Playing Dirty

Book 1: Playing Dirty

by Kiki Swinson

Genres: Literary Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

Essence #1 best-selling author Kiki Swinson holds nothing back in this sensational tale of a scheming lawyer without limits. Yoshi Lomax loves playing dirty. She’ll do whatever it takes to win a case—including bribing cops, sleeping with her superiors, and convincing her DEA pals to make evidence disappear. But when Yoshi runs out of tricks while defending a Haitian mob boss, the gangster makes one thing clear: Yoshi either wins the case or loses her life.

Release date: April 1, 2009

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

My life was great. Hands down, I was really doing it big. After my brush with death, I was propelled into the firm’s million-dollar club. Yes, I did say million-dollar club—a club at the firm that was usually reserved for prestigious White men. But I broke through that glass ceiling. I had become a giant and I was continuously growing.

After the incident and the media rush, I was promoted to junior partner at the firm, which sent my bank account swelling. I was waiting for senior partner, but this would do for now. I purchased a split-level penthouse for $5.2 million, right in the heart of Collins Avenue. I had a beautiful view of Miami Beach. At the firm, I was given one of the best offices in the building—an executive suite. My office was like a second home, complete with a dressing room and a granite-tiled full bathroom. I could sleep there if I wanted. There were a lot of haters at the firm after that.

My reputation spoke for itself. Not only did I have a 98 percent acquittal rate, most of my clientele were rich, I mean fucking wealthy—and most, if not all, were high-level crime heads. I wasn’t representing any petty thugs or hand-to-hand street hustlers; they could never afford to pay even my retainer. Trust me, I had my shit together and I couldn’t be touched, because I maintained a license to practice law in New York, Arizona, Florida, and Nevada—not bad for a thirty-four-year-old daughter of a Korean immigrant. I was single, but I got my fair share of dick. I was married to dead presidents; I didn’t need a fucking man locking me down or trying to share my dough. And I damn sure didn’t need any kids. Speaking of which, I had my brush with almost becoming a mother; but I got rid of that fucking baby so fast, it wasn’t even funny. I wasn’t about to let a baby slow me down. I had a lot of shit going on, so a newborn baby did not fit into that equation. Not only that, the asshole I was pregnant by had a wife, so that would not have worked anyway. I am not into sharing someone else’s husband and calling the bastard my fucking baby daddy. Come on, now, how does that shit sound? Ridiculous, if you ask me, so I wasn’t about to take myself through that unnecessary drama.

Shit, I was Yoshi Lomax. Wherever I went, I commanded attention. Everyone and their mother knew who the fuck I was. And it wasn’t because I was a fucking beautiful woman; it was because I was a TV whore. I was one bad bitch and I knew it. I’d learned as soon as I got to the firm of Shapiro and Witherspoon that I could either work hard or work smart. Needless to say, I chose to work smart. I’d see these little lawyers running around doing tons and tons of research for a case, but I said the hell with that! I mean, what the fuck was the point? I’d rather go to the judge, DA, or police officer, and offer them a big payoff in exchange for my client’s acquittal. And if they’re attractive enough to fuck, I’d throw in a quickie or a one-nighter, depending on how high the stakes were. Speaking of which, half of everyone I had working on my team preferred to fuck me over the cash, so I’m like, hey, that works for me. Shit, I didn’t mind keeping the cash in the bank. I was all for it. And since that was how the game was played, I played my cards very well.

I stood on the balcony of my Miami Beach penthouse and inhaled the fresh scent of the ocean. It was the middle of January and I watched the sun rise; the hint of orange and streaks of purple that laced the sky and glinted off the sea’s horizon made me feel good inside. The seventy-degree air was brisk and blew open my silk and lace La Perla bathrobe. I flinched as the air brushed across my rock-hard nipples. I started to rush to close my bathrobe but decided to let my perfect C-cup breasts catch the sunrise.

