Sting Like A Butterfly

A SAVIO REPUBLIC BOOK

An Imprint of Post Hill Press

ISBN: 978-1-64293-379-6

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-64293-378-9

Sting Like a Butterfly

© 2020 by Paul Coggins

All Rights Reserved

Cover Design by Jomel Cequina

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

posthillpress.com

New York • Nashville

Published in the United States of America

Contents

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

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Acknowledgments

About the Author

To Becky, Gina and Jess–

Three Generations of Brilliant, Beautiful, and Bold Women

I dreamt I was a butterfly,

fluttering around in the sky;

then I awoke. Now I wonder:

Am I a man who dreamt of

being a butterfly, or am I a

butterfly dreaming that I am a man?

Zhuangzi

Chapter One

Cash McCahill stared into the broken mirror in the cell he shared with the psycho of Seagoville Federal Correctional Institution and the newbie on suicide watch.

Both cellmates made the long list of Cash’s clients on the inside. Despite the loss of his law license, he had never been busier, filing appeals, habeas petitions, divorce papers, and the like. A tried and true jailhouse lawyer.

Actually, a tried and convicted jailhouse lawyer.

Muted sobbing wafted from the bottom bunk belonging to Big Black. Not from the behemoth himself, but from Martin Biddle, who should know better than to risk rousing the slumbering beast. Biddle hadn’t yet come to accept his place in the pecking order without whimpering.

Cash couldn’t see Biddle, who was wedged between Big Black and the wall. During his first month inside, the young husband and father of twin girls had been rechristened Marti and starved to a present weight of a buck-thirty. A blonde wig, heavy makeup, and lingerie completed the transformation from the chief financial officer of a high-flying investment firm to a prison punk.

Cash turned back to his split-level reflection in the mirror. He didn’t have time to comfort Biddle. Not this morning anyway.

Two years in the joint had hardened Cash, but not to the point he could completely shut out the sobbing. He dished out a healthy dose of tough love. What are you moaning about?

I miss my wife. Biddle’s lament led to more crying.

Cash took a shot at humor. Yeah, I miss your wife too. Now go to sleep.

You asshole. Pent-up anger sparked a flicker of fight in Biddle.

Mission accomplished.

Keep your voice down, Cash said. You wake him, and it’s your ass on the line, literally.

You promised to get me out of here. The fight drained from Biddle’s voice, replaced by resentment.

Cash sighed. If he had a dollar for every warning to a client that there were no guarantees in criminal law…. I’m working on your appeal as fast as I can.

Biddle sat up in the bunk. What are my chances? He clutched something to his chest.

Cash didn’t have to see the treasured object to know what Biddle held. A picture of his wife and daughters. The last link to a past life that was slipping away.

Like I told you yesterday and the day before and like I’ll tell you again tomorrow, you’ve got a good shot, which is more than ninety-nine percent of your fellow inmates have.

True enough. Biddle’s trial lawyer was the poster boy for ineffective assistance of counsel. A hack who couldn’t spell acquittal, much less score one. Cash had read the trial transcript twice and still couldn’t decide whether the defense lawyer had been incompetent, lazy, crooked, or all of the above.

Get some shut-eye, Cash said, and we’ll talk tomorrow.

I can’t sleep.

Cash knew the feeling, though Big Black certainly didn’t. The beast chugged along like an outboard motor stuck in low gear, misfiring every few beats. Drool slicks spread across his pillow. Most nights he could sleep through a riot. On the few he couldn’t, pity the poor fool who woke him.

Cash turned back to the mirror and the deadly serious business at hand. Nearly four a.m. Only five hours to show time.

Stripped to his shorts and socks, he launched into his pretrial ritual. A quick run-through of his opening argument. Hurl the remains of what could be his last meal into the shit-stained toilet. Another rehearsal, slower this time and with more feeling. Followed by the dry heaves. Shave, shower, and slip on a power suit.

The hurling and dry heaves weren’t actually part of his outside world ritual. Not since his first trial twenty years ago, anyway. Then again, today would be the first hearing with his life on the line.

Hence, the dicey gut.

The bedsprings groaned. Cash glanced nervously at the bunk. BB’s massive arm dangled over the side of the bed. Misshapen fingers brushed the concrete floor. A single letter tattooed in white on each digit. B-E-A-R.

A tatt of a grizzly on its hind legs stretched from BB’s elbow to his shoulder. Teeth bared. Claws out. Eyes wild with bloodlust. A triple-decker bicep bulged the bear’s belly, as if it had swallowed someone whole.

A terrifying tatt so garish and badly drawn that it had to be a prison job. Minimal production values, maximum pain.

