Rattlesnake & Son Read online

  RATTLESNAKE

  &

  SON

  ISBN: 978-1-932926-69-9

  LCCN: 2018951839

  Copyright © 2019 by Jonathan Miller

  Cover Design: Angella Cormier

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without written permission of the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  Artemesia Publishing

  9 Mockingbird Hill Rd

  Tijeras, New Mexico 87059

  www.apbooks.net

  [email protected]

  Names: Miller, Jonathan C.

  Title: Rattlesnake & Son : [a novel] / by Jonathan Miller.

  Other Titles: Rattlesnake and Son

  Description: Tijeras, New Mexico : Artemesia Publishing, [2019] | Series:

  Rattlesnake Lawyer | Subtitle from cover.

  Identifiers: ISBN 9781932926668 (softcover) | ISBN 9781932926699 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Fathers and sons--New Mexico--Fiction. | Lawyers--

  New Mexico--Fiction. | Problem youth--New Mexico--Fiction. |

  Psychic ability--Fiction. | LCGFT: Legal fiction (Literature) | Thrill

  ers (Fiction) | BISAC: FICTION / Thrillers / Legal. | FICTION / Le

  gal. | FICTION / Thrillers / Supernatural.

  Classification: LCC PS3613.I5386 R38 2019 (print) | LCC PS3613.I5386

  (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  RATTLESNAKE

  &

  SON

  by

  Jonathan Miller

  Artemesia Publishing

  “Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted: persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.”

  ~ Mark Twain.

  To Marie.

  Table of Contents

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  PART II

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  PART III

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Author’s Note

  PART I

  TRUTH

  Chapter 1

  Cruiser

  I can’t understand you. Please stop!” I said aloud to whoever or whatever was causing the sharp pinging in my head. The pinging had become a regular occurrence over the last few months, but this was the loudest ping by far. If this was psychic e-mail, I didn’t have enough bars in my brain to receive it.

  Perhaps I was in a psychic dead spot and all the electronic noise of urban Albuquerque was interfering with the ectoplasm. After checking the mail at the main post office, I headed east on Interstate 40. I soon found myself in gridlock, inching toward the Big I interchange with Interstate 25, Exit 226. In the heart of Albuquerque, I could go three different directions––north toward my home in the nice desert suburb of Sandia Heights, east to see my real estate agent in the glass towers of uptown, or south, and go straight to Hell. Well, south actually took me through the ugly industrial outskirts of the city. I went all over New Mexico, but rarely went south.

  Was the pinging telling me which direction to head?

  Then again, maybe this wasn’t a psychic message after all. I could have a blood clot or some unknown form of migraine. The pinging was just the gridlock in my arteries, blocking the flow of blood through the left hemisphere of my brain. There had to be a logical, medical explanation, right?

  Nothing was supernatural about this lunchtime traffic jam on Interstate 40, it was neither super nor natural. Albuquerque on an ordinary Friday was impersonating LA on a getaway afternoon. I had stopped dead and wasn’t living life in any fast lane.

  The pinging stopped as my phone rang aloud, as if on cue. I caught the phone on the second ring. “This is Dan Shepard.” I pressed a button and spoke into the air, courtesy of my phone’s Bluetooth connection to the car radio. I wanted to add “The Rattlesnake Lawyer,” but my rattle was worse than my bite these days. I made my living on something called the breakdown docket. I took over the cases from lawyers who had breakdowns, disposing of their cases as expeditiously as possible for a substantial fee from the courts. Eventually, I’ll have my own breakdown, and someone would take over the cases from me.

  Still, I’d managed to avoid that inevitable breakdown for over twenty years.

  A female voice emerged from my radio. “Mr. Shepard, we need you to come down to Truth or Consequences for a juvenile case this afternoon at two. There’s an order requiring your presence, signed by Judge Brady. The juvenile’s name is Cruiser Arnold.”

  An order requiring my presence signed by a judge? I loved the law, but never liked orders. I had lived in New Mexico for years but still smiled when hearing the name of the town of “Truth or Consequences,” nicknamed T or C.

  T or C sounded A-ok. In this high-tech world, I still received my case assignments by either mail or phone call. If I returned to my office now, I could review my cases in alphabetical order in an endless loop. I could check Ybarra, then Zamora, calendar the month’s hearings, and draft an e-mail or two to opposing counsel. Perhaps I’d even fill in a stock motion to suppress evidence. I often joked that it was “Frivolous Motion Friday.” I'd then begin the alphabet all over again with the “A” files.

  Arnold would fit right in before my four cases for various Bacas.

  Cruiser Arnold’s juvenile case sounded like a cruise down easy money street and an escape from the everyday; or at least an escape from meeting with my real estate agent. I hoped to sell my home after I finished ridding the bathroom of mold. There was a term of art for fixing mold— “remediation.” Neil Young once sang that “rust never slept,” but mold didn’t sleep either. How can you defend someone you know is guilty? You think about paying for the mold remediation of your master bathroom.

