The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.
The Boaz Safecracker, written in 2019, is my seventh novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.
Book Blurb
Fred Martin, a 1972 graduate of Boaz High School, returns to his hometown after practicing law and living in Huntsville for over thirty-five years with two goals in mind. First, to distance himself from the loss of Susan, his wife of thirty-seven years who died in 2013 of cancer. And second, to partner with his lifelong friend, Noah Waters, to crack the safes of Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber, two men who got under their skin as high school football players.
Little did Fred and Noah realize the secrets the two old Mosler safes protected. Who murdered three Boaz High School seniors in the fall of 1973? Is a near-half-century-old plan to destroy Fred’s sister and steal the inheritance from a set of 44-year-old illegitimate twins still alive and well? How far would Fred’s mother go to protect her family?
What starts out as an almost innocent prank turns life-threateningly serious the more Fred learns and the more safes he cracks. All the while, he falls in love with Connie Stewart, his one-date high school classmate who may conceal a secret or two herself.
Chapter 40
I’m unsure, but I think it was the lovely Connie who gave me the final nudge to submit to a temptation that had been dangling before me ever since the rainy night I slipped inside 208 Thomas Avenue.
Yesterday afternoon, after politely declining Dad and Ed’s invitation to join Luke and Tyler at Martin Pond, I sat for almost two hours on the front porch of Martin Mansion with the three Martin mavens. Deidre and Gabby were no doubt experts in boy-girl relationships and were eager to respond to the endless questions of Miranda, my great-niece. It seemed the eighth-grader herself was well-read in Biology and Anatomy, and had a loose, but clearly defined, interpretation of the limits God allowed in teenage sexual exploration.
For some reason, right before I exited the audience of girl-talk, Deidre had taken the opportunity in one of her responses to take a dig at me. “Miranda, at some point, you have to know how to close the deal.” To me, her statement was wholly inappropriate, it was like Deidre was advising Miranda to use her female persuasive equipment to convince her boyfriend to give her what she wanted. Next, Deidre sat up in her rocking chair, looked over at me, and said, continuing her response to Miranda, “don’t be like Connie Stewart. She had all the beauty, nicely packaged I might add, but never could close the deal.”
So, indirectly, Connie, through Deidre, had sent me the message that I needed to close the deal. The timing had worked perfectly. Today, Monday, I had spent an hour with a new retirement plan prospect in Huntsville at the new industrial park. Afterwards, I had taken the first step towards tipping headfirst into the biggest temptation of my life.
Colton Mason was a former client of mine. He was, and remains, a criminal. Unlike most who disrespect the law, Colton had nine lives. Over the twenty years or so I had represented him, he had gone to prison only one time. He was sophisticated and slippery, as cunning and ruthless as the worst antagonist in the best of all novels.
Driving home from Huntsville I couldn’t help but recall the biggest courtroom victory of my career. My law practice had been equally split between civil and criminal matters, but it was the latter practice area that ignited my afterburners. The December 2012 not-guilty verdict sent shock waves throughout Madison County and all across North Alabama. The District Attorney seemingly had an ironclad case. Colton’s specialty was burglary and fencing. The State had him on camera breaking into and removing two backpacks loaded with valuables from homes of both the Huntsville Mayor, and the pastor of First Baptist Church in Madison.
It was the only time I could recall the Madison County District Attorney being over-confident. To his credit, he had been juggling two capital murder cases at the same time. The DA’s investigator had conducted only an elementary review of Colton’s family. They never discovered, until it was too late, that Colton and Dalton Mason were twins. By the time I presented clear evidence that it was Dalton who had committed the crimes, it was too late for the DA to marshal a respectable response. It didn’t hurt that Dalton was unavailable. He had died in a freak auto accident a few months before Colton’s trial.
Even though we won the big case, Colton lost his freedom. At the time of the trial, he had several misdemeanors pending, things like third-degree assault on a grocery clerk, and third-degree theft of property for allowing his sticky fingers to illegally transport a set of imitation gold cuff links from inside Belk’s Department store. The maximum jail time for any misdemeanor is one year. However, again to his credit, the DA persuaded Judge Tabor to stack Colton’s five convictions, making him serve them consecutively, one year at a time, one after the other. Colton, nor me, initially had believed the Judge would do such a thing
It was in late February 2014 that I had last seen Colton Mason. I had visited him in jail a few weeks before I resigned from King and Hart. There had always been a kind of favorable brother-brother relationship between us. I had almost felt a responsibility to see him one last time. I vividly recall the last statement he had made to me over four years ago as the jail guard came for me. Colton’s voice was low, virtually a whisper: “if you ever need to move some hot items keep me in mind, you know I’ve still got my Italian connections.”
Today, after my retirement plan presentation, I had dropped by to see Colton. I knew from the January 2018 Huntsville Times article that the infamous Colton Mason had been discharged from the Madison County Jail on New Year’s Day. Last night I had located that article through Google and noted the reporter had mentioned that Colton was looking forward to returning to his home in Harvest, Alabama.
I had found the nondescript home easily. It was the same house I had visited a couple of times over the twenty years I had represented him. One other thing the DA probably still doesn’t know. Colton Mason is Anthony Barolo, one of two heirs to Marchesi di Barolo, possibly the most renowned and best quality wine in Italy. The five-generation winery is in Barolo, the small southern Italian town named after Anthony’s long-dead multi-great, grandfather.
This locally unknown fact had been Colton Mason’s ace. This had given him a predictably safe environment to market (aka, fence) the high-priced coins, jewelry, and art, he had stolen from Madison County’s rich and famous for nearly thirty years.
As I crossed ‘the big-river bridge,’ as Guntersville and Marshall County locals liked to call it, I felt confident I could trust Colton’s handling of Elton and Rebecca Rawlins’ coins and jewelry. Unlike the Madison County District Attorney and Anthony Barolo, I was the only other person alive who knew what had happened to Dalton Mason. Heck, not even Dalton himself knew. I must blame Susan’s cancer for tipping me over the edge. It was the only time I flagrantly violated my role as an officer of the court. Not only was Anthony Barolo a master burglar, but he was also the master of disguise. I still cannot believe I went along with the grand scheme of creating Dalton Mason. Yes, I could trust my long-time friend. Of course, it was nice to have a little insurance.
It would take him only a few days to close the deal with his Italian cousin. Once the coins and jewelry arrived in Borolo, I would be richer than I ever imagined. I almost chuckled as I realized that the money wouldn’t make any difference for Noah; he was already filthy rich.
As I turned off Highway 168 onto my long driveway, I wondered how Benjamin Ericson would feel about some of his prize possessions winding up in Italy.
The Pencil Driven Life 