The Justice Game

25

Jason only made it home once or twice a year. The last few times, he had been struck by how much the place had changed. It was a small, one-story brick house in one of the few older Alpharetta neighborhoods. Jason’s father had bought the place to escape the home that held so many memories of Jason’s mom.

It made Jason sad to see the gradual deterioration of this house-the weeds overtaking the yard, the stained carpeting that needed to be replaced, the faded tile on the bathroom and kitchen floors.

The house smelled like stale beer.

In a halfhearted nod to the season, his dad had moved a chair in the living room and erected a fake Christmas tree. He had not bothered to decorate at all on the outside, making the house an oddity in a neighborhood that sparkled with all manner of gaudy outdoor lighting.

Jason threw his stuff in his old bedroom, a room that now doubled for storage, and stepped around the extra furniture, the old StairMaster, and the boxes that cluttered the floor. He thought about calling a few high school friends but remembered that they usually had family activities planned. Instead, he alternated between TV and surfing the Internet on his dad’s desktop computer.

Next year, he would think of a good excuse to skip Christmas in Alpharetta altogether.

At 11:30, Jason’s dad came home and apologized for being late. He had traded shifts with a young detective who had a sick wife, and Jason resisted the urge to make a snide comment. He could smell the alcohol when they shook hands, his father placing his left hand on the outside of Jason’s shoulder-a Noble family “hug.”

After his father changed clothes, he immediately poured himself a beer… almost certainly another beer. “Want one?” he asked.

“No, thanks.”

“Loosen up, Son. It’s Christmas.”

Jason had sworn off drinking ten years earlier. He wasn’t about to start up now, especially seeing what it had done to his dad. “I’ll just take some soda.”

His father shook his head and mumbled something that Jason didn’t catch. He handed Jason a two-liter bottle of Coke from the refrigerator, and Jason poured himself a glass. The Coke was flat.

They took seats at opposite ends of the kitchen table like two gunslingers squaring off for a fight.

Jason studied his father-the old man’s deterioration seemed to match the house. Jason had his mother’s build, her average height, high metabolism, thin bone structure. His father was broad and stocky, about three inches shorter than his son, powerful as a bull. He had put on a little more weight in the last year, and his skin had the red, splotchy complexion of an alcoholic, matched by a large nose and perpetually bloodshot eyes. He looked older than fifty-two.

“Tell me about your practice,” his father said.

His tone said he might actually be interested, despite the disappointment he had expressed when Jason opted for a career as a private lawyer. Jason remembered Detective Corey’s comments and decided to start by describing the gun case he had just landed. His dad worshiped at the altar of the Second Amendment. There had been guns in the Noble house for as long as Jason could remember, though Jason himself had never fired one. This case might help break his dad’s perception that Jason was just defending a bunch of crooks and cop killers.

“You remember the shooting that occurred in that television station in Virginia Beach-the one everybody played live on the air?”

“Yeah.” His dad was wasting no time downing the beer.

“That reporter’s husband filed suit against the gun manufacturer for allegedly knowing about the illegal sale of their firearms and doing nothing to stop them.”

“MD Firearms,” his dad murmured as he took another drink.

“Right. They asked me to represent them. Some say this could be the biggest Second Amendment case in years.” Jason took a sip of his Coke as his dad made a face and digested the news.

“What do you know about them?”

“What I’ve read online and in the papers.” Jason decided to omit the fact that he had toured their plant, just a short drive from his father’s house.

“Maybe you ought to investigate a little more before you take that case.”

The tone deflated Jason. He hadn’t taken the case in order to gain his father’s approval, but he hadn’t thought it would hurt. “Meaning?”

His father played with his beer glass for a few seconds, apparently deciding whether to proceed. “Have you heard about what they did with silencers?”

Jason shrugged. He didn’t even know they made silencers.

“Buncha years ago, your potential client decides to make a few extra bucks by diversifying into silencers. The only problem is that, according to ATF guidelines at the time, anybody who orders a complete silencer has to register it. So MD Firearms-which was back then called Buford Arms Corp., or something like that-went into partnership with some other Georgia companies to sell parts for a silencer. I think your client sold the tubes and the others sold the internal parts.”

Jason’s father paused to take another drink. “Finally the ATF got a warrant and raided the facilities of all these companies. They seized records showing something like six thousand sales of silencer parts, but only four buyers had registered their silencers, and about fifty of ’em were sold to folks with prior felony convictions.”

Jason listened intently, knowing that this information would be paraded around by the plaintiff’s lawyers. This kind of rule bending seemed out of character for the Melissa Davids he had met at MD Firearms.

