John Crox Legal Thriller 01-Cursed Lawyer Read online

  THE CURSED LAWYER

  A Legal Thriller

  FREYA ATWOOD

  Edited by

  GAIL NKOPURUK

  Contents

  About the book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Extended Story

  Also by Freya Atwood

  Loved this book so far?

  About the Author

  Two Exciting Gifts Await You

  Thank you for purchasing my book! It means so much to me and it strongly encourages me to keep writing.

  As a gift for your loyalty, I have written a book for you called “The Price of Justice”. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get it for free by clicking this link here.

  And let me not forget about a second gift that you can get for free on Amazon!

  “Pursuit of Justice” is available for all of you by clicking this link here.

  Freya Atwood

  About the book

  WHEN THE TOWN’S priest dies in a brutal act of murder, a homeless woman is the only suspect. There is no evidence, no proof, except a surveillance video showing her running away.

  After the death of his wife and daughters, John Crox started a non-profit law firm, desperate to help innocents. When news of the priest’s murder travel around town, John decides that he’ll help Camilla, the suspect.

  The case looks hopeless. The woman is impulsive, uncooperative, and the authorities have an agenda. But as John and his friends investigate the church, they find a mysterious cult could be responsible…

  Chapter 1

  WHEN YOU’VE HIT rock bottom, everything feels absolutely pointless. Why bother living, why bother trying to do anything that has some sort of impact on your self-care or health choices. Nothing really matters to me. Not anymore, not after everything.

  Staring at the reflection on the window beside me, I realize that it looks nothing like me. My hair is disheveled, and I haven’t shaved in so long. The smile on my face looks foreign, out of place. Like something that is not meant to be there. With how I feel inside, I am certain it is not. A car blare its horns at me, the driver yelling something which I don’t quite catch as he speeds beside me.

  I’m tempted to yell back but the car is far gone.

  I walk a few more blocks, doing my best to stay upright. I feel the alcohol swirling in my system, and I instantly regret it. I have had more than enough for one night, and yet I am on my way to a second bar. I didn’t leave the house with the car, mostly because I was already tipsy when I left, and I certainly do not want the police bothering me for my drinking.

  I turn to look at my reflection in the window of a clothing store, and I see a mannequin in a suit, one which is eerily similar to a suit I have at home. The reflection in the glass shakes its head at me, “That’s all you do these days, drink and drink.”

  It is my voice; it is my mind talking to me. “Well what do you want me to do?! What do you want from me?!” I yell back. “I can’t sleep! I . . . I can’t eat, I can’t...I don’t...I don’t want to remember.”

  I turn and begin walking, and the heavens above me flash with lightning as it begins to rain. I spot a nearby building, and realize that it is a church, offering temporary relief from the weather.

  I move as quickly as I can, hoping the doors are not locked before I can cross the street to it. As I step into the building, a brilliant flash of lightning illuminates the world behind me and the pews ahead of me. A lot of the people inside have just run in from the rain, but closer to the front are those who are actually attending service. I glare at them, wondering how they can believe in a divine power. If there is, he certainly does not care about the little people.

  Moving forwards to find a seat, I drop into one and take off my jacket. I bend my head over on the pews and I feel the tears coming. I can’t fight it; I can’t win against it. I close my eyes and I see them. I hear the sounds of the sirens behind me. I hear the world slowly turning gray in my head. It sounds peaceful, but then you realize how deafening it is. It isn’t silent, and it isn’t loud either. It’s empty, completely empty.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Janice, I . . . I should have known; I should have reached out.”

  She is right there, the memory replaying right before my eyes. I can smell the salt water again, as though I am at the scene. I know I’m not, I know I’m still at the church, but it has been so long since I could sleep properly. Nowadays, there is no telling the difference between being asleep and being awake. I pass into dreams randomly, and it is always the same dream, the same dream that concludes the beginning of the worst period of my life. The day I found my family, three months after they had gone missing, three months after I had dropped everything to find them.

  “Mr. Crox, how about you and I talk for a second before...” the lead detective on the case began, trying to stop me as I got to the scene.

  “Out of my way, Liam!” I yelled, shoving him to the side as I rushed to the three bodies on the floor. They had been covered with a white cloth.

  “Mr. Crox! Mr. Crox! John, wait!”

  I dropped to the floor and lifted the sheet, startling one of the paramedics beside me. But I did not care, I was more interested in the bodies that were in front of me. I took a look at the first body and I felt my brain become disoriented. I recognized the face and yet it was unlike anything I had ever seen. The lips were the same soft and full ones which I had kissed time and time again, hair was the same deep black one I caressed before we would go to bed.