I turned and peered through my glass patio doors just in time to see Paul stirring in my bed. My stomach turned. I hated his fake tanned body and his jet black greasy hair. A fake-ass Al Pacino is what he looked like. I watched him stroke his dick, getting it ready for yet another round with me, which was something I was totally dreading. Not only was his fuck game on zero, this guy’s dick was a mess. If Viagra wasn’t on the market, he would be up shit’s creek without a paddle.

Paul Shapiro was my egocentric boss at the law firm of Shapiro and Witherspoon. He wielded his power like an ax, chopping down anything that got in his way. When I first arrived at the firm, fresh out of law school, I could not get a break to save my life. Although I had been assigned some of the most challenging cases and had an almost perfect acquittal rate, I still could not get the respect I deserved. My praises were minimized to meager bonus checks and a pat on the back. It seemed like I couldn’t break into the good ole boy network that dominated the firm’s culture. Hard work was a curse at Shapiro and Witherspoon. I learned that lesson very quickly.

After I rebuffed thousands of sexual advances, sleeping with Paul was not a decision I made easily. My career relied on it. I finally obliged and gave him some ass, but I had other things in mind when I did it . . . like making partner. Well, you know what Malcolm X said, “By any means necessary!” I was a true believer in that shit, especially if it meant keeping me in the most expensive jewels, designer clothes, cars, and vacations. A few minutes of sweaty fucking meant a lifetime of money, jewelry, cars, and trips. It also meant making my mother proud. She’d worked like a slave cleaning up after people—just like Paul—to send me to college and law school.

I walked inside and flashed a halfhearted smile at Paul. “Listen, I have a meeting with a new client, so we have to cut this short,” I lied.

“What, you gonna leave me and him high and dry?” Paul asked, pointing to his hard dick.

I sighed. “Look, Paul, I have a meeting,” I said dryly, walking into my master bathroom. I clicked on the twenty-seven-inch flat-screen TV that hung over my Jacuzzi tub; I wanted to drown his voice out. I was also trying to get up the gumption to tell his silly ass that our fucking sprees had come to an end.

“What client you meeting with on a Saturday?” he yelled from the bedroom.

“It’s a new guy that contacted me. I have to look up his name,” I lied again, thinking quick on my feet. I actually had a lunch date with my best friend, Maria. Maria Hernandez had been my best friend since college and she also happened to be the director of the Drug Enforcement Administration’s Miami field office.

Paul walked up behind me, his dick sticking straight out. He grabbed my bare breasts and rubbed his dick up and down my ass.

“Paul! I said I have to go. Now you can stay and let yourself out, but I have to go!” I screamed, frustrated with his constant bullshit.

“Yoshi, you sure have been acting different lately,” he complained.

I paused for a moment, thinking that there was no better time than now. “Look, Paul. I don’t think we should do this anymore. I am starting to feel funny at work,” I said flatly.

“What are you talkin’ about? No one is looking at you. If they are, it’s because they are jealous,” he replied, grabbing at my robe.

I jerked away from him. “Look, this whole thing isn’t working for me anymore. All this back-and-forth fucking, here at my place or on top of your desk in your office, has gotten old, so it has to stop today. All I want to do is my job and continue making the firm money,” I said forcefully.

Paul’s eyes turned dark and he furrowed his eyebrows. “You don’t wanna fuck me anymore, huh, Yoshi?” he asked, clenching his jaw.

“Paul, don’t get mad. I just think we both should focus—”

“Fuck you, Yoshi. I made you junior partner and it wasn’t because of your damn work, so don’t let your head get too fucking big! Remember who the fuck I am,” he growled, his dick shrinking back down to two inches. He was clearly turned off.

“Paul, don’t take it personal. I just want to do the right thing,” I lied, throwing on a phony smile. I was tired of fucking his whack ass, and to top it off, he did not know how to eat my pussy right. I was totally fed up with coaching him, so it was time to hang up the towel. Not only that, junior partner wasn’t good enough for me, especially when he kept promising to make me senior partner. If Paul thought he was going to keep fucking the shit out of me for that little-ass promotion, then he had another thing coming.