If only BB would hibernate for a few months. Or years. Anything to put off today’s hearing on his most recent write-up.

The tatt reminded Cash to keep his voice down during the rehearsal of his opening argument. Let sleeping bears lie. As much as BB had riding on the outcome, Cash had even more.

For BB, the accused, a loss meant the hole for anywhere from three to six months. Having been shot once, stabbed twice, and clubbed more times than he could count, he wouldn’t blink at the threat of another beating.

Bring on the billy clubs.

But the prospect of a stretch in solitary shook BB to the core. Prisoners didn’t come back from the hole, not with all their marbles anyway. The longer the isolation, the more scrambled the brain.

Next stop after the hole: the looney bin.

For Cash, the stakes were higher. He had a legion of enemies inside the cold, gray walls, and not all of them were guards. A handful of former clients doing time at Seagoville blamed him for allowing a grave carriage of justice to be done. Even non-clients saw in him the same species of predatory scum who had bled them dry, then let them down.

Guilt by Bar Association.

And where were the worthless wretches who had been spared their just desserts by the grace of Cash’s fast tongue and fancy footwork in the courtroom? On the outside, of course, and of no help.

Destined to suffer for the sins of the system, Cash had found refuge under the wings of a guardian devil. From day one at Seagoville, BB had made him a protected species: a jailhouse lawyer with real skills. The word had gone out not to mess with the mouthpiece.

The catch is, BB could lift the protection at any time and for any or no reason. For example, if today’s hearing went badly.

Cash stopped kidding himself. How could the shit-show not go south? A kangaroo court behind bars before a hanging judge, who hated the counsel even more than the accused.

May it please the warden. Cash’s breath fogged the mirror. Marcus Allen DuPree stands before you on charges of insubordination and assaulting a correctional officer. If convicted, he faces–

A loud fart interrupted the dry run and echoed down the cellblock, sparking a chain reaction among the inmates. Happened every time the mess served rice and beans for dinner, heavy on the beans.

BB grinned from ear-to-ear. The sleep of the not so innocent.

Cash lifted his lucky jumpsuit up to the mirror. McCahill, not everyone can pull off this color, but you look damn good in orange.

Biddle lapsed into a fresh round of sobbing.

I’ll get your brief filed, Cash whispered, even if it’s the last thing I do.

Chapter Two

Two years, five months, and three days ago

The gavel came down hard.

Federal Judge Anna Tapia, face red and lips white, sprang to her feet. I want the lawyers in my chambers. Now.

Though pushing fifty and barely five-feet-one, Her Honor towered from the bench over the mere mortals quaking below. No doubt who ran her courtroom.

Donning the black robe had a nasty side effect of inflaming a person’s ego. Lawyers had a name for the incurable disease. Called it judgeitis. Fatal to all but the carrier.

Tapia had a raging case of it. Even back in her days as a federal prosecutor, she could reduce hostile witnesses to rubble and opposing counsel to mush. Lifetime tenure turned her into a holy terror.

Cash stood his ground. Your honor, before we adjourn to chambers, may I get an answer from the witness to my pending question?

"What part of now do you not understand, Mister McCahill?" the judge said.

Shit. Cash’s cross-examination had set a trap for the weasel-faced witness on the stand. IRS Agent Marty Shafer looked as if he had swallowed a toad. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and his beady eyes ballooned. Even his forced smile had faded.

The break gave the prick a chance to huddle with the prosecutors and cook up a better answer to the out-of-the-blue question of whether his supervisor had disciplined him last month.

Based on the judge’s tone, Cash had bigger problems than an aborted cross. After turning away from the lawyers and toward the jury box, Tapia shifted from sarcastic to solicitous. Jurors, we’ll take our afternoon break a little early today. Please be back and ready to resume the trial by 3:15.

Smooth as silk. Almost as if she were running for office.

As the jurors filed from the courtroom, Cash flashed a this-is-all-part-of-the-game smile. Jurors numbers seven and ten smiled back. The grandmotherly seven had a Wheel of Fortune fixation, and ten was the looker of the group.

Good sign.

Once the jurors were gone, the judge practically flew off the bench, robe flapping like bat wings. Twice before during the trial, she had lowered the boom on Cash. The first infraction had drawn a warning. The second, a five hundred dollar fine.

Seated at the government table, the one nearer the jury box, the prosecutor Jenna Powell let out a long exhale, the heat having shifted from her witness to Cash. Her gray eyes saw the world in black and white, and long ago he had shed the white hat. She gave him a serves-you-right shrug.

You’re in deep shit now, she whispered from five feet away. Three strikes in this court, and you’re out.

