Eminent Domain Read online

  To:

  Janet, Adam, and Alex

  and

  Carmen and Primrose

  em·i·nent do·main

  noun

  the right of a government or its agent to expropriate private property for public use, with payment of compensation

  Prologue

  Thanks for the opportunity to share my side of the story. Up until now I have been unable to talk about certain incidents, under threat of severe consequences, but over the past few months events have taken place that will allow me to discuss virtually everything that happened. It’s been almost a year and a half, and the dust has pretty much settled. I’ll tell you what I know about the situations that led up to my involvement in the affair, and the final outcome, of which you probably have some idea. I’ll leave it up to you to decide if I’m credible and if what I tell you is the truth.

  Before I start, I need to issue a disclaimer, a warning if you like. I have a split personality. But I’m not in Sybil’s league. I just have two. If you were to ask my friends, they might tell you I can be somewhat of a smart-ass. As sobering as this story is, there are times, mostly on an involuntary basis, I’ll allow levity to overtake gravity. Describing me as irreverent wouldn’t be inaccurate. But I also have this internal switch that I don’t control. At a moment’s notice I can go from the wisecracking jokester, make a 180-degree turn, and become a serious sonofabitch lawyer, taking no prisoners. I guess what they say about Geminis is true. Both of me would concur.

  Things really took off because of two innocuous words of legalese. Just two. Get comfortable; it’s a rather convoluted story that takes place over several years. I think it’s best if I start at the beginning.

  My name is Brett Simmons. I’m a lawyer. Self-employed, a sole practitioner for most of my professional life. I grew up in Lenore, at least until my junior year of high school. Lenore is Hoosier country. You can find us in the southernmost part of Indiana, halfway between Evansville and Louisville, about a three hours’ drive down from Indianapolis. My father was transferred literally across the country. He got a promotion and a significant raise. It was absolutely the right thing for him to do, but at the time, as a seventeen-year-old, I didn’t think so. Devastated would aptly describe my emotional state. I had to leave my friends, the ones I had grown up with; my grandparents on my father’s side, with whom I spent more time than at home; and, most importantly, Mallory McCutcheon, the love of my life, or so I thought. She was heartbroken for at least forty-eight hours, and that’s when Steve Halson asked her out. I’m not sure I ever got over it. But that’s another story.

  There were some heroes in my life. My dad and my mother, each in their own way. They raised six children, teaching us independence and the value of hard work while allowing us to pursue our individual dreams, whatever they might be. We didn’t always get what we wanted, but we always had what we needed. My grandmother was a jewel, a godly woman. She taught me grace under fire, and what Christian values I have today came mostly from her. But I’m afraid I never mastered her belief in turning the other cheek. Then there was my grandfather. He taught me so much, like how to change a tire and the difference between a Phillips-head and a slotted screwdriver. But the things I cherish the most: he taught me that character is what you are when you think no one is looking; that personal integrity, though seldom free, should stand above all else. And just as important: personal accountability—taking responsibility for your actions. On yet another level, he taught me the art of swearing. Not just the words themselves, but what words to use in which situations, his version of PC, the protocol of cussing. As I proceed with my story, many of the things he taught me will become evident. I hope I do him proud! By the way, he also showed me how to chew tobacco. I never caught on to that skill. After my first session I threw up for like three days, hurling things I had eaten at least six months before. Never touched the stuff again, which was probably his plan all along. I miss him. I think about him every day. But I do feel his presence.

  So I confidently, if not naively, entered adulthood fully armed, or so I believed, against anything life would throw at me.

  A major influence in my young life was our family doctor, Robert McHugh. I loved that man. He put eight stitches in my leg and four above my left eye. You can barely see the scar. He cauterized a blood vessel in my nose, several times. He signed off on my physical so I could play safety for the Lenore High School football team, at 135 pounds, soaking wet, in pads. The way people spoke about him made it sound like he was headed for sainthood, and I wanted to be just like him. That was, until I ran headlong into math and science. They were not my friends, nor would they ever be. My biology teacher once described trying to teach me botany and zoology was like trying to flog a dead horse. That was the attaboy I needed. One rainy Saturday afternoon, with my grass-cutting chores postponed and little else to do, I watched a marathon of old Perry Mason shows. I was on to something. After four years of undergraduate studies, where I learned the complexities of competitive beer drinking, three more years of law school, where I further honed my beer-drinking proficiency, I ended up right back where I started. My parents had arranged for me to join the public defender’s office in my adopted hometown. Nope. I wanted to come back to Lenore. All of my childhood friends had escaped from Lenore, never to return again. Not me. Although not quite as dramatic as the Prodigal Son, I came back. Probably a shrink would tell you that I chose Lenore because I wanted to show Mallory McCutcheon what I had become. There might be some truth to that.

  I was introduced to Jimmy Hollins, my grandfather’s lawyer. We hit it off. His practice was expanding and I needed a job. It was a good fit, as they say. I started my law career in a tiny, windowless office that had once been a storage closet, at 310 West Main Street, which runs into Lenore’s town square, which is really a circle. The sign out front read, “James B. Hollins and Associates, Attorneys-at-Law.” The James was Jimmy of course, and I correctly assumed the “Associates,” plural, was me.