  I was already in my blue chalk pinstriped Daniel Hechter suit, white monogrammed shirt from some British mail-order house (buy one get one free). An ancient purple Jerry Garcia tie was lying on the passenger seat. “I’m on my way.”

  “Sierra County Courthouse, Division One.”

  “Got it.”

  I patted my dashboard’s phone icon and hung up. I drove a used Lincoln MKZ sedan, the cheapest luxury car available with my credi
t score. I couldn’t resist the salesman’s pitch that I be a Lincoln Lawyer. I doubt that he had seen the film of the same name to realize that the term was not necessarily a compliment.

  The traffic magically cleared. It took an awkward shift over three lanes before I could take the southbound exit onto I-25. Once I passed Exit 223 for the eight stories of Presbyterian Hospital, construction blocked any exit, blocked any escape.

  If you lived in New Jersey, people asked “What exit?” In New Mexico, the exits defined how far I was from home. Usually the further the better, as I could bill for mileage and per diem.

  It would be a two-hour straight shot to Exit 79, the Sierra County courthouse, Division One, assuming I drove seventy-nine mph. That way I wouldn’t get points on my license if I got ticketed.

  Once the southern warehouses and refineries of Albuquerque receded and I crossed the Rio Grande near the Isleta Casino, I was back in rattlesnake country. Even though the Rio Grande became the border between the US and Mexico hundreds of miles away from here, this crossing took me out of my Albuquerque bubble. My pulse beat a little bit faster.

  Still driving seventy-nine, I tried to find the Cruiser Arnold case online on New Mexico Courts using my smart phone. Cruiser Arnold. Was that even a real name? Then I remembered that juveniles didn’t appear on court websites, so I couldn’t research him. I had represented a few juveniles with the first name of Cruz, usually Hispanic kids from Albuquerque’s tough South Valley. They often went by the nickname Cruiser, much like Ignacios were called Nachos and Jesus somehow became Chuy. At least Cruiser wasn’t a Chuy, which always sounded weird coming from my Anglo lips.

  I recited a line from the classic comedy, Stripes. “They call me the cruiser,” said one military recruit, “because I like fast cars and fast women.”

  “They should call you the dork,” replied the late John Candy.

  I sure didn’t want to call the dork, excuse me, the kid, “Cruiser,” but I didn’t really want to call him by his first name if it was Cruz, either. Hearing that name reminded me I’d been married to a Luna Cruz, but she’d been out of my life for more than a decade. As far as I knew, she was still in Bangalore, India running international affairs for the Dragon Moon Corporation. I hadn’t seen our son, Marley, since she and he moved there more than a decade ago.

  Luna had gone overseas for our son’s next round of experimental treatments after some type of bone marrow transplant. While she was there, she met the head of a company called Shiva Petrochemicals. She and Mr. Shiva––I never got his real name––did a corporate merger.

  Soon after, I received a phone call from Mr. Shiva’s corporate solicitor, a Ms. Sharma, that Luna Cruz Shepard no longer wished to be in my life, and most certainly no longer wanted to be a Shepard. That went double for Marley. Even worse, international law, English law, and/or Indian law, now applied. Ms. Sharma of Shiva Petrochemical implied there would be a permanent international restraining order filed against me if I protested. Plus court costs, which could be in the thousands. I signed a few forms waiving my rights, and never heard from them again.

  I did the occasional Google search for my son, but he didn’t seem to exist.

  Damn, I had missed Luna and Marley. She loved our son more than life itself. If she honestly thought Marley would be better off without me, it was probably true. Luna the overachiever had become the head of a global corporation. She could give Marley the world. All I could give him was the breakdown docket.

  I didn’t want to mess with the solicitor or her Oxford accent. Ms. Sharma of Shiva Petrochemical had become Shiva the god of death and destroyer of families.

  When did I become such a wimp? Perhaps the moment I turned fifty-five and just wanted to survive the rest of my career without making waves, being sued, or suffering a disciplinary complaint. I had envisioned a great future when I passed the bar all those years ago. Lately I had lowered the bar, and lowered the boom, on my expectations.

  My headache grew worse with every mile southbound. The pinging didn’t seem natural. Even though the traffic was thinning on this side of the Rio, I should concentrate on the road as I approached Los Lunas. Lunas plural, and it was named after a family not the moons, and certainly not the singular name of my lost love.

  Still, the only Luna I could think of was the Luna. I never learned if she had remarried, or had a new last name. Was it Luna Shiva? No, that was the corporation. Luna Sharma? No, that was the solicitor. I just knew that she wasn’t Luna Cruz Shepard.