“I hold your career in my hands,” he began, “so don’t ever forget where you came from!” He stormed out of the bathroom and began gathering his things.

“Trust me, I know where I came from, but since you’re on some threatening shit, you need to also remember that I know what type of shit you’re into. So just in case you want to get cute and start slicing away at my benefits around the office, don’t forget I’ve got your wife and your friends at the IRS on speed dial,” I said.

Paul was back in that bathroom like a bat out of hell. “You fucking bitch! Don’t you ever fucking mention my business again. Do you hear me? That shit will get you killed,” he threatened, and then he didn’t say another word. His ego was crushed and I knew it. Get me killed? Yeah, right! What a joke! Paul was a fucking punk trying to act tough, like he was Tony Soprano or somebody. I laughed right in his face and he looked at me like I was crazy.

I knew that after I crushed his fucking world, he was going to leave, and I was right. Immediately after I turned on the shower faucet, stepped into the tub, and turned around to close the shower curtains, he walked out of the bathroom. So I proceeded with my bathing, and when I was done, I turned off the water, slid the curtain back, and stepped down onto the bathroom rug. As I was about to dry myself off with the towel, I realized that it was completely quiet, so I wrapped the towel around me and stepped into my bedroom to see if Paul had left altogether. Sure enough, he was gone. But he left a note and five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills on my nightstand. So I rushed over to my nightstand and picked the note up:

Reading his note gave me an instant migraine. I couldn’t believe Paul was so ignorant. But then I realized how pompous he was, so I had to laugh at his immaturity.

I heard a vacuum switch on, letting me know that my housekeeper had arrived.

“Ophelia!” I called out.

“Yes, Ms. Lomax,” Ophelia answered, almost instantly standing in my bedroom doorway.

“Here, take this money and go do something nice for yourself,” I said, handing her the five hundred dollars.

Her eyes lit up. “Oh, my God, Ms. Lomax! What is this for? I don’t get paid this week,” she asked, surprised.

“It’s a gift. Now take it and go treat yourself to something really nice,” I said. She took the money from my hand apprehensively, surveyed it, and scurried out of my sight. That was my nice deed for the week. Those were few and far between.

As I began to get dressed, I thought about that stunt Paul had just pulled. I began to laugh all over again. I mean, did he really think I would keep his petty-ass cash? I would rather give that shit to a bum on the street before I kept it. Didn’t Paul know who I was? I had just picked up two big clients, one of which was Killer Dee, the most popular rapper in Miami. He got picked up on a gun charge and had his people call me. Then there was Mr. Dicaprio, the lieutenant captain of the most notorious Sicilian crime family in Florida. Nevertheless, his case would be over in no time because the feds got him charged with some bogus conspiracy shit. That’s what I was all about: big names, rappers, crime bosses, and the Mafia. That’s where the real money was.

After I got dressed, I picked up my BlackBerry to send Maria a text and I noticed that my private file folder was open.

“What the hell is this?” I questioned. My heart began racing. I couldn’t remember if I had left my file open. It was super private. That is where I kept all of my special contacts at the DA’s office, judges, and, more important, records of my exchanges between myself and my clients. I knew it wasn’t wise to keep that kind of stuff on paper, but I always thought it needed to be kept just in case I ever needed to refer to it for my own protection. “I must have left it open,” I whispered to myself. I knew Paul wouldn’t have the balls to go through my BlackBerry, or would he? Those thoughts raced through my mind the entire drive down to meet Maria.

I rushed into me and Maria’s favorite spot after grabbing the ticket stub from the valet driver. I had important things to discuss with Maria today, and it would definitely be worth it for her. She was so damn knowledgeable about shit going on in the streets, which was why it was a must I had her on my payroll.