  Life was good. I met Sarah at a library fundraiser. At first I thought she was snooty, beautiful, but a little full of herself, and later she told me she thought I was a bit of a buffoon. I was totally wrong about her other than the fact she was indeed beautiful. But her assessment of me was right on the money. I asked her out twice that evening. I got a no both times. I heard somewhere that the third time’s a charm. Nope. It was a few weeks later that I was having lunch at the Chelsea, alone, when she stopped at my table and, to my surprise, asked if she could join me. Apparently, there were no tables available and she didn’t want to wait. I guess my table was the least offensive of the other choices she had. About halfway through the meal, the buffoon in me rose to the surface and I asked her, since this was our first date, would she have dinner with me for our second. It must have totally stunned her because she said yes, but only if she could choose the restaurant. I agreed. And from that day forward, our choice of eateries rested squarely on her shoulders.

  Marital bliss lasted about two years, give or take. She was into most things I wasn’t. Like sushi, chick flicks and yoga, just to name a few. There was little mutual interest in each other’s careers. I guess our parting of the ways was inevitable. I found out that opposites do attract, but not permanently. I also found out, through an anonymous note left under the windshield wiper blade of my ’72 Plymouth Duster, that the frequent trips she was taking to her hometown of Wendover, to visit her sick grandmother, were simply opportunities to shack up with her former high school sweetheart. Sadly, I never got that chance with Mallory McCutcheon. But I digress. Apparently, Sarah and the co-respondent, as he was called in the divorce hearing, rekindled the old flame at a high school reunion. They have thre
e kids and are living happily ever after. In hindsight, I can say better him than me.

  Although the split with Sarah stung a little, felt mostly by my ego, I recovered quickly and moved on. I wasn’t about to become a monk living a vow of celibacy in a mountaintop monastery. Nope. Unlike Humpty Dumpty, I was able to put the pieces back together and commit all my energies to becoming a better advocate for my clients. I was well on my way to making that happen when, for whatever reason, I inadvertently took a look behind the curtain. Not just any curtain. The wrong one. I saw things I shouldn’t have seen and soon found myself embroiled in a conspiracy that would take me down a dangerous path of lies, deceit, and murder.

  This is a story of a small town and one lawyer’s crusade to preserve its innocence. This is my story and it’s time for me to tell it.

  Chapter 1

  What Lenore was and what the town has become is critical to the story. For me, my town was Mayberry. We didn’t have an Andy Taylor, but we did have Barney Fife. More than one. For generations, Lenore was a lazy bedroom town about thirty-five miles from the bustling metropolis of King City, the seat for the mostly agricultural county of Dunham, one of ninety-two counties in Indiana. I was a villager, which meant I grew up within the boundaries of the original village of Lenore, founded in 1871. Being called a villager was not always a compliment, particularly coming from the rich folks who lived in the newer, more affluent subdivisions that seemed to be springing up everywhere. As King City grew, so did Lenore. We used to walk the old radial car tracks from the south end of town all the way north to Riddell Road, near the school. The radial car service ended in the 1930s. The new railroad—citing a lack of economic viability—didn’t come this far, at least not until Westlake Industries purchased several hundred acres of farmland northeast of town and built a huge factory some seventy years later. Westlake apparently signed a multimillion-dollar deal with the air force to supply military aircraft parts. The land was cheap, the railroad was willing to extend its line beyond King City, and, just as importantly, Lenore was advertised as a great place to live and raise a family. Amen to that!

  Unfortunately, along with all that growth came changes that were not always well received by the townsfolk. Big-box stores, endless rows of townhouses, apartment complexes, older buildings being torn down and new buildings going up everywhere you looked, which takes us to our first scandal. Well, maybe not the first in the town’s history, but the first that involved an attorney named Brett Simmons. That would be me.

  The mayor at the time, Martin Young, was thrilled about Westlake, the air force, and all the trappings. It meant growth, which in turn meant a bigger tax base and therefore more of other people’s money he and his cronies could spend. There were no term limits for mayor in Lenore. For two successive elections, his fifth and sixth terms, he took credit for putting the deal together, which of course was total nonsense, and most people knew it. The only thing he got involved in was the ground-breaking and the ribbon-cutting ceremonies. Come election time there weren’t any races for mayor of Lenore. No one chose to run against him.

  So, where does Brett Simmons fit in?

  First, I’ll give you a brief résumé of my law career. I had a marvelous relationship with my partner, Jimmy Hollins. Don’t read too much into that. I never got the chance to make full partner. We had a great five-year run together, with partnership imminent, practicing all kinds of law. We represented clients in real estate, civil, corporate, criminal, and juvenile law. And speaking of juvenile, I was still “and Associates” when our longtime juvenile court judge, Livingston Metcalfe, was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Actually, it was another part of his anatomy that was caught, and he wasn’t going for Oreos. He had given a pretty juvenile offender probation along with community service, which turned out to be servicing His Honor.