  I let out a loud yell, screaming as loud as I can as I back away from her body. When I look up, I realize that I am back in the church, and everyone else has left. The family to my left is gone as well, and I am all alone. I hear a sound from the pulpit and see a reverend swinging some incense around.

  As I blink, I realize that the effects of the alcohol are gone. It is almost as though my body is getting better at processing it. I crave for more of the stuff. I want to feel numb. I can only sleep after I’ve had several drinks, enough for my body to pass out cold from intoxication. I realize that the rains have stopped as well, and a look at my watch tells me it is past nine.

  The reverend walks up to my pew and stops, turning to look at me, “Perhaps you should say a word. It might help.”

  He nods at the statue of Jesus at the altar and continues his slow walk down the aisle. I watch as he disappears into one of the side rooms, leaving me all alone. I look at the statue and feel a chill down my spine, emotions come running back reminding me of what I’ve lost. I get on my fee
t to leave, but I hear small laughter behind me. I know whose voice it is, and I know I will see Sharon.

  “Please,” I mutter to myself, knowing that I will not be able to bear the sight of her. “Please.”

  As I turn around, there is nothing behind me and I let out a sigh of relief. I walk over to the altar and get on my knees in front of the statue. The designs on it are impressive, with the injuries inflicted and the blood from the crown of thorns on his head. He looks to be in as much pain as me.

  “Hey...” I begin, letting out a little chuckle, wondering what my mother would say if she could see me. It certainly is not how she had taught me to pray. But it has been so long since I did, I do not remember how. “Jesus, they say you are our father and... I don’t...I lost my fa...”

  I pause and look around, knowing how ridiculous I look. I had long stopped believing in this, not after I had lost everything that made life worth living. I look up at the eyes of the statue and see that they are devoid of any form of life.

  “They were good people; they were great people. If there was anyone that deserved it, it was me. I should have been the one, and yet you allowed them to die? Why? I have asked myself time and time again why you would allow that to happen and it makes no sense. If you were punishing me, then you should have left them out of it and punished me. They did not deserve it and you know that! You know that! Please, please I have nothing left, I have no one. I need to...I miss my wife, I miss her.”

  The tears mix with the droplets of water from my hair. A bolt of lightning flash across the sky again, lighting up the statue as it looks down on me. “Where is the mercy? Where is the mercy? Please, just a little, take me, just let them come back. There are worse people, but take me, and let them live. I know it is not a fair trade but please, just let them live the life which was robbed from them. I’ll do anything, I will serve in this place, anything, just please, bring them back. Even if I never have to see them again, let this just stop.”

  I get no response and I feel rage coursing through my body. It is just a damn statue and yet I had believed that if I poured myself out to him like this, I would have some relief. “You should have protected them! You should have done your job! You failed them!”

  “Now it is my grief to bear, and I have to carry it for the rest of my life. But I can’t do this, I need a way, I need something...something to help me through it. Please...at least give me a sign, just tell me what to do, tell me something!”

  I get back to my feet and decide to leave. I am certain I had just wasted my time because I would have gotten the same response from a brick wall. I get out of the building and take a right turn and continue walking. If there is a God, he has long abandoned me and everyone else who needed him.

  The bar is just a few blocks down and I am glad. It is not far from my apartment, and a small part of me wonders if I got the apartment due to its proximity to the bar. I had gotten it right after they had gone missing, but it had become home after they had been found. I cannot bring myself to return to the house. Not with all of their photos and belongings there, no. I would collapse under the weight of my own emotions.

  “Aye! John my man! Welcome back, should I open a tab for you?” the bartender asks. I nod and take my usual seat. Somehow it has been left vacant for the past two months, as almost everyone knows it belongs to me.

  “Give me something,” I begin, drooping my shoulders as I get ready for a long night. The bartender turns around with a shot of whisky and some shot glasses, pouring out three shots for me. I grab the first one and send it down with a fury, not even feeling the alcohol burn my throat. I reach for the next and let it stay in my mouth for a little longer, hoping to feel something, anything.

  The door opens and a familiar face walks in. He spots me at the end of the bar and walks over, taking a seat next to me. “Hey, John, was wondering where you were. Didn’t see you at your place, didn’t see you at the other bar, and you weren’t here or answering your phone. I was worried, man.”

  I tap my pocket and realize that I had grabbed the television remote by accident. I let out a breath and turn to look at Happy. He is a friend I made at the bar, one of the first people who heard my story directly from me. He takes a seat next to me and orders a bottle of root beer.

  “You heard about Michael?”

  “What?”

  “Michael Pierce, the reverend, he’s dead. Killed by some homeless person.”

