The trials of max q, p.1
The Trials of Max Q, page 1
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Title Page
Pre-race Jitters
Chapter One
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
The Investigation
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
The Trial
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
The Tribulation
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Day 366
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Officer Jones - Preview
Acknowledgments
Table of Contents
Title Page
Pre-race Jitters
Chapter One
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
The Investigation
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
The Trial
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
The Tribulation
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Day 366
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Officer Jones - Preview
Acknowledgments
The Trials of Max Q
Derek Ciccone
Copyright© 2011 Derek Ciccone
Published by Derek Ciccone Books
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Books by Derek Ciccone
Featuring JP Warner (in order)
Officer Jones
Huddled Masses
Psycho Hill
Confederate Gold
Stand Alone
Painless
The Trials of Max Q
The Truant Officer
The Heritage Paper
The Jack Hammer
Kristmas Collins
This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this book are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental
Pre-race Jitters
Chapter One
Perfection is like the mechanical rabbit used to lure greyhounds at the dog races—tantalizing, but unobtainable. It seduces you into believing you can catch it, only to ruthlessly dart away at the last moment. As I peer into the perfect blue sky of a late July day in Saratoga, New York, it’s a reminder of how I know this all too well.
The crowd is bubbling with anticipation for the next mad-dash of thoroughbreds at Saratoga Racecourse. I strain my neck to look for my friends, Mac and Ashley Cirillo. They left to place wagers on the upcoming race, what seems like twenty minutes ago, even if my watch tells me it has only been five. But having known Mac since college, I know the only sure bet is that he stopped off to purchase a beer and a plate of nachos.
No sign of Mac and Ashley, just a postcard-esque view of the Victorian grandstand. It’s another packed house at America’s oldest racetrack.
I sit at a picnic table in the general admission paddock area. I’m not far from where my family, the Lawsons, normally gather in the luxurious box seats at the finish line. The same seats the Lawsons of yesteryear once sat in, arm-in-arm with the Vanderbilts and Rockefellers. But from a social-class point of view, my seat is a galaxy away. I can’t avoid the obvious symbolic separation from my old life.
The Lawson legal dynasty began when Thomas Lawson arrived in Boston Harbor from the mother country in the first half of the eighteenth century, eventually settling in what is now Greenwich, Connecticut. He set up a small law office on nearby Manhattan Island, and after years of chasing the horse and buggy version of ambulances, he grew to be one of the most powerful lawyers in the New World. He was so taken with the law (more precisely, its lucrative rewards) that he decided that all future Lawsons would follow his lead, coining the phrase that has become the family creed, “Lawsons are lawyers.” To ensure his mission statement would be carried out, he linked each descendant’s inheritance to their joining the family business.
Over the years, the mechanical rabbit the Lawsons chased became narr owly defined. The acquisition of unimaginable wealth was part of it, of course, but my family views true perfection as being perceived as perfect by those around them. Or what I like to refer to as the meaningless quest for the approval of others.
The thoroughbreds are led into the starting gate. One feisty colt is having second thoughts and puts up a fight, but eventually gives in—the rebel always seems to lose in the end. As bugles signal the race is about to commence, I spot the oversized white hat of Ashley Cirillo. She strolls through the thick crowd with her usual grin and the grace of an old-time movie star, the haughty Saratoga background fitting her like a Vera Wang dress.
Walking alongside Ashley is her husband, Mac. He is looking frat-boy scruffy, as if he didn’t get the memo that states you aren’t supposed to look and act the same at thirty-two as when you were twenty-two. They are an odder couple than Felix and Oscar ever were, their only noticeable commonality is the “in-love” smile they wear for each other.
“I love the smell of trust funds in the afternoon,” Mac jokes upon reaching me, dramatically sniffing the air for effect.
I smile and grab one of his cheese-glazed nachos.
“So who’d we bet on?” I ask Ashley. I always follow her lead on such matters. Her success often exceeds that of the so-called experts, even though her technique of picking the horse with the “prettiest tail” has yet to become an accepted technique of professional handicappers.
“Mac bet on a three-to-one shot named Old Wino, not exactly going out on a limb,” she begins.
“I couldn’t resist, Jack, it reminded me of your grandmother,” Mac states. He appears proud to have extracted a grin from me. Lately it’s been a challenge.
“The combination of my family and your lifelong losing streak doesn’t exactly scream winner,” I reply, before getting to the all-important bet. “Which one has the pretty tail, Ash?”
“Actually, I’m going away from the plan this time, Jack.”
Before I can question this dramatic change of course, Mac explains, “It’s destiny, Jack—as big of a lock as you in the courtroom. The horse’s name is Clotheshorse!”
For years Mac has playfully referred to Ashley as “the Clotheshorse” in response to her expensive addiction to shopping.
“It’s fifty-to-one, Jack, but I don’t know how it can lose,” Ashley adds with enthusiasm.
We walk to an outside grill that’s situated right next to the track, and is VIP only. I use my Lawson influence to get us in, so we can stand by the rail. It is one thing to watch the race, it’s another to feel the horses thunder past you.
A ringing of bells halts our conversation. The gates burst open and the rumbling of hooves crackles through the thick summer air. Those in the grandstand rise out of their seats. “And they’re off!” shouts the track announcer.
It feels like the earth is shaking as the horses bend around the first turn. “Old Wino shoots to the lead!” belts out the announcer.