“So the ATF gets all this evidence and takes these companies to court to revoke their licenses, but the judge throws it out-says nobody can prove they intended to violate the registration laws. Might have just been legitimately trying to sell silencer parts.” Jason’s dad snorted. “What a crock.”

“Was Melissa Davids there at the time?” Jason asked.

“She was working there.” Jason’s father went to the refrigerator for his second beer, on top of who knew how many earlier that night. “A few years later, her husband’s family helped her buy the company from the original owners and she promised to clean it up. But all she did was change the name of the company and the guns. Right up until the assault weapons ban, they pumped out their MD-9 by the truckload, knowing that people were converting it to a fully automatic. The ATF traced hundreds of converted guns to crimes, including one here in Forsyth County where a cop got mowed down by a drug gang. When the ban expired five years ago, they brought the MD-9 back in all its glory, more popular than ever.”

Now Jason understood why his father recalled all these facts. Forsyth County was right next door. A police officer had been killed. A line had been crossed.

Jason’s father sat down with a thud and twisted the cap off his drink. This time, he didn’t bother with the glass.

“Do me a favor, Son. Don’t take that case.”

He stared at Jason, waiting for a reply.

“Son?”

Jason looked down. He didn’t want to trigger his dad’s temper. Not tonight. It was Christmas Eve. They hadn’t seen each other in months. One cross word and the Noble men would be at each other’s throats with dizzying speed.

But he wasn’t going to lie. And he wasn’t about to let his father start dictating what cases he should take. Did he tell his dad what crimes he should investigate?

Jason took a deep breath and faced into his father’s bloodshot eyes. “I already have, Dad. Everybody’s entitled to a defense.”

His father cursed, his face reddening. “Why do you insist on embarrassing this family?”

“My client didn’t shoot that woman.” Jason argued. He thought maybe he could play his dad like a jury member, appeal to the man’s bias. “You hold that company liable in a case like this and it’s only a matter of time before they go after Glock or Smith amp; Wesson. This is a Second Amendment case, Dad.”

“That’s bull,” his father said in an angry whisper. “And you know it. You want this case because you want to make a big name for yourself. Jason Noble. Big-time defense lawyer.”

Jason took the bait. He couldn’t help himself. Somehow his dad always managed to get under his skin. “That’s right, Dad. You know all about me. You’ve got me all figured out.” Jason felt his anger quickly spiraling out of control, the thing he had pledged would not happen on this trip. “Everything I do is wrong. I can never be good enough for the vaunted Noble name. The hard-working detective.” Jason scoffed. “If only they knew.”

“I don’t need your attitude.” Jason’s father stood, staring at Jason with disgust. “You’ve been here five minutes and you’re already starting in with this crap.”

Jason lowered his gaze to the table, seething. He had physically squared off with his dad just once, a few months prior to leaving for college. His father had thrown Jason to the ground and scrambled on top, pounding Jason until he begged for his dad to stop.

His dad had stood towering over Jason for a few seconds afterward. “You think you can beat the old man?” he taunted. Jason had lain there on the ground, gingerly touching his lip, blood streaming onto the carpet. He shook his head meekly.

“Clean up the carpet,” his father had said. Then he walked away.

His father was quicker and stronger than he looked. Every time they argued, that fight came cascading back, relodging itself so strongly in Jason’s memory that he could almost taste the blood. But then there were times, like right now, that Jason was so angry he didn’t care. Plus, Jason was older now. Stronger. His old man had undoubtedly lost a few steps.

In the heat of the moment, Jason wanted to jump up and start something, either beat the old man once and for all or force him to beat Jason so severely that it would end their relationship forever.

“You want to try the old man?” The words were taunting, echoing from eight years ago. They knew each other’s hot buttons.

Jason looked up, tears stinging his eyes. “What do you want to do, Dad? You want to hit me again? Go ahead and hit me.” Jason stood, holding his hands out to his sides, palms open. “Will that make you feel like a real man-beating up your kid? Maybe you can do some permanent damage this time.”

His father stood there, rage coloring every feature. Jason half expected the fists to fly at any moment. This time, he wouldn’t even defend himself. He would let his father do whatever damage he wanted. He would make him pay by never speaking to him again.

The face-off only lasted a few seconds, and then his father nodded his head a little, as if he couldn’t believe what a jerk he had raised for a son. He sat down in his chair, scoffed at Jason, and took another drink of beer.

Jason walked away, heading down the hall toward his bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

“To bed, Dad. Merry Christmas… Thanks for making it so special.”