  “What?” I ask, still stunned by what he has just said.

  “The one who holds the services? Okay that is a dumb way to explain a reverend, but the one who shares food and clothes and kids' tuition and helps out with the community? The small church building out back?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, I know exactly who he is referring to.

  “He’s dead. It’s a sign this town is not what it used to be.” Happy says.

  I heard it, a word he used which struck my ears. “A sign.”

  Chapter 2

  BARELY AN HOUR after and it becomes obvious that something has happened even from yards away as I manage to find a part of the street to pull my car over. The local press van up ahead with its non-attempt at inconspicuousness brings a sour memory to the surface and I look away quickly, across the street to the station where the gathering is. Most of the faces are familiar but only a few of them have a reason to share words with me. The reporter from the local news station is not one of them, and I don’t spare any more glance in her direction when I get out of my car and move closer.

  It doesn’t take me long to spot another familiar face in front of the precinct and ahead of the hoard of people, one I really want to talk to. I see Gary standing behind the wall of a couple of other officers and he has his hands raised, so also his voice that doesn’t seem to be doing much to placate the plethora of other voices talking over each other and bordering on screaming from the crowd. Gary is not the only one I know from the precinct who is standing outside, but at once, he seems to me like my surest bet.

  “Hey, Gary,” I signal with my hand as I push around a few bodies to make it to the font, “What’s going on, man?”

  “John, didn’t know you’re still in town. Any chance you can help me get these people to back off a little? It’s the front of the police station for crying out loud,” he answers as he steps to the side to talk to me.

  “They have a reason to be here, they all seem very concerned,” I say to him.

  “No shit! Half of them want her head on a spike already and the other half want to report about it. It’s a fucking shitshow already,” Gary puffs. “And it happens today of all days, my goddamn wedding anniversary. I’m supposed to be picking up the missus in ten minutes for a date and whatnot.” He glances at the old leather watch on his wrist, “Not sure if what I’m going to be picking up isn’t six months of hard labor to make up for it now. Now that this crackhead has chosen this day to be when she offs the goddam reverend.”

  Gary’s face reads exactly how he speaks – pissed and frustrated, not so much about the victim of the incident or the actual crime, but the fact that it has inconvenienced his personal life.

  “I can’t get the crowd out of your hair, I’m afraid, but you could let me in so I can make things a little less complicated,” I tell him, glancing over at the front door.

  Gary scoffs, “Oh, John, you know that ain’t how this works, the situation is crawling with a lot of eyes already and you bet your ass it’s going to grow. The reverend was a goddamn celebrity, man; everyone wants in. Folks will ask questions.”

  “No, they won’t. I’m guessing they haven’t seen her lawyer yet?”

  “Well, the lawyer might as well take his or her damn time, ‘cause the case is as good as shut. I only wish the whole damn town wasn’t in on it,” Gary answers, glancing over at the crowd of civilians and reporters who don’t look like they would be going away anytime soon.

  “Are you sure about that?” I ask, looking the man right in the face.

  “Hell yeah, I am.”


  “Well then, why don’t you let me in so I can make sure it’s done right, as the suspect’s counsel?”

  Gary eyes flash as if he’s not sure what he’s heard right, “You’re gonna be her lawyer?” he asks me with a pinched face.

  “The law says a suspect is allowed rights to an attorney, and she has one – me. No one’s going to question you letting the suspect’s counsel in now. Would they?”

  “The hell you’re her attorney.”

  “I say I am; I don’t see her anywhere denying it. You can’t confirm it if you don’t let me in. Will you be the one to tell the court you obstructed the suspect’s rights to allow her see her representation?” I ask him, watching as the look of incredulity grows on his face.

  “John . . . “

  “Come on, Gary, you know I’m good,” I tell him, years of being in and out of the precinct and managing to keep it straight with the officers has formed an unspoken word of bond. Though I don’t say it, I hope the memory of a year and half before when I helped the son of his wife’s cousin get two months’ community service instead of juvenile prison is still fresh in his head as he shakes it.

  He looks uncertain as he asks me, “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?”

  “I’ve been here a few times before, Gary, I’m pretty sure I can handle myself.”

  Gary doesn’t take any more moment before he budges and steps aside to let me through. Before he does, I subtly confirm her name with him and he eyes me with disbelief.

  “It’s Camila, John. Now better now ask again,” he says.

  I don’t look back but I can imagine he doesn’t have it any easier as the voice of the crowd behind grows louder when I walk up the steps and into the old building. The staring doesn’t ease inside the precinct either, I glance in the direction of the sheriff’s office and I see through his window that he’s on a call. No doubt it’s not going to be his last for the hour.