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Chapter 25
August 2004
A nurse working
the floor of the surgery unit at Tulane University Medical Center
glanced up to see a very dreamy, but very married, surgeon tiredly
walk by.
"Hi, Dr. Katz,"
she simpered in a way not quite up to the professional standards
expected in such a prestigious institution. But, she reasoned,
he's so HOT!
George Katz gave
the comely nurse a small smile and a wave as he continued to
his office. He picked up his phone messages at the secretary's
desk before entering his office and closing the door. He sighed
as he sat himself behind his desk, the requests for returned
calls still in his hand. Most were from pharmaceutical saleswomen;
and, while George liked the company of an attractive lady as
well as the next guy, he just didn't want to deal with it right
now.
He glanced at a
photo on his desk. Especially since I've got something better
back home.
Home. The word did not bring the pleasure
through his system that he had anticipated when he married Emma.
But he had no comprehension how his life would turn out when
he succumbed to temptation and kissed her oh so many Mardi Gras
before.
George and Emma
dated throughout the summer of 1999. As he hoped, the couple
found they enjoyed each other's company very much. As the strength
of their relationship grew, so did their passion. Emma was extremely
responsive whenever they were alone together, and it was apparent
to George that she was as eager for a more intimate relationship
as he was.
Emma living at home
put a crimp in their plans. Abe always seemed to be around when
George visited. The young doctor knew it was Abe's pleasure with
his company, and not mistrust of his intentions, that caused
the older man to frustrate the couple. As for taking Emma to
his place…well, it just seemed wrong somehow. Both were
uncomfortable with it. Spending that much time away from Abe's
company would be a tacit admission of the couple's desire for
privacy.
Finally, opportunity
presented itself. Abe left for an AIA convention, and George
immediately arranged for a quiet dinner for two at his condo.
There was no doubt in the young lady's mind as to the culmination
of the evening's activities, so Emma dressed in a very provocative
manner, and her handbag was really an overnight case.
The two tortured
themselves by pretending to enjoy the light dinner of roasted
chicken breasts and green salad. They never got to the cheesecake
dessert as they attacked each other on the living room couch.
George damned near lost it when he quickly discovered that Emma
had seen no reason to wear a bra that night. Within minutes,
they were undressed and entwined upon George's bed, losing themselves
in delight.
George had every
intention of making that night an unforgettable one; and, to
his regret, he accomplished it. George was aware of Emma's inexperience,
but his resolve to take it slow evaporated when he finally beheld
his love's glorious body. Blood pounding though his ears and
thinking with the wrong head, his initial coupling with Emma
had been sharp and violent. He barely remembered to don protection.
Only after his mind-freezing orgasm did he realize that Emma's
whimpers were of pain, not pleasure. The mist of lust clearing,
he saw tears on his beloved's face. Even after all his experiences
as a doctor, nothing horrified him as the sight of blood on his
sheets. His incredulous questions only increased his self-loathing:
Emma had been a virgin, and he had acted like an animal.
He remembered sitting
on the edge of the mattress in complete mortification, facing
away from her, his head in his hands, until he felt her hand
on his shoulder and her gentle voice speaking his name. The next
moment he had her in his arms, holding her tightly and apologizing
again and again in her hair. She, in turn, tried to reassure
him of her love for him. In that instant, George knew he was
going to marry this girl and spend the rest of his life loving,
cherishing and protecting her.
And so he did. They
married the next summer after Emma finished her third and final
year at Tulane. She had decided her career would be that of Mrs.
George Katz and, therefore, further college education was a waste
of time. Emma's decision only fueled George's determination to
care for his precious girl. He wanted the best for her, and only
a honeymoon trip to Paris would do. For three days, they delighted
in taking in the sights of the City of Light, enjoying the museums
or sipping a glass of wine in a sidewalk café on the Champs-Élysées.
Their nights were full of love and care, as George worshiped
her body as she deserved. Her pleasure came first, and he handled
her like the fragile treasure she was to him.
It was late on the
fourth afternoon that the phone call came in, the one that informed
them of Abe's heart attack. Their first response was to fly back
immediately, but they were advised by Emma's sister, Irene, that
that was not necessary. The good news was that Abe was out of
danger, the attack being a mild one. What was troubling was the
evidence of blockage that would require by-pass surgery. The
family insisted that the newlyweds remain in Paris, as the procedure
would not be performed until after their planned return. Emma
and George tried to recapture the magic of their first halcyon
days, but it was a lost cause. Emma worried about her beloved
Papa, and George was on his cell phone three times a day getting
updates.
