Good Lookin' Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Good Lookin’

  Good Lookin’: a Joe Turner Mystery

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press

  For a split second I thought about running, but Dunigan filled the doorway as he picked up the unconscious deputy with his handcuffed meat hooks and effortlessly tossed him into the hallway. I’ll never forget the hollow clang of the metal door when he shut it, locking us inside the tiny room.

  I smashed a red alarm button on the wall behind me just before the giant prisoner slid the heavy metal table across the room as if it were made of plastic, pinning me against the wall. The behemoth leaned on the table and stared at me, eyes wild and grinning maniacally. He took a couple deep breaths and forcefully blew the air and spittle out through his yellowed teeth.

  He stood up straight, keeping me pinned to the wall, leaning his girth against the table. I tried to push it away with both hands, twisting frantically, but it was useless against his weight and strength. His grin widened and his breathing intensified as if aroused by my fear. Then he reached toward my head with his two hands the size of catcher’s mitts, holding them there a few inches from my head. I turned sideways and pressed my cheek against the wall, keeping sight of his hands with one eye that pulsed with panic. He kept his hands there, close to my face, reveling in the anticipation. I pictured his hands squeezing my head, his thumbs entering my brain through my eye-sockets.

  Praise for Good Lookin’

  “Todd Bequette, known as a skilled and meticulous criminal defense attorney, fashions those same attributes as a writer with his engaging break-through novel, Good Lookin’. Bequette’s alter-ego, Joe Turner, expertly untangles what initially looks like an open-and-shut case, guiding us through a series of mysteries along the way that keeps us in suspense even after the verdict is read.”

  ~ Matt Maiocco, Author, Letters to 87

  ~*~

  “Gripping characters and an intricate storyline make this legal thriller a compelling read that you won’t put down until the final (and unexpected!) denouement.”

  ~ Elizabeth P. Augustin, Writer

  ~*~

  “A highly entertaining, crisply written, and enjoyable book….Good Lookin’ takes you on a journey through the trials and tribulations of criminal defense attorney Joe Turner as he and his young client, accused of murder, navigate their way through the criminal justice system.”

  ~ Kevin R. Murphy, Judge, Alameda County Superior Court

  Good Lookin’: a Joe Turner Mystery

  by

  T. L. Bequette

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Good Lookin’: a Joe Turner Mystery

  COPYRIGHT © 2021 by Todd Lewis Bequette

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Edition, 2021

  Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3570-4

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3571-1

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Christian Souza, in memoriam.

  The best writer I ever knew.

  Acknowledgments

  On the pantheon of friendship litmus tests, reading an unpublished first novel falls somewhere between moving day and an early morning lift to the airport. I count myself lucky that so many obliged.

  At the top of the list is Alice Piper, who put her Master’s in Creative Writing to good use and improved the story immensely. I am also grateful to Catherine Burns, James Burns, Matt Schenone, Cam Peters, Hannah Peters, and my well-read life partner, Helen, for wading through early drafts with helpful critiques.

  My editor, Kaycee John, is the best in the business. I thank her for rescuing mine from the ocean of manuscripts worthy of print and for tolerating what I understand to be my serious affliction related to the passive voice. Thank you also to readers Elizabeth Johnson, Robin Johnson, and the team of proofreaders at The Wild Rose Press.

  To the extent I have a knack for this, I owe it to my mother’s love of books and my dad’s ability to spin a yarn. Finally, a special thank you to my son, Ben. He faithfully read every draft, and his outlook on life inspired me to finally put pen to paper.

  Chapter One

  Leonard Dunigan, the man who would soon be sitting across from me, killed a man with his massive bare hands, squeezing his skull until it caved in upon itself. I began worrying the moment I saw the lone, average-sized deputy sheriff escorting my client into the windowless consultation room. Ever since being appointed to represent him on the murder charge, I had been warned by various members of law enforcement never to be alone with Leonard. Apparently, he had a history of randomly attacking other attorneys, inmates, and guards—people in general.

  Today, I needed his signature on a consent form, allowing me to view his voluminous psychiatric records. I’d been assured a deputy wouldn’t leave the room.

  Dunigan shuffled into the room, both wrists handcuffed in front of him and the chain between his ankle shackles clanking on the cement floor. He wore bright red prisoner sweatpants and a matching shirt. In Alameda County, prisoner clothing came color coded. I could never recall what each color signified but was fairly sure red fell somewhere between insanely violent and sadistic. The deputy, armed with a bigass taser, looked like he worked out. Still, at six feet, seven inches and well over three-fifty, Leonard comically dwarfed his escort.

