The Substitution Order, page 4
“So, Boss Flanagan,” I interrupt, “why don’t you let Mrs. Napier watch my urine test. I’d like someone other than you to be present. An honest witness.”
He smiles, then chuckles. “You want another test?” he asks.
“I haven’t been tested yet. Not today. Not by you. Not here.”
“Come on,” he says. He crooks his index finger and beckons Kelly, and we return to the office at the end of the hall. After we all walk in, he veers left, very formally, almost a military turn, takes several steps, puts the gun on a small table and opens the door to the bathroom.
There’s a cup of piss, a test strip and balled, discarded blue gloves on the counter. “Not mine, you son of a bitch. Kelly, this is a plant. That’s not my urine. He never tested me.”
“Check the temp, ma’am,” he instructs Kelly. “It should still be warm.”
Kelly lifts the cup, encircles it with both hands. “It’s warm, Kevin. Seems about right.”
“I want it sent to the lab,” I demand. “Let Kelly package it and send it to the state lab.” I pause. “And a second sample to the local hospital.” I look directly at Flanagan. I can feel my neck filling with blood, coloring red. “The damn gun is a plant. The dope is a plant. The test is a plant. Hell, teenagers and crackheads know how to microwave their buddy’s urine before they pour it out in here and try to claim it as their own. This is total bullshit.”
Flanagan sets the dope beside the gun. “I think we can agree, Officer Napier, that just about every crybaby probationer who flunks a urine test screams ‘bullshit’ and argues it’s a false positive from ‘cold medicine,’ or that he’s only ‘been around’ people who were using and must have inhaled the dope secondhand, or that someone slipped the meth into his tea at a family barbecue. You and I both realize Mr. Moore’s protests are the typical criminal’s nonsense, and I can promise you his story is as far-fetched as all the others you’ve heard over the years. Why in the world would I come down here from Richmond and stage a huge production to punish an innocent man? A total stranger? In a shake-rag, nothing case?”
“Kelly,” I say, slowly regaining my composure, “please don’t send the entire specimen.” I take a breath. “Mr. Flanagan can’t fake my DNA.”
“We don’t have a process for requesting a DNA sample,” Kelly says. “Or an account for drug testing at the hospital.”
“Then just keep enough to test later,” I urge her. “Seal it, mark it for chain of custody, secure it, keep it safe.”
Flanagan shrugs. He’s dropping the dope packages into a large, clear baggie. “Don’t know why you’d do that. Mr. Moore is positive for meth. End of story.”
“How convenient,” I say, “that you brought along an evidence bag for the dope you just happened to find.”
“I brought along all the items I might need to do my job correctly.” He nods at Kelly. “Thank you for your help, ma’am. You’re free to leave. I’ll finish up with Mr. Moore.”
Kelly studies me. She’s uncertain, thinking, debating, and it causes crinkles at the corners of her eyes, causes her lips to bunch. She focuses on Flanagan. “I’ll send it to the state lab. That’s the procedure if there’s any dispute. I’ll keep some as well. Everybody’s protected that way.”
“Well,” Flanagan says, “if we’re going to jump through all those hoops, just give it to me, and I’ll drop it off at the lab in Richmond. It’s my case, so I’ll do it.”
“It’s a Martinsville case,” Kelly declares. “I’ll turn half over to our courier in the morning.” She takes the cup of urine and leaves without saying anything else, pulls the office door closed behind her.
“Let me answer your questions,” I say to Flanagan. I’m clearheaded, the blood rush past me, the alarm and panic gone. “You’re screwing over an innocent man in a nothing case because someone, probably a chubby hustler with white hair and a boutonniere, has a string on you, and he wants you to lean on me to tell a lie so he can make some very serious money. Am I getting warm, Eddie?”