A subdued Dr. and
Mrs. Katz returned to Louis Armstrong International Airport as
scheduled a few days later. George monitored the successful triple
by-pass while Emma packed - not her things to move into George's
condo, but her husband's belongings for the move Uptown, for
it had been decided that the Katzs would live with Abe and care
for him.
After Abe was released
from the hospital, it quickly became apparent that the Uptown
house, so loved by Emma's mother, was now impractical. The bedrooms
were all on the second floor, and climbing stairs was out of
the question for Abe. Emma set out and found a ranch-style house
near their old Lakeview neighborhood that would suit their purposes.
It cost more than George thought he could afford, but it had
a mother-in-law suite near the garage, on the opposite side of
the house from the master bedroom.
The move did not
go as smoothly as they hoped. Abe had retired from his firm,
so the group health carrier tried to use that as an excuse to
deny coverage. While Emma fought that, Abe listed his Uptown
house for a hundred thousand dollars more than the market comparables.
The house sat on the market for months; and, without the promised
cash infusion from Emma's father, George had to bear the entirety
of the cost of buying the house and renovating the kitchen.
Once they moved
in, it was discovered that, while the windows and roof had been
recently replaced and the exterior insulation was excellent,
there was virtually no interior insulation at all. One could
hear a telephone conversation in the kitchen from the bedroom.
Abe's habit of staying up late to watch television put an effective
damper on the Katz's love life. Striving to keep quiet while
making love was not conducive to romance.
That things had
remained the same since then was not because George was satisfied
with the status quo. It would take over a year before the insurance
company settled up and paid for Abe's medical expenses. Abe finally
sold the Uptown house, after Emma talked him into lowering the
price. But then, their ranch house's foundation needed repair.
Emma's car broke down. The air conditioning went kaput one hot
July day. It seemed that fate was doing everything it could to
thwart George Katz.
That was why Emma
and he had decided to put off having children. They never knew
when the next disaster would take place. And, of course, there
was Abe to consider. Abe liked children, at least he used to,
but he had not reacted very well to his medical condition. While
his doctors all gave him a guarded clean bill of health, Abe
was depressed. And when Abe was depressed, he was cranky. Emma
and George wanted to give her father the peace of mind he needed
to recover his spirits as well as his health before turning his
life inside out by starting a family. So, the sacrifice was made.
It seemed to George
that he had been sacrificing for Abe ever since he got involved
with Emma. Of course, Emma had borne the brunt of work at home.
Mrs. Taylor came by twice a week to give Emma the chance to get
out of the house to do shopping or go to yoga, her newest activity.
Still, George wondered what it would be like if, instead of driving
back to Lakeview, he was walking to a downtown condo where only
Emma was waiting for him, their nights to do what they wanted
without worrying about anybody else.
If only Abe had…
George clamped his
mind shut before he could finish the thought. He would NOT wish
Abe had died. He would NOT. Abe was his friend and was family.
He would not betray him, not even in his mind. Don't EVEN
think it!
Sighing, George
began returning his phone calls before his next procedure.
~*~*~
Chuck Bingley was
behind the wheel of his Camry, traffic on the Causeway was zipping
along, Buddy D was on SportsTalk on the radio, and he was heading
home on a Friday afternoon. Life was very good.
After college, Chuck
landed a job at Gallic National Bank in the commercial lending
department. He had done well and was now one of the senior lenders
in the downtown office. He knew he could make vice-president
in another five years. Of course, they gave out vice-presidencies
like candy; the real power was in the senior VPs. Still,
it came with a substantial raise, and that was nothing to sneeze
at.
The only potential
worry was that a national credit card company was looking to
get into banking and had eyed Gallic as their entrée.
The top management swore up and down that they would never sell
the bank if it meant moving headquarters out of New Orleans.
So Chuck did his job and took a wait-and-see attitude.
Chuck glanced at
the mile marker flying past, showing he was nine miles out on
the Causeway. Out of a strange "dead zone" for his
cell phone, he turned on the hands-free device and dialed home.
"Hey, honey,
I've just passed the nine-mile marker. Just fifteen miles to
go before I hit the North Shore."
"Wonderful,
Chuck," answered
his wife, Jane. "Dinner will be ready. We've having pizza."
"Again?"
"I know.
