The Infamous Frankie Lorde 1, page 7
“Yes, but—” Uncle Scotty began.
“Thank you,” the lawyer said quickly. “And besides eviction, what other so-called threats did he make?”
Uncle Scotty hesitated before answering. He looked conflicted as he struggled to decide what to say next. I leaned forward in my seat, enthralled.
“Detective Lorde, I’ll ask you again,” the lawyer said forcefully. “In what other ways did Mr. Miles threaten his tenants?”
Uncle Scotty’s words came out almost painfully. “He said he would get some of them deported.”
“Ahhh,” Mr. Miles’s lawyer said, holding up his finger like a lightbulb had gone on. “So what you’re saying is that when Mr. Miles became aware that certain residents of his buildings were illegally living in the United States, he decided to do the right thing and turn them in? I’m sorry, but I don’t see the problem here. By definition, these people are breaking the law. Maybe instead of putting Mr. Miles on trial, we should be giving him an award.”
“Objection,” Mrs. Martinez’s lawyer said. “Does counsel actually have a question here?”
“Withdrawn,” Mr. Miles’s lawyer said, satisfied with himself. “I’m finished with this witness, Your Honor.”
With a look on his face that could only be described as thinly veiled murderous rage, Uncle Scotty got up from the bench and stalked back over to me. Sitting down with more force than was needed, he put his hands on either side of the wooden seat and gripped it tightly.
His knuckles turned white. His face, however, was bright red.
Entry Fifteen
“He’s gonna get away with it,” I said, shaking my head.
Uncle Scotty and I were sitting at a booth in an old-school pizza place not too far from the courthouse, and while I could tell he didn’t want to talk about what had just happened, I couldn’t help bringing it up.
“I hope you’re wrong, kid,” he said, taking a bite of his pizza. “But the judge has all the evidence. Now we just have to hope he does the right thing.”
I snorted.
“Like that’s gonna happen,” I said sarcastically.
Uncle Scotty looked at me sideways.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“Um, because he’s clearly in Mr. Miles’s pocket,” I answered like it was obvious.
“Based on what evidence?” Uncle Scotty asked, narrowing his eyes at me. “And how do you even know about stuff like that?”
I raised an eyebrow at him.
“Oh,” he said, reality kicking in. “Right. Well, even so, what makes you think they’re working together?”
I set my slice back down on the paper plate and wiped my hands with a napkin.
“First off, every time Mr. Miles’s lawyer objected to something Mrs. Martinez’s lawyer said, the judge sided with Miles,” I said, holding up one of my fingers.
“Not every—” Uncle Scotty began to argue.
“Every. Single. Time,” I said slowly.
Uncle Scotty seemed to think about this a minute before exhaling loudly.
“What else?” he asked.
“Second, the judge is scared of Mr. Miles,” I said, holding two fingers up in the air.
“Scared?” Uncle Scotty said. “Why would a judge be scared of a landlord?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know,” I said. “Maybe because Mr. Miles is more than just a landlord. Didn’t they call him a real estate mogul in there at some point? Mogul means money. Money means power. And power corrupts. My guess is Mr. Miles has some dirt on your judge that he’s threatening to let out if he doesn’t side in his favor. Or maybe he’s being paid off for his verdict. I don’t know, but the reason doesn’t really matter. Point is, the judge is scared and is going to side with them.”
“It’s a nice theory, Frankie, but there’s no way you can prove any of that,” Uncle Scotty said.
“Sure I can,” I said easily.
Uncle Scotty looked at me skeptically.
“How?” he challenged.
“Come on, Uncle Scotty. It’s so obvious,” I said.
“Not to me,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “So enlighten me.”
“Okay,” I said. “Well, for starters, the muscles right under the judge’s eyes were quivering, like, practically the whole time he was up there.”
“Quivering?” Uncle Scotty asked doubtfully.
I nodded. “Like a nervous twitching, almost,” I said. “That area of the face is highly susceptible to stress, so it’s a clear indicator of fear or anxiety. I guess that’s why it’s called a nervous twitch.”
Uncle Scotty nodded as he took in this information. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean he was nervous about Mr. Miles. Or even this particular case, for that matter. For all you know, he could’ve had a fight with his wife before going to court and was stressed about that.”
“True,” I conceded. “But that’s why you have to take all the other stuff into account.”
“Like…,” Uncle Scotty prompted.
“Like the darting eyes,” I answered. “Every time Mr. Miles’s lawyer objected to something, the judge’s eyes darted over to Mr. Miles. Not to the lawyer who was objecting, but to Mr. Miles himself. And then the last few times, he just kept his eyes trained on the top of his desk while he said ‘Sustained.’ He was totally avoiding Mr. Miles’s gaze. When a person does that, it usually means that the person they’re avoiding is unlikable or that they’re feeling some sort of shame about them.”
I glanced up from my piece of pizza to see Uncle Scotty looking at me in awe.
