Ginger Snaps
GINGER
SNAPS
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GINGER
SNAPS
• A N o v e l •
D
Webb Hubbell
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Copyright © 2014 by Webb Hubbell
FIRST eDITIoN
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or
by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except
by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
To CoMe
For inquiries about volume orders, please contact:
Beaufort Books
27 West 20th Street, Suite 1102
New York, NY 10011
sales@beaufortbooks.com
Published in the United States by Beaufort Books
www.beaufortbooks.com
Distributed by Midpoint Trade Books
www.midpointtrade.com
Printed in the United States of America
Interior design by Neuwirth & Assoicates, Inc.
Cover Design by Michael Short
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To:
Suzy, Will and Jake, Mary and Allen, lila,
Rebecca, Frances, and George
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Author’s Note
The story is set in little Rock, Arkansas. Although I know all of its
schools, parks, and neighborhoods, lovers of little Rock (of which I
am definitely one) shouldn’t expect to recognize its topography, or
to find the Russell Robinson Courthouse, City Park, Butler Field, the
Armitage Hotel, the Kavanaugh Home, or Ben’s. They also shouldn’t
believe that the fictional characters or events have any connection
with reality—they exist only in the imagination of the author and his
readers.
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FRIdAy
April 18, 2014
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1
D
An axe crashed through the solid oak front door. Nelson, the big
Calico cat who lay sprawled on the sofa, enjoying the warmth of the
April sun, flew up the stairs, his paws barely touching the floor. Not
even a ten-year-old could mistake the dozen men who charged into
the house. Wearing dark blue flak jackets with blaring yellow DeA ini-
tials, the agents entered with guns extended. Fanning throughout the
house, they played their clichéd parts, calling out “all clear” or “area
secure.” Two guys in suits brought up the rear.
The agents soon tired of the game and took up the real job of tag-
ging, packing, and boxing almost every single item in the house — the
art, the silver, the dishes, the knick-knacks, even the lady’s lingerie and
nightgowns. They took detailed photographs of each item they didn’t or
couldn’t box up: the crystal chandelier in the dining room, the marble
fireplace, the designer window treatments, even the Thermidor appli-
ances in the newly renovated kitchen. They gave up on the cat, who had
found refuge behind the old chimney in the attic’s cedar closet.
Curiously, several agents were rooting around in the back garden
pulling up all the plants and stuffing them into pre-labeled bags. They
followed the same procedure for the hundreds of seedlings in the
flower shed. Under an old tarp in the garage they found a recondi-
tioned Austin-Healy 3000 and a 1961 F-100 pick-up. A tow truck and a
moving van arrived and, within a couple of hours, the house, garage,
and shed were almost empty except for the dishes in the sink, the
seasonings and cereal boxes on the pantry ledge, and one terrified
cat. The yard and house were cordoned off with bright yellow tape,
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isolated by brusque signs informing all comers that the old house was
now the property of the U.S. Government.
Assistant U.S. Attorney Richard Bullock, one of the two suits,
frowned. “Is all this necessary? Really? An axe through the door, carting
off all their furniture and underwear—aren’t we going a bit too far?”
U.S. Attorney Wilbur “Dub” Blanchard grinned like a kid in a candy
store. He had all but begged the marshals to let him swing the axe.
“Professor Stewart is a threat to our nation’s security. He doesn’t
deserve to be treated gently. We’re sending a message to would-be
terrorists.”
“It’s me you’re talking to, not the press,” Bullock cautioned. “You
sound like you believe your own bullshit.”
“of course I believe it,” Dub said with a smirk. “Stewart smells as
bad as any Middle eastern jihadist. And your job, Mr. Bullock, is to
help me convince everyone, especially the press, of exactly that fact.”
of course, Blanchard had leaked the bust to the press; reporters and
cameramen were already in place on the front lawn, gravely informing
the public of the developing situation.
Bullock didn’t respond. He was worried his boss’s ego might compro-
mise an airtight case and a financial windfall for the U.S. Government.
At about the same time, three armed agents in full battle gear
barged into a chemistry classroom at the University of Arkansas-little
Rock, shoved the professor to the floor and handcuffed him. A pair
of more appropriately dressed agents were politely explaining to the
University’s President that the school’s most distinguished professor
had been arrested, and that his office, computer, and chemistry labs
were off-limits.