He scans the room, actually twists to search behind him. He mouths an “I’m sorry” so quietly that it’s not even a whisper. “Last chance for you,” he murmurs. “Okay?” He gazes at the floor, then raises up and shakes his head, sighs. “Not sure about any of that, sir,” he says in his normal voice, “don’t know what you’re referrin’ to, but here’s what I can tell you, a message you need to hear. If opportunity comes your way, you need to take advantage of it. Opportunity is key for probationers like you. Opportunity. I can’t stress it enough.”
“You’ve stressed it plenty already. I understand the message, and the threat’s been nicely delivered.”
“No threat, Mr. Moore. Like you said, this ain’t no big case, and my goal is to work with you, keep it off your record and make sure we give you the tools to stay clean and sober. Short term, I plan to sit on this, treat it as a minor violation, and see how well you do. Offer you opportunity. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to file a violation. You’re facing a felony conviction, which would pretty much end your lawyering days and carries ten years. On top of that, there’s these potential new cases from today. This much dope, already packaged for distribution, along with the gun and your admissions to me—you’d be facin’ a whole peck of trouble. A serious penitentiary trip, I’d predict. Don’t want that to happen, but it could.”
“My admissions to you? You shitty dishonest motherfucker. Kelly Napier heard me deny this no more than three minutes ago.”
“She’s not here now.” He licks his lips. “You know the drill. You know how the system works: It’s automatic—judge always believes the PO. And why wouldn’t he?”
“I have a clean record, and my guidelines for the real case recommend no time. It’s a frigging minor possession charge. Worst that happens, even with Judge Morris, I might catch six or nine months.” I point at him. “As for this put-up job, the gun isn’t mine, the dope isn’t mine, and even if they were, good luck proving a distribution case. No chance in hell.”
“You want to gamble on all that, Mr. Moore? I sure wouldn’t. Supposin’ things miraculously break in your favor, you’ll still wind up with the original felony and a permanent job squirting secret sauce onto buns. You’ll be disbarred forever. Listen to what I’m tellin’ you. Nobody’s trying to cause you grief. Just pick the smart option.”
“You should be really proud of yourself, Eddie,” I say. I take a step toward him. “You’re a fucking lying weasel.” I move closer, until we’re almost touching. “Better yet, you’re a powerless fucking lying weasel right now, because your crooked masters need my help. All you can do is hold this and threaten me with it.” I’m a tick taller than six feet, and Eddie’s around five-nine. I grab his tie at the knot and yank it up. He sucks a breath, sort of a backward cough, and meets my eyes for the first time. “You need to understand: If you go through with this bullshit and screw me over, I’ll never let it rest. I will come after you till the day I die. Swear to god I will.”
He pushes me, the heels of his hands against my chest, but his arms are tucked and pinned between us, and the shove hardly budges me. “You can ride the train,” he says, “or the train can run over you. Let go of my tie.”
I drop the tie, but he stays close to me, doesn’t separate. Our chests are almost touching. “This is disgusting,” I say. “Sad. Limp. I’m still not going to lie. Tell Caleb Opportunity he can go fuck himself.”
Flanagan takes a couple of steps away so that he doesn’t have to look up at such a steep angle. His hands are fisted at his waist. “Listen, Kevin, you seem like a nice enough guy,” he says, and he sounds sincere. “I don’t wish you any more punishment than you’ve already had, but trust me, you’re totally misreadin’ how this’ll play out. It can go nuclear.”
“I’ll take my chances, Eddie.” I consider punching the corrupt motherfucker, or kneeing him in the balls, or slapping him upside his skinned head, but I don’t do anything, and he’s stock-still as I walk off and slam the office door shut, doesn’t speak or try to stop me.
* * *
I leave the probation office and drive to the Patrick County Sheriff’s Department in Stuart, park in a visitor’s space and hurry for the entrance. I pass an inmate, a trustee, pouring oil into a push mower, and he spreads a hit-and-miss smile, as many blanks as teeth, and jokes that people usually run from the cops, not toward them. “Slow down, brother,” he advises me. “You’re as twitchy as a scalded rabbit.”
