Rich Blood (Jason Rich #1)(23)

17


The car was a midnight-black Porsche 911 convertible. The license plate advertised the brand.

GETRICH.

Jason had been in a fender bender the week before he went to rehab, so he’d taken his other vehicle—a ten-year-old Ford Explorer that he kept for investigation trips where he needed more space.

He had always enjoyed fast cars, and this was the third vehicle made by the German auto manufacturer that he’d owned. He looked at his partner.

“Go,” she said. “I’ll have Harry take the SUV to your place and park it.”

“Thank you, Izzy.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry to have to put you in this spot. It’s not fair, especially after having been gone so long.”

“You never have to apologize to me, Jason Rich. Never. Ever.” She opened the door for him, and he climbed behind the wheel. She shut the door, and he felt the keys being pressed into his hand. When he took them, she closed her hand around his. “I think you’re an idiot for even considering this case, but if you do take it, Harry and I have got your back.”

“I know.”

She released his hand, and he started the car, feeling his energy levels increase with the sound and feel of the engine. He peered up at her.

“Don’t forget who you are,” she said.

He put the car in gear and pressed his foot on the accelerator. The Porsche sprang forward like a pent-up cheetah. He clicked the button that made the top roll back and grinned as a hot breeze flooded his nostrils. As he passed by the Barons’ stadium, he clicked on the radio and hooked up his phone to the Bluetooth. Then he turned the volume up.

The first song on his playlist seemed appropriate for where he was going.

“Highway to Hell,” by AC/DC.

Feeling a combination of exhilaration and fear, he howled up at the sky and pressed the accelerator to the floor.





18


By the time Jason reached his apartment, the euphoria that had gripped him pulling out of his office was gone. The Porsche was only a car, and he was still a thirty-six-year-old divorced alcoholic who would now be practicing law under a zero-tolerance policy and whose sister was batshit crazy, in jail for possibly murdering her husband.

“Be sure to take it slow as you ease back into practice,” Michal had advised in one of their last sessions.

If he took on Jana’s defense, he’d be handling the biggest case of his life. Not exactly following the discharge instructions.

He parked and walked inside. A few moments later, the elevator reached the top and opened into his penthouse condominium. It was an appropriate residence for a wealthy, single attorney. Mountain Brook was the ritziest neighborhood in Birmingham, and his place overlooked the main drag of the village, only a couple of miles from the city’s oldest country club. He enjoyed the game of golf, but being a plaintiff’s attorney didn’t allow for many rounds. His brother-in-law, Dr. Braxton Waters, had been a scratch player. As he began to pack his things in a duffel bag—his suitcase was still in the SUV, and it was probably premature to think of staying more than a couple of nights—and picked a dark suit from his closet, he tried to remember the last time he’d seen Braxton. Christmas four years ago? The lake the summer before? Jason couldn’t be sure. There’d been a time when he was close with Jana’s husband and her two daughters, but that was long ago.

Now Braxton was dead. And what of the girls? Niecy was in college. Had she come home to be with Nola? Where were they staying? Braxton’s parents were deceased, but his mother had a sister who lived in Guntersville. Jason felt guilty for not checking in or returning Nola’s text, but he had to visit Jana before he did anything else.

He zipped up his bag and took a last look around the place. He’d bought the apartment a few weeks after his divorce had been made final and now he wondered if he’d ever spent a single night in the place when he wasn’t drunk or high. The apartment had two bedrooms, but only one was ever used.

The other room contained the boxes that he’d brought with him from the house he and Lakin had shared. Jason leaned against the doorframe and gawked at the cardboard containers, losing himself in painful memories.

They’d been married five years and lived in a two-story brick home in Vestavia. But three and a half years ago, the final decree of their divorce was signed on January 29, 2015. Exactly thirty days later, on the morning of February 28, Jason’s father had suffered a heart attack in the shower. Lucas Rich had been able to crawl to his phone and call an ambulance, but he’d passed before arriving at the hospital.

Nothing had been the same since.

“Jason, let’s talk about what happened with Lakin.” Michal had pushed him in their sessions to explore the hard questions concerning his marriage. “Were there any issues or problems that kept coming up?”

Lakin had wanted kids. Jason couldn’t, or maybe the proper word was wouldn’t, commit to having a family. “Why couldn’t you, Jason?” His therapist asked probing, thoughtful questions about whether the couple’s marital issues were connected in some way to Jason’s family history.

He didn’t have all the answers. All he knew was, at the end of the day and as Jimmy Buffett liked to croon, it was his own damn fault. Had he loved Lakin? Yes, he had. She was a court reporter when they first met. He’d been taking a host of stressful depositions in Nashville, and Lakin was the stenographer. She was good at her job. Witty, funny, and smart. He enjoyed talking with her during breaks in testimony. When the last deposition concluded, he asked her to have a drink on Broadway, which led to dinner, and which resulted in an unforgettable nightcap in his apartment that didn’t end till the following morning.