  Her parents found out and there he stood, with his pants around his ankles, figuratively speaking. She was only fifteen, which is the time we all figured he’d get after he pleaded guilty. He got only nine years. He was out in six, never to be heard from again.

  The state AG’s office, that being the attorney general, offered the position on the bench to one James B. Hollins. In my humble opinion they didn’t always make wise choices, but in this case they did, given Jimmy’s experience in juvenile law and his overall high regard in the community. And he also made the wise choice to accept. So, where did that leave me? For one, I could no longer practice juvenile law in Judge Jimmy’s courtroom. Conflict of interest and all that. I was left as a sole practitioner in this grand profession. The best part for me was that I was able to convince my assistant, Emma Roberts, whom I addressed as Peel, to stay with me. I was in love with Diana Rigg, who played Emma Peel on the Avengers in the ’60s—my favorite era. So Peel it was and is. If she had a problem with it, she never said.

  I recognized early on that I needed Peel more than she needed me. I learned about the law and courtroom protocol from Jimmy. More than was ever taught at law school. And I will forever be grateful to him. But it was Peel who educated me on how to run a law office; how a small-town law office is supposed to appear, particularly from our clients’ perspective; and most importantly what it shouldn’t look like. I envisioned taking up my lofty position behind a highly polished cherry desk about the size of an aircraft carrier, with a matching credenza. My chair would be plush, in black leather, and when I sat down, I would sink into its richness while still retaining that height advantage over my clients seated on the other side of the USS Brett Simmons. The visitor chairs would be red leather Queen Anne chairs.

  Nope.

  Peel found an adequately sized oak desk, used. My chair was one of those ergonomic jobs with far too many buttons and knobs. Used. The credenza almost matched. Again, used. She found my visitor chairs, which had probably graced a doctor’s office several years or decades earlier, at a flea market. I wanted an in tray and an out tray. “Too trashy looking,” she said. I wanted sophisticated elegance but she argued for understated functionality. I treated clients’ files a little too casually, according to Peel. She would rescue those documents and place them in the filing cabinets so they could be easily accessed the next time. My name was on the sign, but it was Peel’s show. She was the driver and I was just a passenger along for the ride, from the very beginning of our venture together, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  The Office of Brett Simmons, Esq., was located at 160 North Bridge Street, on the first floor of an older two-story building, conveniently within walking distance of the courthouse, which also housed the municipal offices. Peel and I occupied suite 104. The term “suite” might be a stretch. As you entered the reception area your eyes would immediately find Peel’s desk—a hand-me-down from Jimmy’s office. To the right of her desk a short hallway led to my office, the small conference room, and the kitchen area. The bathroom facility was next to the rear door. Initially I thought of the place as small and cramped. Eventually I found it to be quaint and cozy, the perfect place for a small-town lawyer. Kudos again to Peel.

  The paint on my custom-made shingle was barely dry and there was nothing but vacancies in my appointment book when my first client came into my office. Apparently, he didn’t feel the need for an appointment, and although there was no sign indicating walk-ins were welcome, at this stage I was fine with that. It was late on a Friday. Peel and I were winding down after a not-so-hectic week of providing the good citizens of Lenore with expert legal help, of which so far no one had taken advantage. And legally, of course, I was not allowed to say that I was an expert at anything. So, when I say it, that’s just between you and me.

  I remember the look on her face when she came into my office.

  “Mr. Simmons, there’s someone here to see you.”

  “Peel, why are you calling me Mr. Simmons?”

  She whispered, “He might be a client.”

  I was unable to mask my enthusiasm. “Well then, sho
w him in.”

  The man was obviously a blue-collar type. A beige work shirt with that little opening down the side of the pocket where you can put one of those oversized carpenter pencils, dark brown cargo pants, and not-so-new work boots, probably steel-toed. He stood maybe six feet tall or a little more, with a high and tight military haircut. He was about thirty years old.

  We shook hands. “I’m Brett Simmons. How can I help you?”

  “I own a business and I want to incorporate, or whatever you call it.”

  “We can certainly do that for you. How did you hear about us?”

  That was the royal “us,” of course.

  “My wife knows Judge Hollins’s daughter, Meghan. She recommended you.”

  I would call Meghan later and thank her. I must confess, I had a thing for Jimmy’s youngest daughter. She was beautiful. Still is. The problem was that I was treated like family, which would make her my almost sister and, with all the impure thoughts I had about her, makes it the nearest thing to incest. Yikes, I knew I was going straight to hell.

  I asked him some background questions, he wrote me a check for $900, and in about a week or so I caused my first client to be incorporated. Of course, the $900 would barely put a dent into what I had spent on the office, the furniture, the fax, the phones—all the stuff successful law offices need. But it was a start.

  I didn’t know if I’d ever see Client 1 again. I hoped he’d need further legal services down the road. He came back much sooner than I thought. Turned out he needed help barely a month later.

  ***

  “I need to talk to somebody, Mr. Simmons.” He looked scared.

  “Are you in any trouble?” I noticed small beads of sweat forming on his upper lip.

  “Not sure. It’s really a situation that I don’t know how to handle.”