I'm sorry. But work went overtime, and I couldn't get to the
store today to make groceries."
"Aw, that's
okay. Pizza's great. How's the kids?"
"Just fine
and waiting to see Daddy. And so is Rufus."
"Aww…does
my big baby miss his daddy?" Rufus was their Great Dane
puppy.
"He sure
does. He hasn't left me alone since I got home."
"I'll be there
soon, hon. Do we really need anything at the store?"
"No, we
can wait until tomorrow."
"Okay, I'll
be home as soon as I can. Love you."
"Love you,
too. Bye."
Chuck Bingley sat
back to enjoy the rest of his favorite part of his forty-five
mile commute. Since he lived in Covington, across Lake Pontchartrain
from New Orleans, a major part of his trip to and from work was
the twin-span, twenty-four mile long Lake Pontchartrain Causeway,
the longest bridge in the world. First time drivers on the span
would think he was insane; each two-lane span had no shoulder
and the speed limit was sixty-five miles per hour. Everywhere
one looked there was water, as the bridge was only sixteen feet
above the lake.
However, the toll-financed
bridge had a few innovations that made it one of the safest roadways
in the United States. One was the numerous call boxes along the
route. Another was the seven crossovers situated four miles apart
that allowed motorists to pull over and safely change a tire.
Not everyone can
pull over, so a member of the Causeway Police is stationed at
each crossover, either a cruiser or a Motorist Assistance Vehicle
- that is, a truck. They can respond to an emergency within moments.
The Causeway Police
also enforce the speed limit. They might let you go five miles
over during rush hour, but that's it. You go anywhere near eighty
and you'll owe the court $250.
Yes, the Causeway
was a great break in Chuck's commuting routine - as long as there
was no fog. When that happened, then it was time for escorted
convoys at thirty-five miles per hour.
The joy stopped
once Chuck hit the North Shore. Once a sleepy place filled with
fishermen, lumberjacks, and the occasional vacation cabin, St.
Tammany Parish was now the fastest growing place in the state.
The population was north of 200,000 and wasn't slowing down.
The traffic was awful. It would take another half-hour before
Chuck pulled into his garage just outside of Covington. His weekend
had officially begun.
~*~*~
While it wasn't
true that everyone in the mental health industry had their own
therapist, it was not unusual for a psychiatrist to have a mentor
or a trusted colleague in the field with whom he or she could
"discuss" things. So it was with Chris Breaux. He would
have working lunches on a semi-regular basis with Dr. Mickey
Segura, chewing the fat or discussing issues with patients and
coworkers.
The two sat in easy
camaraderie in Dr. Segura's office. The older man was watching
his weight, so he was eating a garden salad with low-fat ranch
dressing. Chris's lunch of choice was a turkey and Swiss with
potato chips. Dr. Segura eyed his young friend's meal with undisguised
envy.
"Wanna bite?"
offered Chris.
"No, I better
not. My wife, Joy, has been after me to lose another ten pounds.
Gah, I feel like a rabbit sometimes." At Chris' laughter
he added, "Your time is coming, Chris. You'll be eating
grass for meals, too. Just wait."
"Maybe, if
I had a wife who was intent on keeping me around like Joy."
Dr. Segura chuckled.
"I guess so. Either that or she just likes torturing me.
So, how are things? No, not work - we talk enough about that.
I mean, are you working on getting yourself somebody to worry
about you?"
Chris put down his
sandwich and took a sip of water before answering. "Funny
you should bring that up. I need some advice."
"Okay."
"I think I
told you I'm dating this lady - Marianne Dashwood."
"The singer.
Yeah."
"Well…we
have a history." For the next fifteen minutes, Chris talked
about Marianne - her time at Tulane and what happened there.
How she had gone off to Shreveport to finish school and had spent
a year entertaining people aboard one of Disney's cruise ships
before returning to New Orleans. Chris and Mari had corresponded
during her four years away, and he was one of the first to greet
her when she came back. He had helped her form her band, while
she got a daytime job in the claims department of a large insurance
company. They were just friends, at first - practicing her music
and working with her combo - until a few months ago when, almost
as an afterthought, Chris asked Mari to dinner. One dinner turned
into another and then another and then lunch regularly. One goodnight
kiss became many, each one deeper and more promising. They had
fallen in love so easily that it took a while to realize it had
happened.
Dr. Segura nodded
as he listened. At the end of Chris's monologue, he smiled. "Sounds
like a firm foundation for the future, Chris. You became friends
first. That's important. It will help you over the rough times."
