Read Online The Brethren by John Grisham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Grisham
Tags: Fiction, legal thriller
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It had been his passion in another life, and at Trumble he was known as a fellow who watched Washington. He was one of the few who cared what happened there.
Aaron Lake? Beech had missed the guy. What an odd strategy, to enter the race as an unknown after New Hampshire. Never a shortage of clowns who want to be President.
Beech’s wife kicked him out before he pled guilty to two counts of manslaughter. Quite naturally, she was angrier over the naked woman than the dead hikers. The kids sided with her because she had the money and because he’d screwed up so badly. It was an easy decision on their part. The divorce was final a week after he arrived at Trumble.
His youngest had been to see him twice in three years, one month, and one week. Both visits were on the sly, lest the mother find out about them. She had prohibited the kids from going to Trumble.
Then he got sued, two wrongful death casesbrought by the families. With no friends willing to step forward, he’d tried to defend himself from prison. But there wasn’t much to defend. A judgment of $5 million had been entered against him by the trial court. He appealed from Trumble, lost from Trumble, and appealed again.
In the chair beside him, next to his cigarettes, was an envelope brought earlier by Trevor, the lawyer. The court had rejected his final appeal. The judgment was now written in stone.
Didn’t really matter, because he’d also filed for bankruptcy. He’d typed the papers himself in the law library and filed them with a pauper’s oath, sent them to the same courthouse in Texas where he was once a god.
Convicted, divorced, disbarred, imprisoned, sued, bankrupt.
Most of the losers at Trumble handled their time because their falls had been so short. Most were repeat offenders who’d blown third and fourth chances. Most liked the damned place because it was better than any other prison they’d visited.
But Beech had lost so much, had fallen so far. Just four years ago he’d had a wife with millions and three kids who loved him and a big home in a small town. He was a federal judge, appointed by the President for life, making $140,000 a year, which was a lot less than her oil royalties but still not a bad salary. He got himself called to Washington twice a year for meetings at Justice. Beech had been important.
An old lawyer friend had been to see him twice, on his way to Miami where he had kids, and he stayedlong enough to deliver the gossip. Most of it was worthless, but there was a strong rumor that the ex-Mrs. Beech was now seeing someone else. With a few million bucks and slender hips it was only a matter of time.
Another ad. Lake Before It’s Too Late again. This one began with a grainy video of men with guns slithering through the desert, dodging and shooting and undergoing some type of training. Then the sinister face of a terrorist—dark eyes and hair and features, obviously some manner of Islamic radical—and he said in Arabic with English subtitles, “We will kill Americans wherever we find them. We will die in our holy war against the great Satan.” After that, quick videos of burning buildings. Embassy bombings. A busload of tourists. The remains of a jetliner scattered through a pasture.
A handsome face appeared, Mr. Aaron Lake himself. He looked directly at Hatlee Beech and said, “I’m Aaron Lake, and you probably don’t know me. I’m running for President because I’m scared. Scared of China and Eastern Europe and the Middle East. Scared of a dangerous world. Scared of what’s happened to our military. Last year the federal government had a huge surplus, yet spent less on defense than we did fifteen years ago. We’re complacent because our economy is strong, but the world today is far more dangerous than we realize. Our enemies are legion, and we cannot protect ourselves. If elected, I will double defense spending during my term of office.”
No smiles, no warmth. Just plain talk from a manwho meant what he said. A
Aaron Lake? Beech had missed the guy. What an odd strategy, to enter the race as an unknown after New Hampshire. Never a shortage of clowns who want to be President.
Beech’s wife kicked him out before he pled guilty to two counts of manslaughter. Quite naturally, she was angrier over the naked woman than the dead hikers. The kids sided with her because she had the money and because he’d screwed up so badly. It was an easy decision on their part. The divorce was final a week after he arrived at Trumble.
His youngest had been to see him twice in three years, one month, and one week. Both visits were on the sly, lest the mother find out about them. She had prohibited the kids from going to Trumble.
Then he got sued, two wrongful death casesbrought by the families. With no friends willing to step forward, he’d tried to defend himself from prison. But there wasn’t much to defend. A judgment of $5 million had been entered against him by the trial court. He appealed from Trumble, lost from Trumble, and appealed again.
In the chair beside him, next to his cigarettes, was an envelope brought earlier by Trevor, the lawyer. The court had rejected his final appeal. The judgment was now written in stone.
Didn’t really matter, because he’d also filed for bankruptcy. He’d typed the papers himself in the law library and filed them with a pauper’s oath, sent them to the same courthouse in Texas where he was once a god.
Convicted, divorced, disbarred, imprisoned, sued, bankrupt.
Most of the losers at Trumble handled their time because their falls had been so short. Most were repeat offenders who’d blown third and fourth chances. Most liked the damned place because it was better than any other prison they’d visited.
But Beech had lost so much, had fallen so far. Just four years ago he’d had a wife with millions and three kids who loved him and a big home in a small town. He was a federal judge, appointed by the President for life, making $140,000 a year, which was a lot less than her oil royalties but still not a bad salary. He got himself called to Washington twice a year for meetings at Justice. Beech had been important.
An old lawyer friend had been to see him twice, on his way to Miami where he had kids, and he stayedlong enough to deliver the gossip. Most of it was worthless, but there was a strong rumor that the ex-Mrs. Beech was now seeing someone else. With a few million bucks and slender hips it was only a matter of time.
Another ad. Lake Before It’s Too Late again. This one began with a grainy video of men with guns slithering through the desert, dodging and shooting and undergoing some type of training. Then the sinister face of a terrorist—dark eyes and hair and features, obviously some manner of Islamic radical—and he said in Arabic with English subtitles, “We will kill Americans wherever we find them. We will die in our holy war against the great Satan.” After that, quick videos of burning buildings. Embassy bombings. A busload of tourists. The remains of a jetliner scattered through a pasture.
A handsome face appeared, Mr. Aaron Lake himself. He looked directly at Hatlee Beech and said, “I’m Aaron Lake, and you probably don’t know me. I’m running for President because I’m scared. Scared of China and Eastern Europe and the Middle East. Scared of a dangerous world. Scared of what’s happened to our military. Last year the federal government had a huge surplus, yet spent less on defense than we did fifteen years ago. We’re complacent because our economy is strong, but the world today is far more dangerous than we realize. Our enemies are legion, and we cannot protect ourselves. If elected, I will double defense spending during my term of office.”
No smiles, no warmth. Just plain talk from a manwho meant what he said. A
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