The sheriff, Don Smith, is standing next to the front desk, reading a half-sheet of paper and quizzing the receptionist about the particulars of a phone complaint. By all accounts, he’s a thoughtful, trustworthy man who runs a disciplined office. He’s wearing tan fatigue pants and a brown polo shirt. A yellow badge and Sheriff are embroidered across one side of the chest, and Patrick County is stitched on the other side. He notices me and lowers the paper. “Afternoon.”
“Sorry to bother you, Sheriff, but I need to do a little business with you if you have a second. My name is Kevin Moore, and I work at SUBstitution.”
“Sure. Let me finish this.” He drops the paper into a file folder, instructs the receptionist to check with a road deputy about the complaint, waits for me to clear the metal detector and buzzes me through the security door.
I trail him to his office, and he takes a seat behind his desk. I stop beside a chair but don’t sit. “Appreciate your seeing me,” I say.
“No problem.” His college degree is framed and hung behind him, along with scores of other awards and certificates.
“I want to, ah…to make a report and give you some information so there’s no question about it later on. And I need some help.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“This is going to sound crazy and strange, but I’m being set up by some well-connected, big-time operators who want to involve me in an insurance scam.”
“Say what?” He uses his index finger to push his glasses higher on his nose. “Not sure I follow you.”
“About an hour ago, I supposedly went to the probation office with a gun and a stash of dope in my car and then pissed dirty for meth. I did go to the office, but all the rest—the gun, the drugs, the failed screen—isn’t true.”
“So wait, you failed a drug test with Ron? You’re on probation? Am I understanding you? And he found a firearm and drugs in your vehicle?” Smith opens a desk drawer and takes out a form. “Let’s slow down for a minute. In fairness to both of us, I need to go over your Miranda rights. Might not even be necessary, but better safe than sorry.”
He reads me the warnings, and I sign a waiver. “Not Ron,” I continue. “No, some stranger from Richmond named Flanagan. He tricked in a urine sample, then planted a gun and dope baggies.” I finally sit, but I’m antsy, so I don’t use much of the chair, mostly crouch on the cushioned edge.
Smith traces his jawline with his thumb. “Okay. I think I’m with you now. A little while ago you failed a drug test, and a PO named Flanagan found a gun and dope in your car?”
“During a search only he witnessed.”
“You’re concerned about being violated?”
“Among other things,” I say. “Obviously, there could be new charges too.”
“Tell me again: Why’s this happening to you? A man you don’t know is going to gigantic trouble to make you appear guilty, right? Because of insurance?” He’s trying not to sound skeptical.
“Yes.”
“There’s no shame in relapsing, Kevin.” He makes it a point to use my familiar name, really emphasizes it. “Happens to the best of us. You and I both know owning up to it is your smartest choice. If you were truly positive for meth, of course.”
“I’ve been clean and sober for months, Sheriff.” Every word is loud, frustrated. “Months.” I lean forward. I tell him about the white-haired visitor and the insurance scam, how they’re trying to persuade me to take a dive so they can make five million dollars.
“Wow,” he says when I finish. “That’s a helluva story. So you have no useful ID on this character?”
“Nope. And I’m guessing that a record check isn’t going to turn up either Caleb or Opportunity.” I settle into the chair, relax my legs, pull in a long breath, exhale. “I’m also betting he’s not a bleached blond.”
“He didn’t touch anything there in the booth?” Smith asks.
“No. This definitely wasn’t his first rodeo.”
“Zero DNA options?”
“Zero,” I say, almost before he finishes the question.
“The security video’s empty?”
“Zilch.” I hear a lawnmower and see the inmate make his first trip by the window, cutting a patch of grass. “I realize Luther’s security system isn’t much more advanced than a string tied to a camera lever, but it’s still pretty noteworthy that this guy was able to shut it down. That’s a professional touch.”
“No big deal,” the sheriff replies. “Basically, Luther has a slightly enhanced DVD unit. You could buy a universal remote controller and kill the power from the sidewalk. Or slip in the back door and hit the off button when everyone’s busy at the counter making sandwiches.”
