Read New Jersey Noir for Free Online Page B

decades. Frank Cash, himself the son of a former county chairman, had lined his pockets and filled the coffers of his law firm with countless contracts, retainers, and fees financed with state and county tax dollars. Indeed, his firm’s representation of every police union in South Jersey was merely one such plum.
    So when Cash sat down to lunch some months earlier with the current county chairman, the implications had not been lost on him.
    Officer Miles, the chairman had suggested, was no ordinary rookie. His father was an ambitious, driven man who had chosen a pragmatic approach to what he hoped would be an unlimited political future: he would dedicate himself to fighting corruption in New Jersey—particularly Democratic corruption.
    “Like shooting fish in a barrel,” the chairman said between forkfuls of shrimp. “If he’s serious about it.”
    “Is he?” Cash asked.
    The chairman laid down his fork, then patted his lips gently with a linen napkin.
    “Yes, he is—it’s his ticket to the governor’s office.”
    Cash considered it. “What’s our exposure?”
    The chairman shrugged. “Any is too much. This young cop has his own political juice, courtesy of his old man. If becoming a cop was all he really wanted, his father could have gotten him assigned to bikini patrol in some shore town or crabgrass stakeout in our neck of the woods. Why would he want to go to Camden?”
    “Maybe,” Cash offered with little conviction, “he just wants to be a real cop.”
    “Yeah,” the chairman said, reaching once more for his fork. “And I’m Harry-fuckin’-Truman.” He leaned in across the table, speaking more softly. Cash had to strain his ears to make out the words. “Camden has about twenty-three hundred violent crimes per hundred thou population, compared to the national average of about four hundred fifty. It’s been named the most dangerous city in the entire country time after time. The state had to take over the entire police department and school system because they’re so fucked up. Tell me, why would the son of Curtis Miles, the guy who wants to be governor, maybe president someday, want to work in Camden? The kid’s a Rider University graduate, for Christ’s sake.” The chairman sat back. “He’s a fuckin’ plant for his old man. You have any idea what motivated and hostile eyes can find in that environment?”
    Cash sipped his wine before responding. “So you figure his father for a white knight sending his kid in to help?”
    The chairman laughed. “White knight my ass. He’s no better than anybody else. He’s already greased some wheels for his son. The kid isn’t on the job six months, and he’s assigned to HIDTA already. The worst fuckin’ place for him, far as we’re concerned. No, Curtis Miles is no white knight. He’s just so ambitious he’s willing to throw his own son into the fire to help get him what he needs to nail Democrats.”
    Cash shook his head. “We’ve chosen a nasty business for ourselves.”
    “Yes. And that kid working High Intensity Drug Trafficking Areas can turn things even nastier.”
    “Why are you telling me all this?”
    The chairman shrugged. “You’re the union lawyer. Sooner or later, this kid will most likely wind up in your lap. I want you to understand what you’ll be dealing with. I haven’t survived in this shit all these years without learning to anticipate.”
    Cash drained his wine glass and reached for the bottle. “I understand.”
    Now, forty minutes after leaving his bed, Frank Cash stared out the hospital window into the Camden night and sighed. He remembered long-ago advice from his politician father. There are winners and losers. Be a winner. It makes life bearable .
    He turned as the door to the small consultation room opened. It was the union representative, Peter Negron.
    “Hello, Pete.”
    The man entered the room and closed the door softly behind him. “Hello, Mr. Cash. I didn’t figure you’d come down