Rich Blood (Jason Rich #1)(16)

Jana’s hands began to quiver. “He’s lying.”

“Are you going to tell us what happened?” Shay fired back.

Jana shook her head. “Not until Jason gets here.”

Shay shifted her eyes to Sergeant Daniels. Then the prosecutor took a step backward, and Hatty Daniels took her place.

“Jana Rich Waters,” Hatty said, her voice strong, “you are hereby charged with capital murder in unlawfully and intentionally causing the death of your husband, Dr. Braxton Waters.”

Jana’s legs shook, and she sat down on the hard cot. She peered past the woman and the other people in the cell to a spot on the gray cinder block wall. As Hatty continued to speak, Jana became numb, not realizing that tears had begun to slide down her cheeks.

“You have the right to remain silent . . .”





PART THREE





14


The Flora-Bama Lounge and Package Store was one of the most iconic watering holes on the Gulf Coast. Football legends like Kenny “the Snake” Stabler had been known to tie one on at the beachside saloon, and the bar’s annual mullet toss was one of the biggest events on the Florida Panhandle. In his breakthrough novel, The Firm, John Grisham even had Mitch McDeere make a stop at the legendary establishment while being chased down the Redneck Riviera by the Mafia.

Less than a half hour after being discharged from the Perdido Addiction Center, or the PAC, as the residents and staff called it, Jason Rich sat at a table near one of the outdoor stages of the famous bar. From his spot, he could look past the singer and see the emerald waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Jason could almost taste the salt air coming off the breeze.

In every direction, he saw people drinking. Three college girls wearing bikini tops and blue jean cutoffs split a pitcher of margaritas to his right. Behind him, a couple of middle-aged men drank Miller Lite longnecks. And below the stage was a group of fortysomething women all drinking different-colored concoctions with straws in their plastic cups. Cosmopolitans, martinis, kamikazes, tequila shots . . .

Jason turned toward the front of the restaurant. High above the building and about a hundred yards south of the Flora-Bama was a billboard with his smiling mug gazing back at him.

INJURED AT WORK? GET RICH.

On the lower edge of the giant highway poster was a tiny script of legalese that could barely be read from a car but which every attorney advertisement had to include: “No representation is made that our quality of legal services is greater than the quality of legal services performed by other lawyers.”

What bullshit, Jason thought. That was exactly what was being represented. Or at least that was the intent. The hypocrisy of the statement was galling, but all lawyers that wanted to make money had to include it. Whether it was an obnoxious billboard, a television commercial, or a social media post, every plaintiff’s firm that wanted to make a buck advertised why their services were indeed better and then put the magic “we aren’t really saying that” qualifier at the bottom.

A waitress stopped in front of his table. She wore a white tank top with the name of the restaurant embroidered in pink in the middle. She also sported white denim shorts and a blue cap with War Eagle written in orange on the front. “Get you a drink?” she asked.

Jason was struck by so many powerful urges at once. Outside of group therapy sessions and the disciplinary hearing a week ago in Montgomery, he’d spent the past ninety days in almost total isolation. Romantic entanglements with other residents were forbidden at the PAC, but that hadn’t stopped several couples from hooking up.

But Jason had avoided all of it. He’d come to treatment to get away from the world, and any additional relationships would have complicated matters. But now, at the by God Flora-Bama, everything he’d sought to avoid was right in front of his face in all its glory.

Alcohol.

Drugs.

Women.

Sex.

Jason gazed up at the beautiful waitress, who blinked back at him in confusion. “Sir? Get you something? How about a beer?”

“Corona,” Jason finally managed. “With a lime.”

She sashayed away, and Jason shook his head. What am I doing? Why am I here? Do I really want to quit this soon? He envisioned the patronizing face of Winthrop Brooks, the chairman of the state bar’s disciplinary commission. Wouldn’t this little scene make that prick happy?

“I knew your father,” Brooks had said. “The epitome of class . . . and professionalism.”

The comments were meant to be a dig. Lucas Rich was a well-respected member of the Alabama State Bar until his death, everything his tacky son wasn’t.

Jason glanced again at the billboard in the distance.

The waitress placed the cold bottle of beer on his table. “Do you want a menu?”

“No,” Jason said. “Thank you. Just the beer for now.” He lowered his eyes and didn’t watch as she walked away. He studied the Corona, a beer he only drank by the ocean. Kind of like as a kid, he ate Cookie Crisp cereal at the beach because it was the sole time his mom would let him have something besides raisin bran or Total. Corona with a lime. The taste of the tropics. Like the commercials with the couple sitting under the umbrella, each person holding one of the Mexican beers with the scene framed by blue water.

Jason moved his gaze to the only other object on the table. His iPhone. For years, he’d kept the damn thing in his pocket and checked it every couple of minutes. Even while at the urinal, he’d pull out the phone to look at Twitter while he did his business. Though his time in rehab had been awful, the absolute best part was being away from his phone. The constant interruptions. The clutter. The texts, emails, tweets, Insta posts . . . He rarely used the device to make phone calls and doubted anyone else did either.