  As I passed Belen, “the hub of enchantment,” I tried to Google “Luna Cruz.” Nothing came up in the last few years. It was as if she didn’t exist anymore in America. At the exit for Sevilleta National Wildlife Refuge and its dry marshes, I checked out the name “Arnold” in relation to Truth or Consequences. A headline read arnold arrives at spaceport, but I couldn’t connect to the link. There was indeed a “spaceport” down by T or C, but it was outbound only. There was the occasional launch of an unmanned rocket which barely reached the upper atmosphere. There was no midnight flight coming in from anywhere, at least not yet. Other than the occasional explosion of a few other rockets, the place got very little publicity. I wasn’t surprised that their website was down.

  I felt another distinct pinging in my head, silence and then another series of pings. It sounded clearer, closer. I recognized the pattern as the Morse code for SOS from seeing snippets of Titanic a few hundred times. SOS, SOS, SOS. Could the SOS be coming from this Cruiser Arnold?

  Did the young Cruiser Arnold have a connection to this Arnold person arriving at the spaceport? Why would some fortunate son like that need to SOS a court appointed breakdown docket attorney like me?

  Another forty miles of pinging down the interstate, I passed a rest stop with a sign warning everyone to beware of rattlesnakes. This wasn’t the infamous “Rattlesnake Rest Stop” where I dubbed myself the Rattlesnake Lawyer. Still, these crumbling rest stops with their hungry rattlesnakes were all the same. I’d keep an eye out, just in case.

  The SOS became unbearable, so I stopped for gas just north of Socorro at Exit 156 in the hamlet of Lemitar, New Mexico, a “census designated place” with a population of around three hundred souls. The SOS stopped. My head was blissfully silent for a moment.

  While pumping gas, I looked north at some mobile homes that might have been flattened by a tornado, and an abandoned gray wooden building with busted out windows. It could have been a barn; it could have been a courthouse. A few people in hoods scurried in and out of this structure carrying packages like the three dusty kings bearing gifts to an infant. Flying over this Old Testament landscape was a white rectangular sign the size of a basketball backboard proclaiming this God forsaken part of the earth was THE PROMISED LAND in blue letters.

  I had no idea why Lemitar was the promised land, or who had promised it to whom. I hurried into the bathroom, took care of business, but the pinging started again as if to say, “you’ve had your break, now hurry up and save our ship.”

  As I walked back out to the car and took a final look at the Promised Land billboard, I knew that somehow, someday, the pinging would have a link to this very spot.

  I tied my purple tie before heading south again.

  After Lemitar and then the small town of Socorro, the next gas, food and no lodging stood thirty-five miles south at an exit for the Santa Fe Diner. This dead spot in the heart of the outback had no Santa and no Fe.

  The pinging grew faster and faster, as the interstate eventually crossed a treeless plateau past the diner. I liked plateaus. Hell, my life was in one right now. Just ten more years of practice and I could quit and retire somewhere west. Tucson sounded nice in the December of my life.

  The plateau ended a few minutes later as I roller-coasted through some steep arroyos. gusty winds may exist. They sure did, and they gusted at this very moment. I had to grip the wheel tightly to avoid swerving off the road. When I wa
s a rookie lawyer late for court, I had once changed into a suit while coasting down one of these canyons. My car was buffeted by these gusty winds. Those were the days.

  The SOS repeated with seemingly greater urgency. I sped up to 84 mph, and risked only five points on my record if I got a ticket. I don’t remember crossing the next few miles of desert, because there wasn’t much to remember—no grass, no trees, no cars. Squinting, I could see the blue waters of Elephant Butte Lake State Park to the southeast. Hemingway had written a story called “Hills Like White Elephants”. He could have been talking about the hills around Elephant Butte, although they were more tan than white. There was an exit for the road to the lake at milepost 83.

  I almost took Exit 83, which would be the long scenic route to Truth or Consequences. I’d have the view of the lake at least. I checked my watch, no time for scenic routes. The pattern of pings changed for a moment, a steady drone, as if to tell me not to detour. Moments later, I took the first T or C exit, 79. The main drag through town was Date Street. Perfect. I had a date with destiny.

  A gigantic Walmart with covered parking stood guard at the entrance to town. If it wasn’t a supercenter, it at least was a better than average one. It was hilly throughout the town, but these were bare and rocky hills. Hills like baby white elephants then.

  Even though Sierra County was allegedly booming from the spaceport, most of the money had gone south to Las Cruces, or perhaps up into orbit. There certainly wasn’t a Nordstrom here, or a Nordstrom Rack, much less a Target.

  Despite a handful of art galleries and a few trendy restaurants downtown, the town had barely changed since the spaceport came a few years ago. Hell, the town had barely changed since 1950, when it changed its name from Hot Springs to Truth or Consequences to win a television contest from that once famous show.