Read Online Half-Past Dawn by Richard Doetsch - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Doetsch
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the police force, taking a desk job until he could finish law school, all with the understanding and respect of his superiors and the men in homicide.
When Jack graduated, he was a natural for the DA’s office. He was an attorney from the street who could bridge the gap between cops and lawyers. His conviction rate was high, and his reputation grew.
After ten years, he became the natural choice to succeed the retiring district attorney. Handsome, successful, with a beautiful wife in the FBI and two baby girls, he was packaged and sold by the powers-that-be and won his first election by a ten-percent margin. His first year in office saw a rise in investigations and convictions, but his new reality set in after that. As a cop, things were black-and-white; either a crime was committed or it wasn’t. But the DA didn’t just handle crimes of the street. There was the more nuanced realm of white-collar crime, subjective areas where political favors were sought, where things beyond facts and reality came to bear.
In his second year, his office became involved in the unsuccessful pursuit of the real estate industry, while the third dealt with Wall Street—something that further distanced him from his father. In his fourth year, the final year of his term, the powers-that-be were looking for his successor, since they had no tolerance for backing a man who would seek to end their livelihoods. If Jack wanted to remain in office, he would have to play the game.
Jack loved his job. He loved carrying out justice, amassing convictions. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he had enjoyed the limelight, the prestige of the office.
What he had first thought of with disdain eventually lured him in. He had gone out glad-handing, soliciting money, wearing false smiles, and making promises that he knew couldn’t be fulfilled. But it was all in sacrifice to his career, to the job, to getting reelected; the end justifyied the means.
And with his compromised values, Jack realized that he had become his father.
CHAPTER 11
C RISTOS AWOKE WITH THE sun, its warm summer rays spilling across the white sheets, urging him out of bed. For forty-five minutes, he put his body through the fluid motions of an ancient routine taught to him in his youth; it at once worked out the body, the mind, and the soul. The routine was not a martial arts kata or yoga, although its ancient rites found a foothold in both. The sweeping motions of his legs and arms, the delicate balance achieved on a single hand or foot, the inverted crunches and situps, the spiritual emptying of his mind, all combining to awaken his muscles, heart, and spirit, preparing them for the arduous day ahead.
Through years of discipline, pushing himself to the physical limit, Nowaji Cristos had built his body into an instrument of perfection—one of power, capable of not only immense strength but also subtle dexterity and coordination that afforded him the tools to perform his expertise.
Completing his routine, he arose from the floor and looked around the elegantly appointed room, his home for the last five days. The room was masculine, with heavy, dark wood furnishings: an armoire,a nightstand, and a matching dresser filled with recently purchased clothes. He stared at the luxury king-sized bed, his thoughts filling with memories. He had slept on all manner of surfaces, from the beds at the George V hotel in Paris to the jungle floors of Borneo. No matter where he closed his eyes, he could find a restful sleep, free of worry and anxiety, his body thriving on six hours of rest, the circadian rhythm of his mind like a precise clock. For forty-one years, through turmoil, death, and agony, he had never been troubled at night, but this week proved different. His dreams, usually few and far between, had become frequent nightmares, as if all of the dead had returned to exact their vengeance upon him.
With the look of a man fifteen years his junior, no one would have guessed his age.
When Jack graduated, he was a natural for the DA’s office. He was an attorney from the street who could bridge the gap between cops and lawyers. His conviction rate was high, and his reputation grew.
After ten years, he became the natural choice to succeed the retiring district attorney. Handsome, successful, with a beautiful wife in the FBI and two baby girls, he was packaged and sold by the powers-that-be and won his first election by a ten-percent margin. His first year in office saw a rise in investigations and convictions, but his new reality set in after that. As a cop, things were black-and-white; either a crime was committed or it wasn’t. But the DA didn’t just handle crimes of the street. There was the more nuanced realm of white-collar crime, subjective areas where political favors were sought, where things beyond facts and reality came to bear.
In his second year, his office became involved in the unsuccessful pursuit of the real estate industry, while the third dealt with Wall Street—something that further distanced him from his father. In his fourth year, the final year of his term, the powers-that-be were looking for his successor, since they had no tolerance for backing a man who would seek to end their livelihoods. If Jack wanted to remain in office, he would have to play the game.
Jack loved his job. He loved carrying out justice, amassing convictions. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he had enjoyed the limelight, the prestige of the office.
What he had first thought of with disdain eventually lured him in. He had gone out glad-handing, soliciting money, wearing false smiles, and making promises that he knew couldn’t be fulfilled. But it was all in sacrifice to his career, to the job, to getting reelected; the end justifyied the means.
And with his compromised values, Jack realized that he had become his father.
CHAPTER 11
C RISTOS AWOKE WITH THE sun, its warm summer rays spilling across the white sheets, urging him out of bed. For forty-five minutes, he put his body through the fluid motions of an ancient routine taught to him in his youth; it at once worked out the body, the mind, and the soul. The routine was not a martial arts kata or yoga, although its ancient rites found a foothold in both. The sweeping motions of his legs and arms, the delicate balance achieved on a single hand or foot, the inverted crunches and situps, the spiritual emptying of his mind, all combining to awaken his muscles, heart, and spirit, preparing them for the arduous day ahead.
Through years of discipline, pushing himself to the physical limit, Nowaji Cristos had built his body into an instrument of perfection—one of power, capable of not only immense strength but also subtle dexterity and coordination that afforded him the tools to perform his expertise.
Completing his routine, he arose from the floor and looked around the elegantly appointed room, his home for the last five days. The room was masculine, with heavy, dark wood furnishings: an armoire,a nightstand, and a matching dresser filled with recently purchased clothes. He stared at the luxury king-sized bed, his thoughts filling with memories. He had slept on all manner of surfaces, from the beds at the George V hotel in Paris to the jungle floors of Borneo. No matter where he closed his eyes, he could find a restful sleep, free of worry and anxiety, his body thriving on six hours of rest, the circadian rhythm of his mind like a precise clock. For forty-one years, through turmoil, death, and agony, he had never been troubled at night, but this week proved different. His dreams, usually few and far between, had become frequent nightmares, as if all of the dead had returned to exact their vengeance upon him.
With the look of a man fifteen years his junior, no one would have guessed his age.
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