“There were a half dozen other indicators, but I don’t want to bore you,” I said, waving them off. “Just trust me, the judge is ruling in Mr. Miles’s favor.”
“I didn’t notice any of that,” Uncle Scotty said, almost to himself.
“You sort of have to be looking for it,” I said.
“And you were?” he asked. “Looking for that stuff, I mean.”
“Always,” I said without thinking. “It’s sort of habit by now.”
“Another trick your dad taught you?” he asked.
I nodded, even though we both already knew the answer.
Uncle Scotty began scratching his cheek absently as he looked off into the distance.
“Like that, for instance,” I said, pointing at his hand. “You doing that. I can tell that you’re wondering if I’m reading you all the time.”
Uncle Scotty froze as I said this, then quickly placed his hand in his lap.
“Are you?” he asked.
“Not all the time,” I lied.
“Great,” Uncle Scotty said with a sigh. “I’m living with a human lie detector.”
“But I’m loads of fun at a party,” I said.
“Awesome,” Uncle Scotty said, chuckling. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
We fell into a thoughtful silence as we resumed eating our pizza and let what I’d just revealed sink in. Finally, after a few minutes, I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“So what are we going to do?” I asked him.
“Tonight?” Uncle Scotty said, confused. “I thought we’d just go home. Don’t you have homework or something? Or some unpacking to do?”
“I’m not talking about when we leave here,” I said, rolling my eyes. “What are we going to do about the trial?”
“We’re not going to do anything about it,” Uncle Scotty said, throwing his napkin down onto his empty plate. “Trial’s over. Well, until the judge comes back with a verdict.”
“I think we’ve established how that’s going to turn out,” I said. “But that can’t be it. If we know Mrs. Martinez isn’t getting a fair shake, what are we going to do to fix it?”
“Nothing, Frankie,” Uncle Scotty said softly. “This is our justice system. Perfect or not, we have to trust that everything is going to work itself out.”
“But doesn’t it piss you off that Mr. Miles is going to get away with it?” I asked, getting fired up. “ ’Cuz it pisses me off.”
“Language,” Uncle Scotty warned lightly. “And if he does get off, then of course I’ll be disappointed, but I’ll accept it. I have to. That’s my job.”
“But that’s not fair,” I said, sounding every bit my age for once.
“No, it’s not,” Uncle Scotty agreed. “And life isn’t always going to seem fair. During those times, you just have to deal with it, move on, and try harder next time. I think justice has a way of balancing itself out over time. Even if it doesn’t happen now, I bet Mr. Miles gets what’s coming to him eventually.”
“And that would be…,” I prompted, pushing him a little further than he seemed to be willing to go by himself. “I just mean, besides being a total jerk and all the slumlord stuff, what else do you think he’s done?”
Uncle Scotty remained silent for a few moments as he thought about this. I could tell he was weighing how much to reveal to me.
“I mean, they mentioned at the trial that you’re investigating Miles for other stuff, too. What could be worse than kicking an old lady out of her home?”
“Trust me, Frankie,” Uncle Scotty said, finally looking at me, a distressed expression suddenly on his face. “A person can do a lot worse than that. And Christian Miles? Well, he’s done it all.”
I got the vibe that Uncle Scotty had said all he was going to say on the subject for now, but even with the limited details, it was enough to convince me something more had to be done.
“Well then, I hope you’re right and he does get what’s coming to him,” I agreed. Under my breath I added, “Even if I have to do it myself.”
Entry Sixteen
This is where the story starts to get…gray. Like, when people say things are black-and-white? This next part is in that shady gray area. So if you’re reading this—which you shouldn’t be, because this is my personal journal and not meant for public consumption—you need to make a decision right here, right now.
You can keep reading.
But it’s at your own risk.
Because I’m pretty sure that knowing what happens next can make you an accessory after the fact.
Or something equally serious.
So close this journal now. Put it back where you found it and you might not go to jail.
This is your last chance.
Okay, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Entry Seventeen
Uncle Scotty was right about one thing. I did have homework to do, and if I didn’t want to keep wearing my uncle’s clothes, I needed to unpack all my stuff.
And that literally took up the rest of my night after Uncle Scotty and I got home from pizza.
Learning was fun with Dad. He was always clear on how I’d be using the information out in the real world, and that made sense to me. It never seemed like a waste of time, because there was a reason for everything he taught me.
I doubt anyone at my new school could tell me when and how I will ever need to do long division. Hello? I have a cell phone and a calculator. And don’t give me the lame excuse of “But what if all the power goes out in the world and you don’t have the use of electronics anymore?”
Come on, people, if that happens, we’ve got more important problems than me not knowing how to do long division. And if that’s a serious concern anyway, then why aren’t schools teaching us how to create those electronics in the first place, so we can fix them when the whole world blacks out?
Just saying.
Anyway, after doing my stupid long division assignment and a few others I could’ve argued the validity of for hours, I dove into unpacking.
