Eminent Domain Read online

“What you say here stays here.” I could have quoted attorney-client privilege to him, but I didn’t want to muddy the waters. He looked confused enough.

  “Thanks. I’m working on a very nice project. I’m building a pool house for a client. Because it’s a separate building from the house and has plumbing and electricity, I need the building inspector to give it the OK.”

  So why would he need legal help?

  “Simple enough, so what’s the issue?”

  “I was having lunch at the Shack today with another contractor and told him that it’s been almost two weeks and I can’t get the building inspector out to see the project. So he asked me if I had greased the skids. I guess I gave him the deer-in-the-headlights look because he said that it was common practice to give a small donation—under the table of course—to the building inspector’s retirement fund. Then he winked at me.”

  I didn’t like where this was going. Not one bit.

  “A bribe?”

  He nodded. “I guess that’s what it is. Like a hundred or two hundred dollars, depending on the size of the project.”

  I told him to lay low for a few days while I did some research.

  I went to see Judge Jimmy. I needed his advice. This was extortion and here in our little town of Lenore, as in most towns, that’s illegal. And what’s more, here’s this young man, trying to get his business off the ground, and these guys—who are supposed to be in a position of trust—were simply ripping him off. Nope. Not in my town, fellas. I knew my grandfather was looking down at me, smiling.

  With Jimmy’s support, I contacted the state AG’s office. Probing municipal corruption was in their jurisdiction. In a few weeks we had a full-blown investigation of the building inspector’s office. I stayed out of the way. The investigator had also brought along an IRS agent for good measure. Client 1 agreed to wear a wire, and along with the cash being in marked bills, the transaction was recorded, both audio and video. The Perp—as we say in the business—was caught red-handed.

  After he was arrested, he did three things: First, he cried like a baby as he wet himself. Then he admitted to corruption, among other things. And finally, he named all the other co-conspirators. So why is this little blemish on the legacy of Lenore so important? In addition to our friends in the building inspector’s office, our illustrious mayor, Martin Young—whose name also appeared on the infamous building inspector’s list—was indicted. I guess the mayor’s salary wasn’t enough to maintain the lifestyle that he and his wife had envisioned when he was first elected. His palms were as greasy as the burgers at Wally’s Drive-In, which, by the way, are my favorite.

  With Mayor Marty’s untimely departure, Lenore was in the market for a new leader.

  Chapter 2

  So how did the exit-in-disgrace of Mayor Marty affect me? I mean, it shouldn’t have. The problem for me was that our mayor chose to plead not guilty, unlike the others. His defense was that the good folks over at the building inspector’s office were simply making donations to his re-election campaign fund. Uh-huh. So off to trial he went. It didn’t take long for a jury of his peers to convict him.

  So, about me. Client 1 was able to protect his identity. I wasn’t. Many people in our fair town loved Mayor Marty. He had friends in many places, both high and low. Let’s say it was fifty-fifty. About half of Lenore were lined up to pat me on the back, and the other half were out to slash my tires, or run me off the road, or whatever else they could do to get back at me for making these trumped-up charges against their pal Marty. I had been in a rather robust relationship with a Lenore High School biology teacher named Camille Hutton. To this day I find it so ironic considering my less than stellar history with high school biology. I still had no interest in growing plants or dissecting frogs, and she knew diddly-squat about the law, but we did have one thing in common. Neither one of us was looking for that walk-down-the-aisle ending. We were just two carnally expressive adults sharing a common interest. I know I was enjoying it. I found out when she ended our relationship that her father was besties with Mayor Marty. Daddy still had control over his little girl. Apparently, he called me a lowlife shyster or words to that effect. I guess blood is thicker than water. In addition to having my sex life abruptly interrupted, what Mayor Marty’s supporters did to me that hurt more than anything else was they stopped using my expert legal services. There I go again, using that term “expert.” The pain only lasted for a short time. Many of those good citizens who patted me on the back, thinking I must be a good, honest, and trustworthy lawyer, eventually became my clients. The reality was that I now had some enemies. Not only people who hated my guts over the Marty affair, but certain people who labeled me—unjustly so in my opinion—a troublemaker. Someone not to be trusted. Someone to be watched carefully. My grandfather was right, sometimes integrity comes at a high price.