"You think
there will be rough times, Mickey?"
Dr. Segura chuckled
again. "There are always rough times, my boy." He sobered
before asking, "Unless there is more to this."
"Well…yes."
"Mmm-hmm. May
I be frank?"
"Please."
"Are the two
of you intimate?"
"No. That's
what I want to talk to you about." Segura nodded. "I
care a great deal for Mari; she's everything I've ever wanted.
I believe she feels the same for me. It's normal that we desire
to take our relationship to the next level. I believe Mari wants
that as much as I. But, I'm worried. Marianne says she remembers
nothing about what happened five years ago…"
"The assault
in the fraternity house?"
"Yes. The point
is Marianne remembers nothing. But I'm afraid that it has affected
her, perhaps subconsciously."
"You said before
that Marianne had received counseling?"
"Yes. Both
here and in Shreveport."
"Has she shown
any behaviors that would lead you to think that she has been
damaged emotionally?"
"No, but that
doesn't mean she hasn't. I'm…I'm afraid of triggering something."
Dr. Segura nodded
with approval. "Very wise of you. It is not unusual for
a victim of an assault such as you describe to compartmentalize
and submerge their deep distress over the event for years. On
the other hand, some people recover almost completely from such
trauma. It is impossible to predict."
"So, what do
I do?"
"Chris, you
care for Marianne very much, do you not?"
"Yes, I do.
I'm…I'm in love with her."
"Does she know
this?"
"I haven't
actually said the words, but I…I think she knows how I feel."
"Don't bet
on it. Saying the words, and really meaning it, carries great
power. If you truly want a deeper relationship with her, you
should be open about your feelings and intentions. Trust is very
important. Many victims of sexual abuse suffer from trust issues
for some time. You must be open with her, and encourage her to
be open with you. You cannot rush her, however. Show her by example.
In time she will learn to trust you."
"So, you're
saying that I should lay all my cards on the table before we
become intimate?"
"Everyone
should, Chris, but in your situation, it is vital."
"Thanks, Mickey.
You've given me a great deal to think about."
"Chris, if
more people would take the time in considering the consequences
of their actions before acting - as you have - we would have
a lot less heartache in this world."
Chris nodded and
both men returned to their lunches, but Chris' mind was not on
food. His talk with Dr. Segura had only reinforced his own resolution
to advance his relationship with Marianne. There was one way
to assure her of his intentions towards her and their relationship
- one way to prove both his love for her and that she was safe
in trusting him.
Chris Breaux vowed
he would not sleep with Marianne Dashwood until she agreed to
become his wife.
Of course, there
was a problem with that. Did Marianne want to marry him? Was
she ready to hear what he had to say? Was she prepared to make
that kind of commitment?
Chris certainly
would not burden her with the kind of pressure an unexpected
proposal could inflict. He would wait until he was certain of
her answer. The timing was all up to Marianne. When he was convinced
of her desires, then he would propose to her. Not a moment before.
~*~*~
The 2004 Hurricane
season began in earnest as Tropical Storm Bonnie made landfall
on August 12 in the panhandle of the state of Florida. Damage
was minimal.
But few eyes were
on that storm. The Gulf of Mexico spawned a much greater threat
right on Bonnie's heels. One day later, Hurricane Charlie, a
monstrous Category 4 storm with winds peaking at 150 miles per
hour, was making a beeline toward the metropolis of Tampa and
St. Petersburg before veering slightly south to slam into Charlotte
County. Charlie's gusts were still in excess of 100 mph as it
passed through Orlando before entering the Atlantic Ocean near
Daytona Beach. Ten deaths and fifteen billion dollars in damages
were laid at the storm's door.
No one knew that
Florida's agonies were just beginning.
~*~*~
Richard Fitzwilliam
walked through the halls of the NOPD Third District, stopping
before an office. He looked at the nameplate adorning the door:
Captain Richard Fitzwilliam.
The room was sparsely
furnished with a 1970-era desk and a metal swivel chair that
might have been new during the Vietnam War. But he smiled anyway.
It was his office. After fifteen years, Richard had made
it to captain. As captains in the NOPD were as rare as hen's
teeth, this was no small accomplishment.
Fitz moved the box
of personal items off the desk and sat down. The office was small,
maybe ten-by-ten. But it had a door and a window. Nothing to
sneeze at when you didn't work downtown.
