Chapter Thirty-Five
M y heart pounding, my nerves shot, I got out of the SUV and walked toward the tall, dark-haired man standing in front of his car.
“Mrs. Lewis?” Dark-framed glasses, muscular but also lean, the man held his hand out. “I’m Mathew Barrett.”
He didn’t look like a Mathew, because he was a dead ringer for Clark Kent. “I’m not his wife. Not legally.” I shook his hand. “Brooke Barrone.”
Mathew Barrett’s shoulders visibly lowered. “Excellent.” He nodded toward the house. “Shall we talk inside?”
I glanced at the truck, but Neil was already walking into the house with my son sound asleep on his shoulder.
I nodded, but I didn’t want to talk to a lawyer, much less the ATF, but the sooner I got this over with, the better. I followed Neil into the house and the lawyer followed me.
Neil turned on a lamp in the expansive, expensive living room. “I will put him down in the master bedroom.”
“Please put some pillows around him so he doesn’t roll off.” Mav slept like a rock, and he’d slept with me in the king-sized bed in the pool house so many times, he knew how to get in and out of bed, but just in case.
Neil barely gave a tip of his chin and disappeared down a hall with my son.
The lawyer pulled one of those cross-body messenger bags over his shoulder and set it on the dining room table. Pulling out a yellow pad, he sat in one of the chairs and nodded toward one opposite him. “Please, have a seat. ”
“I was one of Nathan’s runners,” I blurted.
The lawyer set his pen down on his pad and looked at me. “Okay.” Then he didn’t say anything else.
“That’s it?” He wasn’t going to… lecture me? Turn me in? Tell me I was going to lose Maverick?
His feet planted apart, he dropped his arms to his thighs and clasped his hands. “Brooke… may I call you Brooke?”
I nodded.
“My job isn’t to judge you. My job is to advise you of your legal rights, defend you in court if necessary, and counsel you on your options if a crime has been committed.” He paused. “Or if you’re the victim of a crime. And frankly, I’m thinking the latter. I’ve been practicing in Miami for years, and I am well aware of Nathan Lewis’s reputation.” He indicated the seat again. “Now please, why don’t you sit down and tell me about what’s going on? As I understand it, ATF is going to be here shortly, and I’d like to know what I’m dealing with.”
“Okay.” I sat down.
Then I told him everything.
He didn’t take notes, he asked a few pointed questions about the logistics of the crimes and when I finished, he stared over my head for a moment.
“Okay.” His gaze came back to mine. “Were you aware at any time where the money you took on your drops was from or where it was going after you dropped it off?”
“No.”
“Were you in fear for your life when the jewelry store robbery was committed?”
“Fear for my life?” I didn’t know how to answer that. Was I afraid? Yes. Did I feel like I had no other options at that time? I didn’t know. I didn’t feel well and truly trapped until he’d cut my wrist, then came for me after I ran away. “Nathan never outright threatened my life,” I tried to explain. “That wasn’t his style. He evaded, he hinted, he made suggestive comments.” Inhaling, I pushed my blood-splattered long-sleeved T-shirt up my arm and held my wrist out. “He carved his initial on me.”
Mathew’s face transformed to pure anger. “And you didn’t feel threatened by that?”
“I did.” But how did you explain to a man that you didn’t want to be seen as a victim? I wasn’t ignorant, I had been victimized by Nathan. I knew that. But I also didn’t tell Nathan I wouldn’t rob those restaurants I worked at. “That’s when I left him. The first time,” I added.
Mathew let out a quiet curse then picked up his pen and, for the first time, made a few notes. When he was done, he put his pen down, leaned forward and clasped his hands again. “Okay, my advice is that you tell ATF exactly what you know, which is nothing. You ran Lewis’s personal errands, and you stayed out of fear because the one time you did try to leave him, he hunted you down and dragged you back after cutting you. Show them your wrist, tell them you feared for your and your son’s lives and leave it at that.”
“That’s it?” It sounded too easy. “What about the recording he took on his phone of me talking?”
“It is being handled,” Neil stated.
I jumped in my chair and looked over my shoulder. Standing against the wall, as imposing as a silent sentry, Neil stood with his arms crossed. I didn’t even know he was there. “What do you mean?” How much had he heard?
“The launderer’s phone is being handled.” Neil looked at the lawyer. “It will not be an issue.”
Mathew nodded, and someone knocked on the front door.
For the second time, I jumped in my chair, and my hand flew to my chest. Neil went to answer the door, and the lawyer’s hand landed on my shoulder.
“If at any time you are uncomfortable or don’t want to answer a question, just look at me, and I’ll take over. Okay?”
I barely had time to nod. A middle-aged, haggard-looking man in a navy blue shirt with an ATF logo followed Neil in .
“Ms. Barrone?” His voice was stronger than his appearance.
I shrank in my chair.
The lawyer stood up and held his hand out. “Mathew Barrett, attorney.”
The ATF agent shook the lawyer’s hand, then looked at me. “Ms. Barrone, I’m Brad Olsen with ATF.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “I’ll cut to the chase.” He set the piece of paper in front of me and spun it to face me. “Where did you get the money to purchase a fifteen million dollar estate… with cash?”