  So, who would replace Mayor Marty? According to municipal law, certain vacant positions could be filled by appointment. But not the lofty position of mayor. There had to be a by- election. Mayor Marty had run unopposed for his final two terms and the last one—as you now know—was interrupted. I think the entire town was shocked when two—yes two—candidates emerged. I know I was.

  Candidate number one, and I’ll list them in alphabetical order, was David Spencer. I didn’t know a lot about him, but after meeting him for the first time, I liked him. I thought him to be honest, sincere, and hardworking—all the traits needed to run the enterprise that was the town of Lenore. He had served two terms on the Catholic school board. Not a lot of experience, but with a strong staff behind him, I thought he’d make a good mayor. Early on, at least in my head, I committed my vote to him. I even gave him my financial support, not exceeding the maximum allowed by law, of course.

  Then there was the second candidate. Warren Winfield. I knew of him mostly by reputation. He had been a council member for three terms and a two-term member of the utilities board. To put it bluntly, he had been one of Mayor Marty’s boys. Just to make sure I gave him a fair shake, due diligence as it’s called, I attended a Vote for Warren rally. Read: fundraiser. He was a good-looking man. Like, Hollywood good-looking. Medium-brown hair, graying slightly around the temples to give him that experienced, but not old, look. He stood about six feet tall, maybe a smidge taller. Just tall enough, but not gangly looking. Clean-shaven, not that hip five o’clock stubble look. I wish I looked as good as he looked in a navy pin-striped suit. And the teeth. I’m certain that his dentist was now in a much higher tax bracket because of Candidate Winfield. And wouldn’t you know it, he had the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, like that shade of blue that you see on postcards showing the Mediterranean Sea, glistening in the sun.

  How would I know his eyes were that blue? Candidate Winfield shook the hand of every attendee at his “rally” to make sure he could count on their vote and—just as importantly—their financial support. He spent about thirty seconds of face time with me too. When he came over and introduced himself, I didn’t give him my name. He probably already knew. His “people” pretty much had the name of everyone who was there, and I’m sure they connected me to the Mayor Marty affair. He should have thanked me. After all, if I hadn’t upset Mayor Marty’s apple cart, Warren wouldn’t have had the opportunity to become mayor of Lenore. Who knows? Mayor Marty could have hung on for decades. You’re welcome, Warren!

  After he shook my hand, I had this uncontrollable urge to run into the men’s room and scrub my hands with lye soap. And worse, after he moved on to re-enact the same introduction and handshake with the next voter slash donor, his scent lingered. Now don’t get me wrong, I love it when you’ve been with a woman, whatever that means to you, and her scent is still in the air hours after she’s gone. But in this case, it reminded me of how the smell of fried fish will hang around your house for days after being cooked. I don’t know what it was, Hai Karate or Brut or some really nasty stuff. Maybe the women liked it, but it made my eyes water and my sinuses go crazy. I got out of there as quickly as I could. I needed to take a shower. And no, I did not leave a check in support of his candidacy.

  The one thing that has always stuck in my head, and I don’t know why, was Candidate Winfield’s wife. They didn’t seem to be a match, or even close to it. Now, I’m aware that many people thought that Sarah and I were a mismatch. And they were right. Mrs. Anne Winfield was not what you’d expect. She wasn’t overweight or ugly or anything like that. Anne Winfield was plain. Just plain. When I first saw her hug the candidate, I thought maybe she was part of his campaign staff. Nope. The wife. The doting, “I’ll be here for you no matter what, we’re going to win this thing together” wife. Everything about her was nondescript. I can’t remember the color of her hair or her dress. Nothing. I was looking for the trophy wife. Maybe someone like my ex, Sarah. Although the thought of her being Mrs. Warren Winfield made me laugh. It would be a constant battle as to who was the prettiest, Warren or Sarah. As hateful as this sounds, I thought Mrs. Winfield would be what the third-place finisher would get, the consolation prize. I knew for sure I was going to hell.