“Well, I was impressed,” I say. “I’d be grateful if you’d make a report of my version of events, so this doesn’t sound like some seat-of-the-pants, Hail Mary fairy tale if I wind up in court. I’m going to the emergency room right now and take another test, which I promise you will be clean as clean can be. I’d also appreciate it if you’d talk to Kelly Napier tomorrow and confirm that she sent my urine sample to the lab for a DNA analysis.”
“I will. I’ll call and remind her.” He nods at me. “If it isn’t your piss, that’ll be incredibly important.”
“Of course, I’m thinking they’ll never move on the charges. My theory is they just want to threaten me for a while. Try to gain leverage. Impress me with their long reach.”
“Possibly,” Smith says. “So you were a lawyer over in Roanoke? Kevin…Moore. Kevin Moore. Yeah, okay. Didn’t you represent the cop who shot the county supervisor’s drunk kid at a concert? I think I read where you got him off.”
“I did. Represent him, I mean. And he was found not guilty.”
“But you’re here now, working for Luther at his sandwich place?”
“I hope only temporarily.”
“I’m sure it will be.” He takes a paper clip from his desk and begins bending it straight. “And you’re on probation for…?”
“An under-advisement possession case. I had a brief drug problem. Almost a year ago.”
“Gotcha,” he answers. “Congrats on staying clean and sober.” He’s polite, but his expression lets on that he doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’m a junkie peddling typical junkie lies.
“Would you also have your folks see what they can track down on this Culp woman? Maybe assign an investigator to interview her? See if she has a criminal record? I have her address and phone number in the file.”
“All smart ideas,” he agrees. “But—no offense—let me get the clean independent drug test before I engage a hundred percent on this. Before I contact Kelly or start interviewing people.” He looks at the floor, then watches the inmate and his push mower pass by the window again. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Kevin, though you have to admit this is a pretty bizarre excuse.” He makes eye contact with me again. “I’m just askin’ that you give me a little verifiable twig to grab hold to before I investigate. Fair?”
“Very fair. Thank you for hearing me out. I’ll go over to the hospital right now.”
* * *
The lady at the emergency room’s admissions desk is young, pleasant and petite, and she speaks to me through an open rectangle in a plexiglass divider. “How can I help you, sir?” she asks.
“I need to see about taking a drug test.”
“For you? Or for somebody else?”
“For me,” I tell her.
“Do you have papers from a doctor’s office? Did your doctor send you over, or are you just wantin’ it for yourself?” She ducks slightly when she speaks so the plexiglass doesn’t block our conversation. Her laminated badge reads Piper Turner.
“It’s personal. For me. It’s not connected to a doctor.”
“So there aren’t any orders?” she asks.
“No.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but we can’t do the test unless it’s part of your health-care treatment and your doctor’s orderin’ it.”
“Can’t I just pay you and have the hospital take a urine sample and analyze it for drugs?”
“Afraid not. Sorry.” The sorry is soft and sympathetic. “You could call your doctor, and he can order it, and then we’d do it fast. Who’s your doctor?”
“Dr. Simonds,” I say. “In Roanoke.”
“You want me to look up his number?”
“Okay, if that’s what it takes.”
She phones the physician’s office and discovers he’s left for the day. “It’s after five,” she notes. “Most places, especially the plants, they just send people to LabCorp over in Mount Airy. They’ll do it for you, and it’s cheaper than a hospital. You might want to try them. Or the urgent cares will almost always test you. There’s a couple in Martinsville.”
“Jeez.” I stoop so that I’m face-to-face with her. “Do you think you could call and check for me before I leave? I’d appreciate it. I don’t want to waste the time and gas unless I can actually get tested today.”
“Sure,” she says, and smiles. Her hair’s gathered and pinned and braided tight around her head. “I wish we could help, but our management claims we lose money on ’em.”
“Thanks for checking.” I quit bending so I’m not crowding her opening.
