Randall property.
Derrick parked in front near the beige plastic mailbox. He headed for the door and heard dogs barking all around in the distance. Smoke from nearby furnaces and fireplaces permeated the air. It was a wooded neighborhood dotted with trees a hundred feet tall. Derrick figured that the smooth, unblemished blanket of snow covered a multitude of unkempt lawns, dirt, toys, and junk. Near Spivey’s trailer sat an old red clunker was parked with a torn ARMY bumper sticker and one that read Horn Broke—Watch for Finger .
He went up the wooden steps and rapped at the aluminum door. The muffled beat of rock music reverberated from the rear of the small dwelling. He knocked harder.
Finally the door opened, and Derrick got the full force of the music.
“You must be Mr. Whittaker.” A young woman reached up from a wheelchair with neon pink wheels to shake hands. “Sorry about the music.”
Derrick smiled and shook her hand. “Call me Derrick.”
“Come in.” The girl backed her wheelchair away from the door. “My dad said you were coming.”
Derrick entered and took his hat off. The pulse of the music pounded from the back of the house. “And you are …”
“Jenness. Sorry about that.” She wheeled over to a small living area with a couch, two chairs, and a fake fireplace that was turned on. “Have a seat.” She was a slender girl with light skin, a beaming smile, and a beauty mark at the top corner of her mouth. “My dad should be here soon. He’s running errands.”
“Okay.” Derrick wished she had told him at the door that her father wasn’t home. He wouldn’t have gone in, alone with a young girl; it didn’t look or feel right.
“Do you know Jack Crittendon?” she said.
“Sure, yes. He and I are good friends. We work together.”
Derrick smelled something. Not cigarettes or cigars … marijuana?
“He wrote a story about me in your paper.” She smiled brightly and curled her shiny brown hair behind an ear.
“Oh yeah, that’s right.” Her gray Yale sweatshirt made sense now. “You’re the Yale girl. Criminal law, right?”
“That’s me!”
The bass from the music rumbled beneath Derrick’s feet. It was The Pretenders, some seriously old stuff.
“So you graduate this fall?” He practically had to yell.
“From East High.” She nodded. “I can’t wait. Pardon me for a moment, will you?”
“Sure.”
She shot Derrick a forced smile and wheeled down a narrow hallway toward the back of the house.
In about thirty seconds the volume went down, and Derrick heard two female voices.
Jenness rolled back into the room and stopped near the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink? We still have coffee on. I’m actually surprised my dad’s not back; he’s usually quite punctual.”
“No thanks. Maybe I should call him?”
“You can if you want. So you’re here to talk about Demler-Vargus.”
“That’s right …” Derrick reached for his phone.
“Give him another minute. I’m sure he’ll be right back.” Jenness rolled over and parked closer to him this time. “They really are hurting people, you know. It’s not right. My dad knows a lot of people whose lives have been ruined by Demler-Vargus.”
“That’s what I want to talk to him about.”
“My dream is to come back here someday and make things right for all our neighbors who’ve been adversely affected.”
Derrick liked her spunkiness. “So you’d file a lawsuit against them …”
“You’re darn right. I’ve told Daddy that if someone would take the time to research back far enough, it could be a class-action lawsuit where all these poor people around here finally get redress for their suffering.”
A girl in her early twenties slinked into the room like Catwoman. Derrick had the impression she had been standing silently in the hall, listening.
“Hey.” Colored tattoos swirled up her arms, around her neck, and on her calves. She had short jet-black hair with a white streak on one
Derrick parked in front near the beige plastic mailbox. He headed for the door and heard dogs barking all around in the distance. Smoke from nearby furnaces and fireplaces permeated the air. It was a wooded neighborhood dotted with trees a hundred feet tall. Derrick figured that the smooth, unblemished blanket of snow covered a multitude of unkempt lawns, dirt, toys, and junk. Near Spivey’s trailer sat an old red clunker was parked with a torn ARMY bumper sticker and one that read Horn Broke—Watch for Finger .
He went up the wooden steps and rapped at the aluminum door. The muffled beat of rock music reverberated from the rear of the small dwelling. He knocked harder.
Finally the door opened, and Derrick got the full force of the music.
“You must be Mr. Whittaker.” A young woman reached up from a wheelchair with neon pink wheels to shake hands. “Sorry about the music.”
Derrick smiled and shook her hand. “Call me Derrick.”
“Come in.” The girl backed her wheelchair away from the door. “My dad said you were coming.”
Derrick entered and took his hat off. The pulse of the music pounded from the back of the house. “And you are …”
“Jenness. Sorry about that.” She wheeled over to a small living area with a couch, two chairs, and a fake fireplace that was turned on. “Have a seat.” She was a slender girl with light skin, a beaming smile, and a beauty mark at the top corner of her mouth. “My dad should be here soon. He’s running errands.”
“Okay.” Derrick wished she had told him at the door that her father wasn’t home. He wouldn’t have gone in, alone with a young girl; it didn’t look or feel right.
“Do you know Jack Crittendon?” she said.
“Sure, yes. He and I are good friends. We work together.”
Derrick smelled something. Not cigarettes or cigars … marijuana?
“He wrote a story about me in your paper.” She smiled brightly and curled her shiny brown hair behind an ear.
“Oh yeah, that’s right.” Her gray Yale sweatshirt made sense now. “You’re the Yale girl. Criminal law, right?”
“That’s me!”
The bass from the music rumbled beneath Derrick’s feet. It was The Pretenders, some seriously old stuff.
“So you graduate this fall?” He practically had to yell.
“From East High.” She nodded. “I can’t wait. Pardon me for a moment, will you?”
“Sure.”
She shot Derrick a forced smile and wheeled down a narrow hallway toward the back of the house.
In about thirty seconds the volume went down, and Derrick heard two female voices.
Jenness rolled back into the room and stopped near the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink? We still have coffee on. I’m actually surprised my dad’s not back; he’s usually quite punctual.”
“No thanks. Maybe I should call him?”
“You can if you want. So you’re here to talk about Demler-Vargus.”
“That’s right …” Derrick reached for his phone.
“Give him another minute. I’m sure he’ll be right back.” Jenness rolled over and parked closer to him this time. “They really are hurting people, you know. It’s not right. My dad knows a lot of people whose lives have been ruined by Demler-Vargus.”
“That’s what I want to talk to him about.”
“My dream is to come back here someday and make things right for all our neighbors who’ve been adversely affected.”
Derrick liked her spunkiness. “So you’d file a lawsuit against them …”
“You’re darn right. I’ve told Daddy that if someone would take the time to research back far enough, it could be a class-action lawsuit where all these poor people around here finally get redress for their suffering.”
A girl in her early twenties slinked into the room like Catwoman. Derrick had the impression she had been standing silently in the hall, listening.
“Hey.” Colored tattoos swirled up her arms, around her neck, and on her calves. She had short jet-black hair with a white streak on one
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