Fitz began to empty
the box. On the top was a photo of his old Narcotics team from
his Second District days. He froze. How did that get there? He
must have packed it without thinking. There was no way he would
have kept the thing intentionally, as Jones' smiling face was
right there in the front.
Unwillingly, his
thoughts flowed back to his last encounter with her, three years
earlier.
~*~*~
July, 2001
It had taken PID
almost two years to complete their investigation into the mole
in the Second District. As painstaking as it had been, it was
doubtful they would have succeeded if not for the cooperation
of the precinct captain and the Narcotics team. They had set
up a sting, and Fitz was neck-deep in it. But it worked. Jones
had fallen for it - hook, line and sinker - and to save her own
skin, she ratted on the Antoine "Junior" Jarvis drug
gang that had moved in from Treme. They were a vicious bunch
that had been implicated in a dozen murders; the destruction
of the gang was a big win for the NOPD. It almost made up the
shame of a traitor in blue.
Jones and her attorney
were doing what they could to make the best out of a bad situation.
The NOPD had tapes, both audio and video. It came as a rude shock
that they could trace cell phone calls. Jones was caught red-handed
with over ten pounds of cocaine under her garage, her fingerprints
all over it. She deposited marked money in her bank account.
She was hooked, gaffed and in the boat. The only thing left to
do was to cooperate - try to work a deal for her to spend a short
term in the Orleans Parish Prison rather than be a guest for
twenty years or more in the Louisiana Correctional Institute
for Women in St. Gabriel. The inmates really didn't like
incarcerated cops in the LCIW, any more than the males like them
at Angola.
The DA's office
was finishing the debriefing of Jones in an interrogation room
at the Second District in preparation for transferring her to
lockup. Fitz had been watching the last thirty minutes through
the one-way mirror with a mixture of sadness and disgust. As
the ADA was wrapping up, Fitz tapped on the glass. A hand signal
told him that he could enter.
Jones looked up
in surprise as Fitz walked in. Her lawyer started to protest,
but he was reminded that the plea deal had yet to be formally
approved. Fitz sat down across from his former partner and stared
at her. She could not meet his eyes, and just before the lawyer
was ready to protest again, Fitz spoke.
"The only reason
you're here, Jones, and not yet at Central Lockup is your cooperation.
You've told the DA everything you know about Jarvis?"
Jones glanced at
her attorney who nodded. "Yeah."
"You know Jarvis
was killed in a gun battle with the Special Operations unit."
She shrugged. "Didn't
think Junior would be taken alive."
"Convenient
for you."
She shrugged again.
"Still, we
got enough to send you away for a long time unless you're straight
with us."
"Is there a
reason for this?" demanded the lawyer.
"Oh, yes. One
last case to close." Fitz opened a manila envelope and extracted
some eight-by-ten photos. He spread two of them on the table
before Jones. "Thomas Bertram," he said as he pointed
to the male, "and Sarah Smith. Talk to me about them."
"I don't know
them," Jones claimed.
Fitz's mouth twitched.
He was watching Jones very carefully, and he saw the shock of
recognition in her eyes before she could get control of her expression
again. It wasn't much, but it was enough. He knew all the sacrifice
he had made to trap Jones was worth it. He pulled a third photo.
"Gregory Wickham. Goes by the name G-Daddy. Know him?"
Jones said nothing.
"You're risking
your deal, Jonesy." He pulled a plastic bag out next and
laid it next to Bertram's photo. "Recognize this?"
"It's one of
my business cards. So what?"
"We found this
in Bertram's wallet. Bertram's wallet was in the back pocket
of his jeans when we found him in the Manchac swamp, dead of
a gunshot wound to the back of his head. How do you think your
card got there?"
"No idea."
Her eyes were void of emotion.
"Now, see,
I've got this idea about that. I think Bertram here came by the
precinct in, oh…early March, to see me and instead saw you.
That's how he got your card."
"I don't remember
that."
"Ah, the problems
of getting old. The desk sergeant remembers, though. He also
remembers you walking Bertram out of the precinct and you not
coming back for a while." He stared at her.
"Sometimes
I go get a snack or something like that. On my break, ya know."
Fitz glared at Jones
for a moment longer before pulling out two other photos. "You
called Wickham, didn't you? You sold these two out for cocaine,
didn't you?"
"My client's
not involved in any murder," claimed the lawyer.