His students sat in stunned silence as one of the agents pressed a
gun barrel against Dr. Douglas Stewart’s head and read him his rights.
For a moment, time seemed to stop.
“Do you understand these rights? Can you hear me?” the agent
shouted, and the balloon of silence burst. The room filled with the
noise of slamming books, scraping chairs, and a general rush to the
door. Stewart’s voice came through loud and clear.
“of course I can hear you. I want my lawyer. I want to speak to Jack
Patterson.”
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Micki lawrence had spent the night with Dr. eric Masterson. eric
didn’t have rounds this morning so she slid out of bed quietly, slipped
into her
running clothes, and jogged off the front porch into the still
quiet, tree-lined streets of little Rock. last night’s thunderstorm had
cleared the air of pollen, and she soaked in the cool spring air and the
fresh smell of greening lawns and trees.
As she picked up the pace, she didn’t notice a black Infiniti slowing
down a block behind her. The driver, a skinny man on the long side of
forty with a bad comb-over, the kind of a man parents warn children
about, sat low in the seat, but not so low he couldn’t keep Micki in
his sights, admiring her stride. A “Mr. Smith” had recently hired him,
although he’d never met him in person. He figured from Smith’s
accent that the man was oriental, but he didn’t care. He wouldn’t
care if the man was another osama, as long as he got paid.
He leaned forward a little as he watched her run—short sun-
bleached hair, broad shoulders, tanned legs that seemed never to
end. The man allowed himself a smile, a little gurgle of anticipation.
“This job could be fun.”
Micki broke into a full sprint when her office came into sight. Sweat
poured down her face, and her shirt was soaking wet.
Her office—a two-story home in the Quapaw Quarter, little
Rock’s historic district, was a turn-of-the-century victorian that a real
estate agency had restored. Azaleas and dogwoods now in April’s full
bloom adorned the property. When the Quarter’s tax breaks expired
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and the real estate bust hit, the agency happily sold Micki the property
for her solo law practice. The neighborhood wasn’t thrilled with her
criminal clientele, but they much preferred the daily comings and
goings to an unoccupied building.
Micki entered through the rear door. She had transformed one of
the back offices into her personal space, complete with a day bed, an
updated bathroom with a shower, and assorted exercise equipment.
She kept a full array of clothes in the closet. The door to this room
was the only one in the building equipped with a heavy-duty deadbolt.
one chilly morning she had found a homeless man sleeping in her
lobby. The alarm was still set, and no one could figure out how he had
gotten in. She didn’t take any chances after that.
She relaxed under the tingle of the high-pressure shower as she
washed away the sweat and what remained of eric’s scent. They’d met
a few months ago at a Pepsi 10K and quickly discovered a mutual love
of running, cycling, and full body massages. Now she kept several pairs
of shoes and other clothes at his house in Hillcrest, and she’d cleared
out a closet at her ranch just outside of town for his things. As the
shower did its work, Micki mused about their relationship, trying to
imagine where it might lead. They’d had their first major tiff a couple
of weeks ago because she’d gone out for a beer with her former boss
and friend, Sam Pagano, the Pulaski County prosecutor. She’d turned
his tantrum into a night of athletic sex, but even good sex couldn’t
shake her resentment. His possessiveness left a bad aftertaste.
It didn’t take Micki long to get ready for the workday. She slipped
into a pair of jeans and made coffee in the little kitchen down the hall.
Unless she was going to court, she simply dried her hair with a towel,
not bothering with make-up. She grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge
and walked into the former living room that now served as her office.
Her antique desk faced a large bay window, and the old fireplace and
comfortable furnishings were warm and inviting. Debbie Natrova, her
office manager, always made sure the flowers on her desk were fresh,
either from the farmers market or Kroger, depending on the season.
First thing every morning Micki read her e-mail and texts and lis-
tened to her voice messages. Then she unlocked the front door and
picked up the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, always in the same place on
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her porch, the result of a generous December tip. After she’d scanned
the entire paper, including the funnies, she turned her attention to
the day’s schedule. This morning she’d seen nothing of great interest,
and so far none of her clients had left a message. Unless an emer-
gency walked in, she looked forward to leaving the office early. She
had plenty to do at the ranch while eric worked the weekend shift at
the eR.
