“It’s annoying, isn’t it?” I cut him off. Shrugging, I leaned my hip against his desk. “I’m curious, though. What made you think that getting Rodney Scott a new gig over in the San Fran area was going to get him to keep quiet? Was it threatening his reputation? Or his sexual orientation? Fuck, maybe it was the dirt you dug up on how his marriage was fake. Deidra Scott took that money you offered her real quick, didn’t she? Can’t say I blame the woman. It must have been challenging to watch your husband parading men around her all the time knowing she was the last person he was giving his dick to.”
His nostrils flared. “You want to explain to me why you’re bringing up Saint James’s defense attorney? Seems a little pointless at this point, doesn’t it?”
That made me laugh. Loud, deep, rumbling laughter escaped my previously pressed lips, only flattening his more in reaction. He loved watching people when he played the game, but he was shit at taking it. “I’m sure you’d like to think so considering the circumstances of his untimely death.” His jaw ticked as I pressed on without giving him time to argue. “It’s not a secret that Rikers Island is known for their unjust brutality. In fact, with the right amount of money, anybody could get away with a few crimes inside. You already know that though, so I’ll skip ahead to the good stuff. Phone records. Video recordings. Oh, and one very talkative guard with an overbite. Officer Johnson? I’m sure you know the one I’m talking about because you padded his bank account with over $100,000 dollars just weeks before Anthony was beaten to death in the section he was supposed to be monitoring that night.
“Come to think of it, the video alone says plenty. But you didn’t know that because the money you gave him was blood money to ensure the cameras were turned off during the attack. The phone records may not reveal a lot in the grand scheme of things because Scott wanted one on one time with Saint James without being recorded to go over their meetings, but your name was said enough to make the federal judge question why you weren’t more involved in questioning during the trial. You and Henry Murphy sure were lucky all this time. Must have been a relief knowing you two could keep living your lives knowing somebody else was taking the fall.”
Slowly, Pratt stood up with a deadly glare on his face. He didn’t even touch the folder I dropped in front of him, much less look down to figure out what was inside. I’d wanted him to, to see what kind of evidence was stacked against him so he knew he wasn’t the invincible asshole he thought he was. Money talked. Counterfeit money talked louder. Other businesses Pratt was known for, drugs, weapons, sex trafficking, practically screamed. As did the audio of Rodney Scott and Anthony Saint James discussing appeal tactics by gathering names to help prove Anthony didn’t act alone. “I’m giving you ten seconds to get the fuck out of my office before I call security to escort you out themselves.”
I figured he’d say that, but I didn’t give up the smile I’d had since seeing his eyes glaze over with the fear he pretended not to feel. “You know George Malik, right? Real standup guy, that one. He was arrested and put on trial for stealing government funds while he was in office, remember that? Got away with it and to a lot of people’s shock. There was a great writeup on it in The Times by Nicholas McAllister. From what he told me, he had a great approval rate because of that piece. Was even offered a hefty promotion that came with a raise The Times couldn’t afford to pay out. Seemed fishy to me. So did the interviews with Malik that nobody else could get besides him. He said he had connections to get him on top, make sure he told the right story. Not the truthful one.”
He picked up the phone and held it to his ear pressing one of the buttons leading out to the front desk I passed when I stormed in. “Daphne, I need you to call sec—”
“Nicholas McAllister had connections beyond you though. Slimy motherfucker was working both sides. Playing you. You don’t even know that do you? Michael Flamell ring a bell?”
He dropped the phone back into the cradle with force before narrowing his eyes at me. “What game are you playing here, West? Don’t think I won’t play it right back. I have—”
“What?” I challenged, stepping forward and crowding his space. “What do you have on me that’s as bad as first-degree murder on top of a slew of other charges which are coming your way? Whatever hold you think you have on me is worthless compared to what’s in that folder right there, and the folder in Flamell’s hands as we speak.”
“Who the fuck is Flamell?”
I chuckled. “Your problem, Richard, is that you only care about power. You think the more people you control, the more money you can make, and the more authority you have over everyone else. What you forget, though, is that you’ll never be able to control everybody that works under those you blackmail. People talk. Things get out that you don’t want out. Like the operation you got in the south side of the city on 10th. Or how about the one three places down from the old warehouse on 5th? I remember you at Anthony’s funeral looking like you actually gave a shit for about two seconds before someone came over, whispered in your ear, and you both left. You went to the old shoe factory, right? Makes sense given