  I watched from my seat at a small table in the eight by ten-foot room as the prisoner entered the room, the deputy close behind. In a surprising show of agility, the gigantic Dunigan spun to his right, struck the deputy’s shoulder, and sent him careening into the wall. Before the guard could recover, the prisoner raised both arms over his head and using the handcuffs like an axe, swung downward, a direct hit to the officer’s head.

  For a split second I thought about running, but Dunigan filled the doorway as he picked up the deputy with his handcuffed meat hooks and effortlessly tossed him into the hallway. I’ll never
forget the hollow clang of the metal door when he shut it, locking us inside the tiny room.

  I smashed a red alarm button on the wall behind me just before Dunigan slid the heavy metal table across the room as if it were made of plastic and pinned me against the wall. The behemoth leaned on the table and stared at me for several seconds, eyes wild and grinning maniacally. He took a couple deep breaths and forcefully blew the air and spittle out through his yellowed teeth.

  He stood up straight, keeping me pinned to the wall, leaning his girth against the table. I tried to push it away with both hands, twisting frantically, but it was useless against his weight and strength. His grin widened and his breathing intensified—as did the production of spit—as if aroused by my fear. Then he reached toward my head with his two hands the size of catcher’s mitts, holding them there a few inches from my head. I turned sideways and pressed my cheek against the wall, keeping sight of his hands with one eye that pulsed with panic. He kept his hands there, close to my face, reveling in the anticipation of what was coming. I pictured his hands squeezing my head, his thumbs entering my brain through my eye-sockets.

  Just as suddenly, he backed away, laughing uncontrollably as he staggered to the other side of the room. I wriggled my thighs away from the wall and collapsed to the table on my forearms, keeping my head up to maintain sight of him. He had his hands on his knees now, his hulking body convulsing with laughter as deputies entered the cell, tasers at the ready. He went down to a knee and sat on the floor in the corner, looking happy and exhausted after a friendly game of sport. In short order, deputies led him away in chains and cuffs, his demented laugh echoing throughout the long hallways of the jail.

  I needed a drink.

  ****

  Leaning on my kitchen counter forty-five minutes later, I still imagined Dunigan squishing my head like an over-ripe cantaloupe. I considered the ten-minute walk to Melba’s, my local dive bar, but drinking alone seemed more appropriate.

  Lately, I’d drastically cut back on my drinking and had to admit I felt better. I slept more restfully now, and it was easier to get my motor running in the morning. Plus, I’d managed to lose some weight. But good God, if there was ever a time when I was entitled to indulge, it was surely in the aftermath of narrowly avoiding a grisly murder. Particularly my own.

  It also seemed like since I hadn’t been drinking every night, I enjoyed booze more. I’d always found the slow, meticulous preparation of a drink sensual, like really hot foreplay. I placed a plump lime on my cutting board and rolled it back and forth, applying gentle pressure, like the chefs on the food network I always watched on late night TV, usually with a beer and peanut butter sandwich. My steak knife penetrated the fruit, its trickling juice tingling my cuticles as I sliced wedges.

  I opened the cupboard above the sink, lifted the beautiful blue bottle of gin down to the counter, and unscrewed its cap, slowing inhaling the botanical vapors. As I splashed two carefully measured jiggers into an icy glass, I idly wondered what it was I smelled. To me, it smelled like pleasure.

  I unscrewed the plastic tonic bottle slowly with one hand, feeling its body’s firm, fizzing pressure with the other as I controlled its gasping release. I squeezed a lime wedge over the glass and dropped it in. Then I splashed in the tonic and I stirred the drink vigorously, hearing the strengthening hiss in the glass and watching the torrent of tiny bubbles surge upward, ready to tickle my nose with the first sip.

  I wasn’t sure about drinking more, but I definitely needed to date more.

  As I settled into my hideous mustard-colored recliner with my drink, watching sports highlights with the sound down, I thought about today’s events. Over the years, I had fielded lots of questions—mainly from my mother—about the safety of my profession given my physical proximity to violent criminals. My standard answer had been that it was never a problem. After all, I was on their side and often the only one standing between them and a lifetime behind bars. It was never in the best interest of the accused to make an enemy out of me.

  But that’s the thing about murder, I smiled, taking a healthy gulp; nothing about it was ever logical. Not to mention, in dealing with the criminally insane, like Leonard Dunigan, all bets were off. As I recalled his horrible smiling, panting visage, it was clear to me that he killed for the thrill of it. For now, I blinked away the image, took another swallow, and cradled the cold glass close. His face would reappear throughout the evening but soon would begin to blur around the edges until the image disappeared.

  Still on my recliner, I was awakened by the bite of melting ice on my chest and the buzz of my phone on the side table. I rubbed my eyes to focus on the text. It was from the Alameda County Court Appointed Program, requesting that I accept the representation of one Darnell Moore, who was accused of murder. I sighed deeply and stretched before collapsing back on my part-time bed.