  The campaign was over before it started. All of former Mayor Marty’s folks were solidly behind Candidate Winfield. The women loved him. Even Peel. She thought he was a “doll.” I told her that’s not why you vote for someone, but I think she voted for him anyway.

  My candidate, David Spencer, didn’t stand a chance. It was a drubbing. Mayor-elect Winfield graciously accepted David’s concession call. Looking back, that might have been the last gracious thing our new mayor ever did.

  Out of all of this, something really good transpired. I had a new friend, David Spencer.

  Chapter 3

  Due to an odd quirk with the municipal laws, our new mayor not only got to finish out Mayor Marty’s abbreviated term, he also got his own two-year term. I guess the lawmakers were concerned about the cost of mayoral elections back in 1931, when the law was enacted, well before the tax revenue was flowing like sangria at a Cinco de Mayo festival.

  Mayor Winfield inherited a lot from Mayor Marty. A newly decorated office at town hall, for one. I was never granted an official audience with our new mayor, so I’m unable to offer a firsthand appraisal of his base of operations. I’m told there were three words often used to describe his office: lavish, extravagant, and expensive. Apparently, it had all the trappings that I had envisioned for my office before Peel burst that bubble and brought me back to reality. I was told that there was so much shiny brass one had to wear sunglasses when first entering the mayor’s version of the Taj Mahal. Mayor Marty also bequeathed him a two-year-old Lincoln Navigator with a full-time driver slash bodyguard, Merle Atkinson. Ol’ Merle had been transporting a Lenore mayor from place to place for many years. He may have been a great driver, but at five foot six, about 230 pounds, and turning sixty-three on his next birthday, a bodyguard he was not. No one knew for sure if Merle even carried a weapon he could use to defend the mayor’s safety. And the reality was that in a town like Lenore, the mayor’s well-being was seldom, if ever, at risk.

  Maybe the best of Mayor Marty’s estate, as I liked to call it, was that our new mayor inherited all his predecessor’s loyalties on the town council. The new mayor would probably have agreed, although I never got the chance to ask him. There were eight council members. The mayor would only vote to break a tie, which hadn’t happened even once during Mayor Marty’s reign. And that was because five of the council members, and let’s call them the Crew, had been in his pocket. Since he didn’t have to campaign himself, Mayor Marty was able to campaign on behalf of his peeps. The five disciples owed their respective positions to him, and he made sure that not one of them ever forgot it. Especially when it came time to vote on any matters near and dear to the mayor’s heart.

  Now, Mayor Winfield enjoyed the same loyalty. Again, he didn’t have to campaign after he completed Mayor Marty’s term. He followed the same path. And, with his help, four council members were re-elected and the fifth was elected for the first time, replacing a retired member. And he ruled his crew with an iron hand. His endorsement of their future re-election campaigns was never guaranteed and they knew it. He met with them regularly, with the other three council members excluded. He gave the Crew information he didn’t give to the Outsiders, as I started to call them. He didn’t need their votes. He didn’t care how they felt about issues. He simply ignored them. They would meet unofficially to vent their frustrations, knowing that their situation was a result of a numbers game and little could be done to change it. With tax revenues at an all-time high, the Crew voted themselves a nice raise. Rumor had it that one of the Outsiders refused to accept his newfound wealth. He had the additional funds sent to the animal shelter, where his wife served as a volunteer. Oh, I almost forgot: the council voted to give the mayor a 40 percent pay increase. It wasn’t necessary for the mayor to vote or recuse himself from voting on his own raise. There was no tie.

  Mayor Winfield added to his office’s scope of control. He owned the local newspaper. I mean, he didn’t own it in the conventional sense. The editor/owner, Clifford Parks, was the husband of his newest crew member, #5, Mrs. Dana Parks. Not that I cared. Honestly, I didn’t have the time to follow local politics. Didn’t have the temperament either. Up to this point I had been to one council meeting, to represent a client who had applied for a property separation so he could build his son a new home. His son was a wounded military veteran. The property committee had approved it. I attended the meeting to lobby on behalf of my client, if necessary. It wasn’t. The vote was 8–0 in favor. But, to tell you the truth, I was bored out of my mind. I never went back, until I got a call from David Spencer. And that’s how I found out about the raises.