Fitz slammed the
photos down on the desk. Jones gasped - it was the crime scene
shots of the bodies, ravaged by over three months exposed to
the elements. "You had these two kids killed for dope, didn't
you!? DIDN'T YOU!?"
"I…I didn't
kill anybody…" Jones whimpered.
"All right
- this interview's over!" cried a red-faced lawyer.
Fitzwilliam was
incensed. "Go ahead and walk outta here! I'm gonna tie you
to this, and I'll see you get the needle. You're on a one-way
trip to Death Row unless you talk!"
"I ain't takin'
the rap for no murder!" cried Jones.
"Talk, damn
you!"
The ADA placed a
hand on Fitz's shoulder. "Fitz, enough of this…"
Jones shook her
head. "No…no…I ain't got nothin' to say. Nothin'
against Wickham." She looked at Fitz. "If you had more
than this, then you would've hit me with this at the beginning.
You can't tie me to this. You got nothin'."
Fitz became desperate,
watching his chance of connecting the crime to Wickham fading.
"What about these kids? What about justice for them? Jonesy,
I know you're eaten up about this. Tell me what you know. Help
me put Wickham away. You were a cop. Do something good."
She looked everywhere
in the room, except at him or the photos. "No. Not against
Wickham." She got to her feet.
"Why? Why are
you so scared of him and not Jarvis?"
"'Cause Jarvis
is dead, an' Wickham ain't." With that, former Officer Jones
left the interrogation room in handcuffs.
~*~*~
August 2004
Fitzwilliam looked
at the photo one last time before tossing it into the trash can.
Jones had gotten her plea deal and was serving ten years in Parish
Prison. Her earliest parole hearing would come up in 2008. Three
members of the Jarvis gang were in Angola. But Wickham was still
walking free.
Fitz's involvement
in the sting against Jones had cost him the trust of some of
the members of the Second District. Sure, Jones was a bad cop
and needed to be taken down. Still, Fitz had turned on his own
people, and so a seed of doubt had been planted as to his loyalty
to the rest of the precinct. Nobody liked a whistleblower, and
it didn't help that the NOPD had decorated him for his involvement
in the investigation. Fitz was no fool; he saw what had happened
and, while not surprised, was still disappointed. Within six
months, he had requested and received a transfer. His precinct
captain had taken early retirement.
In the sprawling
Third District, which covered a large part of the city from Carrolton
to the Lake, from the 17th Street Canal to the Industrial Canal,
including Lakeview and Gentilly, Fitz was able to start anew.
He served in both the Street Crimes Unit and Community Policing.
He was able to earn the trust of his fellow officers. They would,
in time, write off Fitzwilliam's service in the Second District
as an unfortunate experience, dealing with an inferior precinct.
The competition between the districts had always been fierce.
Fitz's elevation
to captain was met with almost universal approval by the precinct.
If only his wife felt the same. In the aftermath of the mole
investigation, Olivia had hoped Richard would take the opportunity
to leave the NOPD with his head held high and go to work with
either the State Police or the FBI. She could not understand
why her husband would continue to work inside of a police department
so rife with politics, corruption, and back-biting. Now that
Richard was a captain, there was no way he would leave before
his twentieth year - if then.
Fitz tried to explain
to her his reason for staying on, but he failed, for he couldn't
tell her the real reason. She would not believe it. Even in his
own mind, it sounded insane. There was no way Richard Fitzwilliam
could leave the NOPD while Greg Wickham was on the loose.
Fitz could not explain
why Wickham had become such an obsession. He wasn't the largest
drug dealer in the city - not even close. And, except for the
Bertram/Smith murders, he was not implicated in any other killings.
Still, the man bedeviled him. It didn't help that Wickham had
turned up again a year after Jones' arrest, turning his cousins'
lives upside down.
Fitz considered.
To date, he had to believe his war against Wickham was a failure.
They couldn't get him for the incident at the AI house five years
ago. There was no evidence linking G-Daddy to the Jarvis gang.
Without Jones' testimony, there was no solid link to the murders.
Wickham had disappeared after the situation with Gina. Right
now, Fitz was 0-and-4 against the bastard.
Still, Richard Fitzwilliam
wasn't going to give up. He was a Saints fan, after all, and
if there was anything the city's woeful NFL franchise had taught
its fans, it was the comfort of faith. Believe, a recent
Saints ad campaign had asked the city. Fitz did believe - in
his team and in himself. He would get Greg Wickham.
Whatever it cost.
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