  The Court Appointed Program relied on private attorneys like me to represent indigents in the county whenever the Public Defender’s Office declared a conflict of interest—usually because they had previously represented the victim of the current crime. The pay for the appointed cases was not great but in slow times it kept the lights on in my modest downtown Oakland office.

  Also, whereas my paying clients tended to commit crimes like drunk driving, financial crimes, or drug offenses, most court appointed clients were charged with murder. While one might assume violent offenders were more difficult to work with, in general, I’d found this not to be the case. Sure, there was the occasional Leonard Dunigan, but for the most part, I seemed to get along with the indigent offenders at least as well as the more white-collar criminals.

  The asshole gene cuts across all socio-economic barriers. In fact, some of my most difficult clients have been wealthy men accused of insider trading or money laundering. Perhaps it was because they were used to getting their way or buying themselves out of trouble.

  Since my representation of Leonard Dunigan came to an abrupt end less than twelve hours ago, I supposed I would take the case of Darnell Moore.

  ****

  “Hey, you okay? I heard you almost died?” Andy Kopp and I had shared our law office on the fifth floor of a B-level downtown Oakland building for a decade. He was a personal injury attorney, and we spent most of the time in the office insulting each other’s clients.

  “That’s a bit of an overstatement, but it was less than awesome. Thanks for the unusual concern.”

  “I was worried about your share of the rent.”

  “Ah, that’s more like it,” I said as I collected my mail and headed for the door. “Shouldn’t you be out replenishing your supply of neck braces or something?”

  “Going so soon, Turner?”

  “Headed to court. I have the innocent to defend.”

  “Really? You found one after all these years? Don’t screw it up,” he called out before our front door closed.

  I arrived at the court’s master calendar department and took a look at the Darnell Moore file before Judge Kramer took the bench. I read the probable cause statement, where the arresting officer swore the following:

  On March 22, 2021, Cleveland Barlow, a known Cashtown gang member, was shot as he loitered outside his gang hangout at Eighth and Maybeck in west Oakland. Suspect Darnell Moore’s car is captured on surveillance entering the intersection seconds before the shooting, then racing away from the scene seconds after. The shooting itself is not captured on video. An eyewitness to the shooting, the proprietor at the E&J Market, chose defendant Moore out of a photo spread as the possible shooter. Defendant Moore is a known affiliate of the victim’s rival gang, the IceBoyz.

  I approached courtroom deputy, Deputy Posey, a fixture in the department for as long as I could remember. “Hey Paul, can I get Darnell Moore in an interview room?”

  He smiled but didn’t look up. “Sure. You think you can manage not to make him want to kill you?”

  “Funny. Do you think you can manage not to get overpowered by a handcuffed, unarmed
inmate?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Booth two.”

  I grabbed the criminal complaint off the counsel table and glanced at it as Deputy Posey unlocked the side door of the courtroom which led to the interview booth. I noted his rap sheet showed no prior felonies and only a few misdemeanor convictions for drug and theft offenses. His date of birth was in 2002, making him nineteen.

  He looked even younger as he took his place behind the thick glass. Standing maybe six-feet-two, with a slender frame, his longish Afro stood on end, making him seem even taller. His light complexion was smooth, without the trace of whiskers on pudgy cheeks.

  “Good morning, Darnell, I’m Joe Turner. I’m going to be your attorney if that’s okay with you.”

  “Cool,” he said, flashing an easy smile. For a young man who had probably never done more than a few weeks in custody in one stretch and now faced life in prison, he seemed remarkably calm.

  I explained that his case would be continued to give me a few weeks to get up to speed on his case, then we’d be back in court to enter a plea of not guilty and begin his defense. He nodded pleasantly, as if I were reviewing his test after geometry class.

  “So, Darnell, just to give you a quick summary of the evidence the cops say they have against you…”

  “Yeah, I heard all that from the detective,” he cut in, his smile widening. “Like I told him, though, I don’t know nothing about none of this.”

  His comment was bad news on two fronts. First, it was apparent that Darnell had not invoked his right to remain silent and had instead attempted to talk his way out of the charges. In addition to never working, it often made things much worse.

  Second, I had represented innocent people before. The police were not perfect, and sometimes the District Attorney’s Office charged the wrong people. However, a decade of experience had taught me that it was extremely rare that a defendant would be charged with a criminal offense they knew absolutely nothing about.

  “So, Darnell, and we can talk about this more when I visit you in the jail, but are you saying you honestly have absolutely zero knowledge about the murder? Who was killed, why they were killed, when, where, and how they were killed?” I wasn’t sure why I asked. Just hoping against hope, I suppose.