No sweat. Got an airtight defense. His banter failed to slow his racing heart. How can I be expected to remember the rules of evidence when I’m litigating against a woman I used to sleep with?

Jenna’s expression hardened into full-blown anger. "I can see how that would be a big problem for you. During our brief time together, a period I call the year I lost my fricking mind, you tried to nail every woman between seventeen and seventy who had the misfortune of crossing your path."

For the record, there were no seventeen-year-olds.

She slammed shut her portfolio and tucked it under her arm. Can’t wait to hear you try to talk your way out of this jam.

I should sell tickets.

Good idea, she said, since you’re about to lose your meal ticket.

Jenna’s heels clicked on the hardwood floor as she hurried toward chambers. He watched her walk and ached for what he had thrown away. Not just his best girl and his best job, but also his best life.

He could watch her all day. Just not today. Not with a contempt charge hanging over his head, and breathing down his neck a mob defendant facing twenty years behind bars.

As Cash rose, the defendant, Larry Benanti, grabbed his arm and pulled him back to his seat. The five-feet-five-inch Benanti had a history of dragging people down to his level. His padded shoes and sweeping pompadour signaled a desperate attempt to create the illusion of height.

Do I go back there with you? Benanti said.

Lawyers only this time. Sit tight, stay out of the line of fire, and keep your mouth shut. I’ll be back in five.

With my shield or on it.

Benanti’s lips turned as white as his knuckles. You’re killing me, man. That judge fucking hates you, and she’s going to take it out on me.

She hates all defense lawyers. Besides, I’m not playing to her. I’m working on them. He nodded toward the empty jury box.

On the way to chambers, Cash passed by the witness on the stand. Shafer leaned forward in the hot seat. With the judge and jury gone, he defaulted to his natural smirk. A pair of handcuffs dangled from his forefinger, the cuffs swinging like twin nooses.

Cash got the point. Would’ve had to be blind not to. One noose for him; the other for his client. Shafer had all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

***

The Wild West motif of Tapia’s chambers harkened back to the days of Judge Roy Bean and frontier justice. Hang the sonovabitch first and then give the corpse a fair trial.

Oil paintings of cowboys, quarter horses, and cattle staked their claims to prime wall space. Above and behind the seated Tapia loomed a framed display of famous Texas brands, with her family mark dead center: a circle around an upside-down T. A well-worn saddle hugged a wooden bench. A coiled rope hung from the horn.

The trappings reminded visitors of Tapia’s nickname: The Hanging Judge. Not that Cash needed reminding of that.

Mister McCahill, explain why you thought it permissible to cross-examine Agent Shafer on his investigation of an unrelated case, after I had warned you twice not to go there. The judge’s tone was perfect for lecturing a third grader.

Cash chalked up Tapia’s smooth brow to a recent round of Botox that had left her face, like the chambers, frozen in time. He looked around the room. Just the judge, Jenna, and him in a space that could easily hold twenty.

No court reporter in sight. Could be a good sign. Can’t sanction for contempt without an official record, not for the finding to hold up on appeal anyway.

Or possibly a bad sign. No extra witnesses to the carnage to come.

Of course, your honor. He stalled, looking to Jenna for a lifeline. She dodged eye contact. No help there. Hail Mary time. Lean on the loopiest of loopholes. I have reason to believe that Shafer has recently been disciplined by his agency for hiding exculpatory evidence from the prosecution and, by extension, from the defense.

In this case? the judge said.

In an investigation being conducted at or near the same time as this one.

Tapia tensed for the kill. She placed both elbows on the rough-hewn desk, steepled her forefingers and rested her chin on the peak. "How does that not violate my order prohibiting you from questioning the witness about alleged Brady violations?"

Cash didn’t blink, nor miss a beat. "I don’t intend to ask Shafer if he has violated the Supreme Court’s landmark ruling in Brady versus Maryland, which he has done repeatedly throughout his checkered career. Instead, my question is whether he failed to follow the procedures set out in the IRS manual and has been disciplined on that score. Totally different line of inquiry."

Tapia’s eyebrows twitched. Probably the closest simulation of a frown she could manage. That’s cutting it mighty close, Mister McCahill.

While all the time following the letter of your ruling.

What about the spirit of my ruling? Did you abide by it?

I believe in letters, Your Honor, not spirits.

"Then I’ll make my new ruling crystal clear and put it in writing this time. I’m barring any inquiry outside this particular investigation of this specific indictment. That means no questions to the agent about violating Brady, the agency manual, the Ten Commandments, or any other rules, regulations, or laws in connection with other investigations. Do I make myself clear?"

