PLEASE, PRETTY PLEASE
Porter couldn’t believe it. He thought he’d made his case. It was clear that there was evidence in the client records at Victor’s, but no one wanted to take it. His request was tossed around like a hot potato. Signing off was the equivalent of the plague…times two. It was incredible the amount of people Vick Hunt had in his pocket. No one was brave enough to call him what he was; a gangster, through and through with ties to every bigwig in town. Each judge was suddenly busy, it was the weekend, had family emergencies, was MIA, or overloaded with other, more important cases, leaving them unable to review any new documents.
Porter knew how the game was played, but he wasn’t good at it. As a rule, most people never took him seriously. He wasn’t an imposing figure. He didn’t have a deep, frightening voice. But he was a genius. And he carried a weapon. That should count for something. But it rarely did. He needed someone to make a call and bark really loud. There was only one person who could pull it off. As soon as Porter punched in the number, a weight was lifted from his shoulders.