Miller - Rattlesnake & Son

RATTLESNAKE

&

SON

ISBN: 978-1-932926-69-9

LCCN: 2018951839

Copyright 2019 by Jonathan Miller

Cover Design: Angella Cormier

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without written permission of the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review .

Artemesia Publishing

9 Mockingbird Hill Rd

Tijeras, New Mexico 87059

www.apbooks.net

info@artemesiapublishing.com

Names: Miller, Jonathan C.

Title: Rattlesnake & Son : [a novel] / by Jonathan Miller.

Other Titles: Rattlesnake and Son

Description: Tijeras, New Mexico : Artemesia Publishing, [2019] | Series:

Rattlesnake Lawyer | Subtitle from cover.

Identifiers: ISBN 9781932926668 (softcover) | ISBN 9781932926699 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Fathers and sons--New Mexico--Fiction. | Lawyers--

New Mexico--Fiction. | Problem youth--New Mexico--Fiction. |

Psychic ability--Fiction. | LCGFT: Legal fiction (Literature) | Thrill

ers (Fiction) | BISAC: FICTION / Thrillers / Legal. | FICTION / Le

gal. | FICTION / Thrillers / Supernatural.

Classification: LCC PS3613.I5386 R38 2019 (print) | LCC PS3613.I5386

(ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

RATTLESNAKE
&
SON

by

Jonathan Miller
Artemesia Publishing

Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted: persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.

~ Mark Twain.

To Marie.

Table of Contents

PART I

TRUTH

Chapter 1

Cruiser

I cant understand you. Please stop! I said aloud to whoever or whatever was causing the sharp pinging in my head. The pinging had become a regular occurrence over the last few months, but this was the loudest ping by far. If this was psychic e-mail, I didnt have enough bars in my brain to receive it.

Perhaps I was in a psychic dead spot and all the electronic noise of urban Albuquerque was interfering with the ectoplasm. After checking the mail at the main post office, I headed east on Interstate 40. I soon found myself in gridlock, inching toward the Big I interchange with Interstate 25, Exit 226. In the heart of Albuquerque, I could go three different directionsnorth toward my home in the nice desert suburb of Sandia Heights, east to see my real estate agent in the glass towers of uptown, or south, and go straight to Hell. Well, south actually took me through the ugly industrial outskirts of the city. I went all over New Mexico, but rarely went south.

Was the pinging telling me which direction to head?

Then again, maybe this wasnt a psychic message after all. I could have a blood clot or some unknown form of migraine. The pinging was just the gridlock in my arteries, blocking the flow of blood through the left hemisphere of my brain. There had to be a logical, medical explanation, right?

Nothing was supernatural about this lunchtime traffic jam on Interstate 40, it was neither super nor natural. Albuquerque on an ordinary Friday was impersonating LA on a getaway afternoon. I had stopped dead and wasnt living life in any fast lane.

The pinging stopped as my phone rang aloud, as if on cue. I caught the phone on the second ring. This is Dan Shepard. I pressed a button and spoke into the air, courtesy of my phones Bluetooth connection to the car radio. I wanted to add The Rattlesnake Lawyer, but my rattle was worse than my bite these days. I made my living on something called the breakdown docket. I took over the cases from lawyers who had breakdowns, disposing of their cases as expeditiously as possible for a substantial fee from the courts. Eventually, Ill have my own breakdown, and someone would take over the cases from me.

Still, Id managed to avoid that inevitable breakdown for over twenty years.

A female voice emerged from my radio. Mr. Shepard, we need you to come down to Truth or Consequences for a juvenile case this afternoon at two. Theres an order requiring your presence, signed by Judge Brady. The juveniles name is Cruiser Arnold.

An order requiring my presence signed by a judge? I loved the law, but never liked orders. I had lived in New Mexico for years but still smiled when hearing the name of the town of Truth or Consequences, nicknamed T or C.

T or C sounded A-ok. In this high-tech world, I still received my case assignments by either mail or phone call. If I returned to my office now, I could review my cases in alphabetical order in an endless loop. I could check Ybarra, then Zamora, calendar the months hearings, and draft an e-mail or two to opposing counsel. Perhaps Id even fill in a stock motion to suppress evidence. I often joked that it was Frivolous Motion Friday. I'd then begin the alphabet all over again with the A files.

Arnold would fit right in before my four cases for various Bacas.

Cruiser Arnolds juvenile case sounded like a cruise down easy money street and an escape from the everyday; or at least an escape from meeting with my real estate agent. I hoped to sell my home after I finished ridding the bathroom of mold. There was a term of art for fixing mold remediation. Neil Young once sang that rust never slept, but mold didnt sleep either. How can you defend someone you know is guilty? You think about paying for the mold remediation of your master bathroom.

I was already in my blue chalk pinstriped Daniel Hechter suit, white monogrammed shirt from some British mail-order house (buy one get one free). An ancient purple Jerry Garcia tie was lying on the passenger seat. Im on my way.

Sierra County Courthouse, Division One.

Got it.

I patted my dashboards phone icon and hung up. I drove a used Lincoln MKZ sedan, the cheapest luxury car available with my credit score. I couldnt resist the salesmans pitch that I be a Lincoln Lawyer. I doubt that he had seen the film of the same name to realize that the term was not necessarily a compliment.

The traffic magically cleared. It took an awkward shift over three lanes before I could take the southbound exit onto I-25. Once I passed Exit 223 for the eight stories of Presbyterian Hospital, construction blocked any exit, blocked any escape.

If you lived in New Jersey, people asked What exit? In New Mexico, the exits defined how far I was from home. Usually the further the better, as I could bill for mileage and per diem.

It would be a two-hour straight shot to Exit 79, the Sierra County courthouse, Division One, assuming I drove seventy-nine mph. That way I wouldnt get points on my license if I got ticketed.

Once the southern warehouses and refineries of Albuquerque receded and I crossed the Rio Grande near the Isleta Casino, I was back in rattlesnake country. Even though the Rio Grande became the border between the US and Mexico hundreds of miles away from here, this crossing took me out of my Albuquerque bubble. My pulse beat a little bit faster.

Still driving seventy-nine, I tried to find the Cruiser Arnold case online on New Mexico Courts using my smart phone. Cruiser Arnold. Was that even a real name? Then I remembered that juveniles didnt appear on court websites, so I couldnt research him. I had represented a few juveniles with the first name of Cruz, usually Hispanic kids from Albuquerques tough South Valley. They often went by the nickname Cruiser, much like Ignacios were called Nachos and Jesus somehow became Chuy. At least Cruiser wasnt a Chuy, which always sounded weird coming from my Anglo lips.