"Painfully clear, and may I have my objection to your new ruling placed on the record?" No reason to let temporary relief over dodging a bullet deter him from playing another round of Russian roulette.

Of course. Now let’s move on. I’d like to finish this trial before my grandkids have grandkids.

Back in the courtroom, Cash caught his client talking to the agent, still on the stand. He pulled Benanti away. What did I tell you about talking to the government?

Benanti’s neck veins bulged. We weren’t discussing the case.

Cash pointed to a smiling Shafer. When that cold-hearted bastard goes to bed at night, he dreams of ways to put you in prison. And when he wakes up the next day, the first thing on his mind is how to fuck you over. When he says hello, you say goodbye and run like hell. Better yet, don’t bother saying goodbye. Just run like hell.

The defendant snorted. Funny, but the way he’s looking at you now, I could swear that he’s thinking of ways to send you to the big house.

Chapter Three

Two years, five months, and one day ago

Ablack butterfly landed on Cash’s shoulder.

Don’t move, Larry Benanti shouted.

Cash froze on the porch of the Highland Park mansion. Screw this. He flicked the butterfly away. It loop-de-looped before fluttering to freedom.

You shouldn’t have done that. Benanti sounded bat shit serious. I just lost a rare species, but you lost a lot more.

What are you talking about?

Legend has it that the black butterfly steals the souls of sinners and sends them straight to hell.

I’ll have lots of company. Present client included.

Benanti shuddered, a sign he bought into the legend. If you’d gotten here five minutes earlier, you would’ve run into that bitch from probation.

Sandy Robinson? Cash said.

Benanti nodded.

What was she doing here?

Said it was a court-ordered home visit.

That struck Cash as odd. Not the home visit part, which was routine. But after hours? What government worker does that?

Now she’s someone who really will steal your soul, Cash said, along with your body.

He followed Benanti inside. The ostentation of the place never ceased to amuse him. Greco-Roman palace, meet Jersey Shore.

A nude statue of Mariposa, his current wife, greeted guests in the foyer. The statues of wives one and two collected dust in the attic, banished there by Mariposa. Busts of Roman emperors lined the long hallway. The last and largest bust, a flattering likeness of Benanti.

The passageway split into two forks, wrapping around a glass-enclosed hothouse and indoor pool. The hothouse teemed with a jungle of plants and flowers of every size, shape, and color. An ever-changing kaleidoscope of butterflies bathed the enclosure in a rainbow of hues. More species than Cash could count.

Benanti had stolen a page from the Bellagio Botanical Gardens. Not the only thing he had lifted from the Vegas landmark.

In a black string bikini, Mariposa cut clean strokes though the cobalt water. In a past life, she had been the lead dancer at the Bellagio in a midnight revue called Leather and Lace, the act heavy on the leather part. Her Vegas stage name had been Wicked Wanda, but her real name and arrest record remained buried in some bought-off bureaucrat’s dead files.

Mesmerized by Mariposa’s flip turn, Cash fell another step behind Benanti. She barely broke the surface. Just a flash of leg visible for a nanosecond. But enough of a sighting to cloud his judgment.

Cash caught up with his host in the split-level study. Benanti closed the double doors and sat behind a massive mahogany desk on an elevated platform. The higher ground allowed him to look down on Cash.

Even had they been on equal footing, the concave couch would’ve wiped out Cash’s height advantage. His eyes swept across rows of hardback classics lining three walls. None read, few ever opened. The books, like the wife, there for show.

A large map of the Americas dominated the fourth wall. On the map a half-dozen red arrows flowed from points on the Northeastern seaboard of the United States, converged in Central Texas and petered out in the Sierra Madre Mountains of Mexico. Cash mistook it for a weather map until he made out the caption:

MIGRATION PATTERN OF THE MONARCH BUTTERFLY.

What’s the deal with you and butterflies? Cash said.

Benanti’s eyes lit up. What other creature on the planet begins life so ugly and blossoms so beautifully?

You tell me, Cash said.

They’re like the women I rescue from lives of poverty and despair. I take caterpillars and turn them into butterflies.

Yeah, that’s one way to describe a sex trafficking ring.

But don’t butterflies have a short lifespan? Cash said.

Isn’t a brief burst of beauty better than a long life of ugliness?

Not sure about that, Cash said, but I’m willing to bet that a short life on the outside is better than a long one in prison. So let’s focus on the trial and make sure you get to stick around to enjoy all the beauty you’ve created.

Benanti frowned. The trial, it’s not going well.

Cash sighed. Not this again. No resting on laurels with the underworld’s biggest ingrate. Nor could he take comfort in the calmness of the client’s tone, not given his hair-trigger temper. The wrong word, even an untimely pause could set him off.