  I remember it was a Tuesday afternoon around four thirty. Peel put the call through.

  “Hello, David. What’s on your mind?”

  Most of his calls were of a nonessential variety. More often than not he was calling to shoot the breeze.

  “I thought I’d give my favorite attorney a call.”

  “I’d better be your only attorney.”

  And so, the banter began.

  “What are you doing this evening?”

  “David, are you asking me out . . . on a date?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Does your beautiful wife know about your secret life?”

  “Oh, sure. She encourages it. Gets me out of the house more often.”

  I realized that I was having far too great an influence on this fine, upstanding gentleman. He was starting to sound like me.

  “So, what have you got in mind?”

  “Are you busy . . . say around seven?”

  “I’m afraid so, David. I have clients until six thirty. Then I’m having dinner with a beautiful woman at seven. Hopefully by nine I’ll be making her fantasies about me come true.”

  “Liar.”

  Sometimes in our back-and-forth we have an unspoken contest: whoever laughs first loses. I lost this round.

  “You’re right. I look at my appointment book for this evening and I get snow blindness.”

  “Meet me at town hall at seven.”

  “Why?”

  “Good stuff at the council meeting.”

  “Good maybe, but certainly not interesting. The last time I was there I was bored out of my mind.”

  David pressed on. “Nothing boring about tonight, Counselor. Wouldn’t you like to see our elected officials at work?”

  “I hardly think what they do is work.”

  For me, looking forward to attending a council meeting was a lot like getting excited about a root canal. Watching grass grow held more excitement for me.

  “For every thirty minutes you stay, I’ll buy you a beer.”

  “Are you trying to bribe an officer of the court, David?”

  “I am.”

  My response was immediate and totally expected.

  “Agreed.”

  “You might want to get there before seven. No one gets in or out after that. Mayor’s orders.”

  “We mustn’t keep the mayor waiting.”

  Chapter 4

  My first visit in several years to the inner sanctum that was our council chambers was an eye-opener to say the least. David and I entered the hallowed hall shortly before seven. And on the dot, the doors closed. Obviously, Mayor Winfield ran a tight ship and I like that. My old friend Lenore Police Sergeant Len Stuckey stood guard to make sure no riffraff came or went after the appointed hour. We didn’t speak or even acknowledge each other. Calling him my friend is probably a tad strong. We were acquainted, shall we say, professionally. He would never forgive me for making a fool out of him in court more than once. It was just too easy. How he made the rank of sergeant I will never know or understand. He was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Not sure he was even in the drawer. Maybe the fact that he was the chief’s brother-in-law had something to do with it.

  Within a few minutes, the lights in the balcony magically dimmed and the lights over the long, curved council desk came on, illuminating the room as if a centuries-old religious ritual were about to take place. Then the council members solemnly filed in procession-like. All eight of them; five for the Crew and three for the Outsiders. I’m not sure if there was a dress code for the members, but they were all suited up, including the newest member, Mrs. Dana Parks, who was wearing a dark blazer and white blouse. I have to admit that I was initially somewhat impressed. Apparently, some serious matters lay ahead and they were dressed accordingly. There was a high-backed, red velvet chair slightly elevated and strategically placed in the middle of the long desk. A light behind the chair made it glow. Facing the balcony, four members of the Crew sat to the left of the middle seat, with the fifth seated directly to the right. The Outsiders occupied the remaining seats to the right. After a pause of a few seconds that felt like ten minutes, Mayor Winfield made his grand entrance. All that was missing was the playing of “Hail to the Chief.” He was wearing a navy-blue robe, trimmed in white braid, with the gold chain of office carefully placed around his neck. Later, I would refer to it as the hangman’s noose. He didn’t simply take a seat, he ascended to the throne. That most handsome of men looked so regal. I was waiting for the Crew to kiss the ring, but they had probably already done that in private.