up to the Rock Store where hundreds of bikers hung out on Sundays. Rich urban Harley owners side by side with real bikers, the occasional rock star or even Jay Leno dropping by in one of his restored antique cars.
He was brought back to the present when the judge took the bench and ordered the jury back in. A final thought flashed through his mind that it may be a long time before he ever rode again.
After all twelve were settled, the judge asked, “Has the jury reached a verdict in the People versus Dominick Lunt?”
“We have your honor,” answered the foreperson, a heavy set woman in her late fifties. She then handed a piece of paper to the bailiff who passed it up to the judge.
The judge read the paper to himself, passed it back to the juror and then indicated for Dominick to rise, Danica beside him. The foreperson read aloud from the paper, “We the jury in the aforementioned case find the defendant, Dominick Lunt, guilty as charged.”
Dominick felt his knees buckle and his head spin. Danica caught him and he tried to draw strength from her closeness.
“The defendant is ordered to appear before this court in 90 days for final sentencing,” announced the judge as he slammed down the gavel with finality.
He was going to prison. His worst fears were now a reality.
It was just about midnight when Dominick pulled up in front of the bar. A tough place, very tough and putting him totally out of his element. All he had was Danica’s business card with one word on the back – Monk.
Two hours ago he had been in a different world. A world where he was safe and comfortable. It had been just after ten when the phone rang. Dominick had been trying to enjoy a brandy and a fat La Gloria cigar when Danica called. “Dom, I talked to Monk,” she actually called him Michael but that was too personal. “He will be over at Frog’s around eleven thirty to midnight.”
“What’s Frogs?” Dom had asked.
“Its a bar over on Lankershim, just north of the 101 freeway. You can’t miss it. You will see all the bikes parked out front.”
Reluctantly, but knowing his future survival may depend on it, Dominick put out the cigar and got dressed. He wasn’t comfortable about leaving the relative safety of Beverly Hills but luckily he had just the outfit for a biker bar. When he had bought his bike at Bartels Harley-Davidson he had also dropped a grand on the “latest biker wear”.
Forty minutes later he pulled his ’95 Heritage onto the Hollywood Freeway. He was dressed in his new Biker brand jeans, HD monogrammed biker boots, an official Harley sweater, a fringed black leather jacket with silver conchos, matching gloves, and a white Highway Patrol type helmet with visor. He preferred his wrap-around designer sunglasses but couldn’t see well with them at night.
Danica was right. The bar was easy to find. Apart from all the bikes lined up out front, there was a ten foot high green neon frog with a cigar in his mouth and a stick of dynamite in one hand. The sign below proclaimed in big letters, “FROG’s”, and then in smaller letters, “We Walk Where Others Fear to Run”.
Dominick pulled into the parking lot feeling quite proud of his bike. Compared to the assorted old pans, knuckles, shovels, choppers, and custom jobs, his brand new metallic-white Heritage, complete with every available bolt-on option was a veritable show piece. Or so he thought – not realizing that his stock bike looked like something only Liberachie would ride, compared to the leaner classics and high performance customs lined up around him. Even the ugliest rat bike in that lot could blow off his stock, overloaded garbage wagon.
Entering the bar Dom was immediately struck by the noise, the smoke, the smell of sweat, all seemingly compounded by the heat. There was obviously no air conditioning but he still felt a chill from the bikers who now checked him out as he entered – a rough looking crowd obviously distrustful of strangers – especially when they looked like a narc. This was not what he expected or what he was used to in his preferred exclusive watering holes in Beverly Hills.
Old jeans, tank tops, sleeveless shirts, torn and faded, with well worn work boots seemed to be the order of the day, leaving Dom feeling quite overdressed in his brand new designer wear. Even the leather and denim clad women eyed him with distinct destain – totally unimpressed by the fact that he probably made more money in one week than any other man in the place made in a year.
Heading to the bar for a beer, Dom found himself next to a group of particularly tough looking outlaw bikers sporting long hair, beards, numerous tattoos and sinister looking patches on their backs – and not like the patches worn by his local HOG chapter.
Covering his nervousness he tried to attract the attention of the barmaid and called, “Bud, please.” The barmaid shot him an irritated look and then ignored him.
Next he turned to the big hairy biker leaning on the bar beside him and politely asked, “Excuse me, do you know Monk?” This drew an evil look and a curt, “Fuck off, yuppie.”
Even though he had already soaked the arm-pits of his shirt with nervous sweat, Dom tried again. This time tapping the outlaw biker on the back, on his colors, and asking, “I’m sorry but I am just looking for Monk.”
This drew more of a reaction but not what Dom expected. Things went real quiet in that part of the bar and he seemed to have gotten the attention of everyone within ear-shot. The evil look on the biker’s face went from surprise to shock to rage, all in about two seconds. Out of the corner of his eye, Dom saw one biker pick up a pool stick, another a beer bottle and a third move to block the door.
“I don’t fuck’n believe it,” bellowed the big biker, his face now red and contorted. He pulled a wicked looking knife from his belt and brought the point to within an inch of Dom’s nose.
“You fuck’n maggot. You fuck’n touched my colors, you stupid fuck,” the biker continued to rave in Dom’s face. Dom was too terrified to move or even think.
“No harm meant…,” Dom began but was cut off by the point of the knife prodding his cheek just below his eye.
“Shut the fuck up you asshole,” the biker screamed. By then Dominick realized he had done something really wrong, he was just not sure what.
Dom felt the group closing in on him, the point of the knife near his eye, and then someone grabbed his ponytail, jerked him off his feet backwards and the lights went out.
He came to lying in the parking lot next to a trash dumpster, a splitting headache and the taste of blood in his mouth. Something wet was pouring on his face. Piss? No, too cold. Beer? He hoped. His vision began to clear and he found himself looking up at a dark figure back lit by the big green neon frog.
COPYRIGHTS:The author – Mark Lonsdale – holds all copyrights to this three part fiction and retains the rights to all books, screenplays, television projects or features derived from this work. By allowing one time magazine publication as a short story, the author gives up no rights to this property.