Debbie bustled in the front door. Debbie’s dark red hair came from
a bottle, but the short bob suited her round face and small pouty lips.
She wore heavy eye make-up and blush, and the fabric of her flowery
jersey top stretched tight across her ample chest, a look left over from
her former occupation. Her short skirt revealed–well, it was way too
short in Micki’s opinion. Micki knew she couldn’t change Debbie’s
heavy eastern european accent, but she was determined to change
her sense of style.
Debbie had literally dropped on her doorstep not long after Micki
left the public defender’s office. She had arrived in the States when
she was barely sixteen, intent on becoming a pastry chef, confident
she would meet the perfect man and realize the American dream. Her
parents were skeptical, but grew to trust the man who promised to
make her dreams come true. She spoke english fairly well and longed
for adventure, ready for new freedoms in a new country. Her sponsor,
Novak, greeted her warmly and treated her well at first, buying her
clothes and make-up, even sending her to a hair stylist for a new look.
He had put her to work busing tables in one of his nightclubs, prom-
ising a promotion after she learned the ropes. It didn’t take long for
her to discover what “the ropes” meant–a heroin addiction and serving
more than drinks to customers. one rainy spring morning Micki found
Debbie curled up on the front stoop of her old office downtown,
beaten and barely alive, clutching a matchbook with Micki’s name and
number scrawled inside. She couldn’t resist thinking that someone
had left her a bedraggled and half-starved kitten.
Micki had spent months battling the authorities to keep Debbie
from going to jail or being deported. It didn’t help that Novak had
confiscated all her immigration papers the day she arrived. To keep
an eye on Debbie’s recovery, Micki hired her as a receptionist. once
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free of drugs and her sponsor, Debbie had quickly proved to be a
capable, if quirky, employee. Micki soon promoted her to office man-
ager, and the office now ran as smooth as silk.
Now, Debbie gushed, “Did you see all the DeA agents at that purple
house on elder? They’re hauling everything off, and the house is
taped off like a crime scene. The moving van blocks the whole street,
and you wouldn’t beli
eve the press and the rubberneckers. Wonder if
it’s a meth lab? Maybe there’s a client in it. Do you want me to send
Mongo to check it out?” Debbie brought Micki a homemade carrot
cake muffin. Debbie hadn’t become a pastry chef, but she was a truly
intuitive baker.
“I ran a different route today, so I missed it. I bet the neighbors
called the cops.”
“Maybe. But neighbors don’t usually want to get involved. Novak
ran one of his casinos in the Quarter for the longest, and nobody
complained, remember? He ran high-stakes poker games downstairs
while we worked upstairs.”
Micki remembered all too well. After discovering Debbie on her
doorstep, Micki had vowed to end Novak’s reign. Unfortunately,
Novak’s clientele had more power and influence than she did. Her
efforts to shut him down ran up against a political stonewall. eventu-
ally he moved the casino to Maumelle, but Micki’s only real success
had been keeping Debbie clean.
“look, Debbie, I want you to use a fine screen on any walk-ins today.
I’d like to get to my horses early. No pro bono clients who have a trial
on Monday, okay?”
Not that Micki was averse to walk-ins. She took on more than her
share of pro bono clients and hard luck stories, but no matter how
big her heart was, she had to limit the number. It was the occasional
wealthy client, a big personal injury case, or drug dealer whose assets
haven’t been confiscated that enabled even the very best criminal
defense lawyer to keep the doors open.
She nibbled on her muffin and set about responding to e-mails,
reviewing court pleadings, and organizing the rest of her day. Micki
tried to keep the creaky sliding doors to her office closed to the recep-
tion area, but she had a solo practice office, not a big law firm: clients
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dropped in to pay down their bill with wadded-up fives and tens, or
just to get a cup of coffee. Walk-ins stopped by with problems that
might need a lawyer, or usually just a sympathetic ear—she never
turned them away.
Mongo, another of Micki’s “projects,” fulfilled the multiple roles
of receptionist, part-time bouncer, and occasional investigator.
Debbie and Mongo handled the first interview for all the walk-ins
and screened Micki’s calls, but former clients needed to be greeted