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Bad Behavior(13)

By:Celia Aaron


"Get the fuck out of here!" She sat up and clutched the duvet to her chest. Her hair was wild, and she looked as if she would tear me apart. I had half a mind to let her. Fucking sexy.

"I'm going, angel. Just wanted to give you fair warning." I turned and left, not giving her another look even though I wanted to. "Don't worry, I'll see myself out."

The litany of expletives that erupted at my back was one for the record books. I think some of the words were even in other languages, and many were in the vein of "cum Dumpster," "thundercunt," and "jizz gargler."

I laughed loud enough for her to hear as I let the front door click shut and locked behind me.

I took a cab home. For the first time in months, I didn't spend the spare time thinking of Castille and all the ways I would make him pay for his crimes. I didn't even give a thought to the broader aspects of my case, the wider net that could bring in several bigger fish.



       
         
       
        

Instead, I pictured Evan in my mind and thought about all the things my little angel's filthy mouth could, and would, do to me.


"Ready?" Woodhall asked.

"As ready as I'm ever going to be." I collected my docket sheet and notes from my desk and followed Wood into the lobby of the federal courthouse. Attorneys hurried about, setting their own self-important pace. Everything in this city went at light speed compared to the leisurely, congenial pace of New Orleans. It was a steep learning curve, but I was a quick study.

We climbed the stairs to the courtroom where Castille was set to be arraigned.

Woodhall had kept a close eye on me ever since I'd arrived in his office. He was hands-on for a U.S. attorney and made sure he kept his trial abilities sharp. He wasn't a bad superior, all things considered. He maintained an old-school attitude, but he let me run this case. I knew it better than anyone else. Wood wasn't interested in the details or the numbers. He just wanted to nail the bad guys. He was a blunt instrument, or maybe more of a figurehead, while I was the facts and finesse.

I had detailed notes, outlines, timelines, profit-and-loss statements-anything I would ever need to convince a jury of Castille's guilt. He was a snake, a clever one. He'd worked dozens of retirement homes in and around New Orleans. He went in, paid the nursing home some upfront money and a promised kickback, and got exclusive access to all the residents. He gave them a song and dance about how he could double their returns. The seniors living there ate it up, dreamed of leaving their children with a vast fortune when they checked out. He was selling them their end-of-life dream and they were all too eager to buy in. I'd seen the scheme many times, but Castille had taken the shell game further than any of the other perps I'd sent to prison.

At each home, he would single out a couple of seniors and actually pay them exceptional returns on their money. These victims then became the best advertisement money could buy. Word about Castille's great investment spread through the retirement homes. Soon, the seniors were cashing out retirement funds and insurance policies, and even selling family heirlooms, to join in on the Castille plan. A classic Ponzi.

It was at first, anyway, until Castille realized he didn't have to keep the scheme going by paying prior investors with funds from new investors. Instead, he pocketed the cash for himself, thinking he was untouchable. If any of the elderly victims made a fuss, he gave an even larger kickback to someone at the nursing home to make the problem go away. There was not enough of a trail to connect the dots on my suspicions of murder, but I had more than enough evidence to convict him for bilking his victims. And I had even more than that once I got the first stage of the case out of the way. That second wave of cases was the big score, not this lousy prick. But there was a new problem, one with red hair and a dirty mouth. I couldn't think about that now. No, I needed to focus on Castille. 

His indictment for numerous counts of fraud had been handed down the previous Thursday. The grand jury did its job. Then it was my turn.

The arraignment was a formality. The court would read the charges, which ranged from wire fraud to money laundering. Castille would enter his not-guilty plea, and the game would begin in earnest.

After three flights of white marble stairs, Wood and I arrived at Judge Matilda Crane's cavernous courtroom. The wood-paneled walls were luxe and dark, setting a formal tone, and the ceilings soared above, coffered by a network of beams. The bench where the judge resided was high, a dais more than a bench. Two dozen rows of pews for spectators lined the gallery, a jury box sat to the left, and the two large counsel tables were already filling up. Castille wasn't the only iron in the fire for the day, but he certainly was the hottest as far as I was concerned.