“Hola, mami,” I squealed, as I grabbed Maria for a hug.

“Hola, mi amor. Your Spanish gets worse and worse each year,” Maria joked, smiling and returning my embrace. We hugged for a few minutes and exchanged our customary peck on each cheek. And, as always, we surveyed each other from head to toe to check out what we were both wearing. It was what we had been doing since college, a habit of sorts, but we both knew there was no harm intended.

“I love the new hair.” I complimented Maria’s new bob haircut. Maria was a beautiful caramel-colored Latina. Although she was Mexican, she had the ass and face of Jennifer Lopez. Maria also had a taste for the finer things in life. Every time I saw her, she had on a designer bag. Today she carried the new Chanel Coco Cabas bag and I was loving it. I made a mental note to go cop one right away.

“Sí, it was time for a new look,” Maria replied, flashing her stunning smile. Maria was one of the few people in the world I felt I could trust. She was also thirty-four, stood five feet six inches, and was very sexy. She and I had been friends since our early days in college. Maria—just like me—was never given shit for free. Her parents were first-generation Mexican immigrants and they, too, worked for scraps while trying to give their children a better start.

Maria and I always remained loyal to one another. I had helped her through college—basically, I did all of the school work and she helped me through the rough times in my life. To be more specific, she helped me kick a small cocaine habit I had developed my first year in school. She sat up with me for two weeks straight while I went cold turkey; and she always reminds me of how that withdrawal almost killed my ass. Since then, we always had each other’s back. Maria always promised me that she would repay me one day for helping her through school. She would’ve never made it through college without me, and that would have meant letting her parents down. I never told Maria, but I felt the exact same way about her. If she hadn’t helped me kick that fucking cocaine habit, I never would’ve made it through college or law school, which would have meant letting my mother down, too.

Maria and I took our seats at our regular table inside the beautiful, upscale Oceanaire Seafood Room on Miami Avenue. We were comfortable at that restaurant. The entire waitstaff knew us, and also knew not to disturb us after we ordered and got our drinks and meals. Maria and I usually had important business to discuss. I was there today to tell her that my assistant, Donna, had informed me that Sheldon Chisholm, one of the most notorious gangsters in the Miami area, had contacted my office looking to retain my services. I had not returned his calls yet because I wanted to get Maria’s opinion first. She and I usually ran things by each other that way. Maria knew the kinds of people I defended, and she also knew the kinds of things I did to get them off. Believe me, she wasn’t an innocent bystander, either. Maria had made her fair share of dirty dollars as well.

“So, what do you know about Sheldon Chisholm?” I asked as I took a sip of my Washington Apple. Maria looked up from her appetizer, surprised.

“Why do you want to know about him?” she asked, although she already knew the answer to her own question.

“Don’t I always tell you not to answer a question with a question?” I joked, chuckling.

Maria laughed, too. She caught on real quick.

“Well, from what I know, Sheldon Chisholm was born in Haiti, dirt poor, came from nothing,” Maria began as we sipped our drinks. “He lost his entire family in a drug deal gone wrong in the early eighties, and that was the start of his reign of terror. He worked his way up in the mysterious Haitian Mafia, and has since become the number-one heroin supplier in all of West Miami.”

I listened intently. Behind every word Maria said, I heard dollar signs.

“He’s a very flashy Haitian, with a penchant for violence. He is nothing to play with. Not only that, he is a fucking millionaire with very little conscience or patience. He will kill a newborn baby over ten dollars,” Maria informed.

“Do you know anything about his case?” I asked. She looked at me strangely, like she knew I was going to ask, but also like I better have some cash for her if I was asking.

“Yes. It’s being handled by agents in my field office. From what I’ve been told, his driver was pulled over for a traffic violation, and when his license was run, it came back suspended. That gave my people probable cause to search the vehicle, and when the vehicle was s. . .