Ashley excitedly urges Clotheshorse on, “C’mon baby, mama needs a new pair of shoes!”
“Mama has a whole closet of shoes she has never worn,” Mac reminds her. He is trying to remain confident, but I can tell he’s sensing another bad ending.
I maintain my cool demeanor that has always served me well in the courtroom, but sometimes gives the perception of aloofness outside of it.
At the halfway point, Clotheshorse, the fifty-to-one shot, has done the unthinkable by overtaking Old Wino. Mac nervously chain-eats his nachos as we watch the horses head down the home stretch, while Ashley cheers on with a knowing grin.
It’s Clotheshorse by a nose … Old Wino makes his move on the rail … Old Wino moves to the lead … Here comes Clotheshorse … It’s too close to call …
That’s when a seven-to-two shot named Bossy Cow makes a move on the outside. She is a dark brown filly with a white stripe down her nose. She passes with ease and cruises to a three-length victory.
Old Wino takes second, giving Mac slight bragging rights over Ashley, who watches Clotheshorse drop to fifth and out of the money. She curses herself for abandoning her system.
“Typical woman,” Mac impugns the victorious filly. “Just when you’re feeling good about things, she sneaks up behind you and ruins all the fun.”
The comment leads to a group laugh—a nice moment between friends. One that’s been lacking during the recent stage of my life. It’s officially being called a “sabbatical,” while the whisperers behind my back tend to prefer the term “mental breakdown.”
I currently live with Mac and Ashley at their house on Otsego Lake in Cooperstown, a small village ninety miles northeast of Saratoga, and known for being the home of the Baseball Hall of Fame. That is where Mac works as the Assistant Director of Marketing, a step on the path to his dream job, which is to be the curator of the museum.
Ashley followed Mac to Cooperstown after graduation, and the city girl became so bored in rural upstate New York that she began doing errands for everyone she met to keep busy. This attempt at curing boredom developed into a profitable business she aptly named Ashley’s Errands, making her the true breadwinner of the family. Mac often jokes that the errand business is just an excuse for Ashley to go on shopping sprees, even if they are for others.
We all met at Brown University, thirteen years ago. Mac chose Brown because the Ivy League education allowed him to pursue his dreams and escape the blue-collar town of Poughkeepsie. Ashley chose it because Providence was near her Boston home and she considered it a “hip college town.” I went to Brown because my aristocratic mother patterned her life after Jackie Kennedy, and if Brown was good enough for her son John Jr., then it certainly was good enough for Jack Lawson.
Having grown up at the corner of rich and delusional, I rarely interacted with real people. This changed when I met my college roommate, a sophomore named Mac Cirillo. He was nothing like anyone I had ever met before. He was funny, comfortable in his own skin, and wasn’t overly concerned what others thought of him. He is known for being a little “out there” with his offbeat theories that he calls Macademia—combining his name with academia, because in his words, he is educating us. I more associate the term with macadamia nuts, which I think might be a better description of Mac. His belief that man never landed on the moon is the one he is most passionate about.
The big favor I did for Mac was introducing him to Ashley Armstrong, a gorgeous leggy blonde with grace, style, and pedigree. In other words, way too good for him. Ashley will be the first to admit she is girly, but if you call her high maintenance you’ll have a fight on your hands. She can fish and talk trash with the boys as effortlessly as she can pick out a pair of designer shoes. Her father owns a private airline company called Armstrong Airlines, and Ashley is an accomplished pilot herself, giving lessons on the weekend. But most importantly, she has always been my biggest source of support—a support I’ve needed the last couple of years.
I consider them to be my real family. So when I took a leave of absence from my family’s firm, Lawson Baird & Gentry, I ultimately migrated here. It’s where Mac returned the favor by reintroducing me to a great love of mine—the law. It’s the one great legacy of my family’s incessant shove in that direction. But I don’t love the “Lawson Law” of money, schmoozing wealthy clients, and making partner. The law I fell for was the one that represents justice, and speaks for those who can’t speak for themselves. Which is what led me to stay in Cooperstown, and take the job as Chief Assistant District Attorney for Otsego County.
Chapter 2
Mac peers over his guide as if he’s proofreading it. He isn’t very good at betting, but he sure gives it his best effort. He scans the horses in the final race and a sly grin appears on his face.
I realize the source of his amusement and don’t allow him to milk the moment. “I know—my grandmother’s horse is running in this one.”
The name of the horse is Attorney@Lawson. It has received much buzz this first weekend of racing in Saratoga, and is an early favorite to take the prestigious Travers Stakes in August.
“What happened, Jack—your invitation get lost in the mail?” Mac asks.
“I wasn’t so lucky. I was supposed to attend the traditional breakfast this morning.”
“Why didn’t you go, Jack? You haven’t seen them in so long and the breakfast is fabulous,” Ashley chimes in with her typical concern for me
“My grandmother did mention it’s a time-honored tradition.”
“Then why not go?” Ashley pushes.
“I told her it was an even more time-honored tradition to spend it with you guys.”
Ashley flashes me an annoyed look. “I’m not one of those juries that your BS works on, Jack.”
“I’ve just started getting things back together and I wasn’t ready to face them,” I come clean.
Ashley appears satisfied with my answer, and perhaps a little surprised by my candidness. I’m usually quite skilled at being evasive and mysterious when I want to be. And if that doesn’t work, my courtroom oratory skills—or BS-ing, as Ashley calls it—often come in handy.