And despite the fact that I probably have fewer clothes than your average girl my age on account of Dad and me living a bit of a nomadic life, it still took me hours to get everything out of boxes and hanging or stored in the right place.
When I’d finished, it was nearly midnight and I was finding it hard to keep my eyes open.
Needless to say, I hadn’t had any time to start researching my next target:
Mr. Miles.
And yes, Miles is going to be my next mark.
I suppose it’s probably strange to normal people that I’d decide to do another job so soon after what happened with my dad. Especially considering it left my dad in prison. And the whole promising my uncle that I-wouldn’t-do-anything-illegal-while-living-with-him stuff. But for someone like me, giving up the life completely is not an option.
Sure, I’ve learned from the mistakes Dad and I made. And I certainly understand the stakes now, much more than I did before. But take a break?
No way.
The truth is, stealing is in my blood. It’s life. Without it, I have no idea who I am.
But I am willing to grow as a thief. Maybe change up a few things for the sake of all my new circumstances.
And that’s where Miles comes in. Because his case is different.
Or at least it will be once I get started.
* * *
So as soon as I got to school, I raced to the library and commandeered a computer in one of the back corners. Sure, I could’ve looked everything up on my phone, but that’s like Thieving 101.
You never leave electronic evidence of any job if it can be traced back to you.
Because as I learned through Dad’s trial, and years of him drilling it into my head, the government will get records of every site you’ve ever visited on your personal devices and every Google search you’ve ever done.
And once they have that, you might as well just confess to everything.
So using the school’s computers to do my research was pretty much a no-brainer. Nobody would ever be able to trace any of it back to me. That’s if anyone found out there was something to trace in the first place. But better to be safe than sorry.
With a quick glance around to make sure nobody was within peeking distance, I Googled Mr. Miles.
And got more than 100,000 results.
Here’s something you should know about most rich and famous people. They can be incredibly stupid. For instance, a lot of them like to brag about how much money they have or the dumb things they buy with said money. They do this in the media. They open up their doors to magazines, television, newspapers—pretty much anyone who will listen to them talk about themselves.
And the problem with this is that it’s basically inviting us thieves to come and rob them blind. Actually, if I’m being honest, it comes across more like they’re challenging us. And a challenge to a thief is what we live for.
Hey, it’s not like I’m complaining. When rich people do these interviews and profiles, it just makes it easier for us to do our jobs. Sort of like they’re doing all the prep for us. I just sit back and let them tell me everything I need to know.
And it’s for this exact reason that I don’t feel bad about stealing from them. After all, they’ve pretty much handed me the blueprints to their estates. I mean, what do they expect?
And to my delight, Mr. Miles was no exception.
Here’s what I found out with just a touch of a button:
— Mr. Miles, AKA Christian Miles, is a fifty-seven-year-old real estate baron who was born in Nashville, Tennessee.
— He moved to Queens with his parents when he was seven years old, and this is where he developed the unique Southern/New Yorker accent that people associate with him.
— Christian Miles attended New York University, where he graduated with a degree in business and was a member of Alpha Omega Delta fraternity.
— After college, Miles took over his father’s property management company, growing it from three apartment buildings in Queens to more than forty apartments, hotels, and businesses across New York City.
— He’s been married twice but never had kids. His second divorce was especially messy, and his former Miss Delaware ex-wife settled for a cool $20 million, plus one of their vacation homes in the Hamptons.
— While he does own a penthouse overlooking Central Park, he spends most of his time on his lavish estate in Greenwich, Connecticut, which he bought for $30 million when he was just thirty-two years old.
— Though he’s never come out and said how much he’s actually worth, Forbes placed him at number 52 of the world’s richest men.
— Christian Miles has a collection of expensive cars and stores them in a custom-built hangar with a revolving showroom floor and temperature-controlled environment. Allegedly, he’s been known to race them down his half-mile-long private driveway during parties.
— Besides his car collection, he’s also a collector of fine art, rare animals, and watches.
— The last big purchase he made was commissioning a personalized cell phone cover of his face.
— Rumor has it that Miles has a hidden vault somewhere on his 20,000-square-foot property where he keeps his rarest items as well as more than $1 million in cash.
And that was just what I was able to find out in the first ten minutes of my search. I would’ve gotten a lot more if I hadn’t been interrupted.
“Fancy meeting you here,” a voice said from behind me, jarring me out of research mode. I closed out of the search window as quickly as I could and swung around in my seat to see who it was.
“Ollie,” I said, letting out a breath.
I silently cursed myself. I should’ve heard him coming up behind me. It’s not like Ollie was exactly quiet. At the very least, I should’ve picked a computer station that allowed me to see people before they approached me. Who knows how many other kids had seen what I’d been doing?
Come on, Frankie! Rookie mistake.
“Doing some research?” Ollie asked, leaning against a nearby table and crossing his legs at the ankles. Today he was wearing a pair of black skinny jeans and a red-and-black-checkered jacket.
