Becoming Juliet Read online

  Becoming Juliet

  © 2020 Paula Marinaro

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written consent from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

  Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

  The characters, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity or resemblance to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Interior Graphics & Formatting by Fancy Pants Book Formatting

  Dedicated with much love to CL and BI

  Two beautiful souls who had the patience to wait for true love, and the courage to fight for it. May your union be forever blessed.

  Title

  Dedication

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Author's Note

  Books by Paula

  Associated Press: Federal officials report numbers in the thousands attend Prosper Worthington’s Memorial Service.

  The service for Prosper Worthington, founder and international president of the Hells Saints Motorcycle Club was held on Saturday, April 7. An Army veteran and recipient of the Purple Heart, Worthington was best known as the founder and president of the Hells Saints, an international motorcycle club whose connections to syndicated crime are well known.

  Although the event was marked with a heavy federal and state law enforcement presence, no incidents of unrest were reported. Sources say that Worthington’s grandson, Prosper McCabe, will follow his grandfather’s legacy and will be appointed by the HSMC’s executive board as Worthington’s successor.

  P.J. McCabe sighed, stubbed out his cigarette, folded up the yellowed newspaper article and put it carefully back into his wallet. Although it had been several years since his grandfather’s passing, P.J. read the obituary every day. It had become a ritual, a meditation of sorts, and a way to pay homage to the greatest man who had ever lived.

  Prosper Worthington was the hero in every one of P.J.’s stories.

  Sure, P.J.’s dad, Reno, and his uncles all wore the patch. They all had their place in the dark, underbelly of society; Reno had raised P.J. to love, honor, and respect that world.

  But it was Prosper who had created it.

  He had taken a handful of lost, dangerous, depraved souls, and banded them together to form a brotherhood. That brotherhood existed on the margins of society and now numbered over a thousand strong.

  Prosper had been a complex man, who ruled with a steel spine, a strong heart, a fierce will, and a complicated sense of honor.

  And when Prosper had died, he had left big shoes to fill.

  P.J. had stepped into those shoes determined to live up to the legacy. However, P.J. had been quick to realize that building an outfit from the ground up and growing along with that organization was one thing. However, stepping into the leadership role of a vast, lucrative, and largely criminal enterprise with widespread law enforcement and political connections? That had been an undertaking of massive proportions.

  But P.J. had risen like the leader he had been groomed to be. He had answered the call with ferocious pride and strength of purpose.

  Under Prosper Worthington’s rule, the Hells Saints Motorcycle club had grown to become a fierce lion in the outlaw underworld. Under his grandson’s leadership it continued to dominate and control that world.

  Now, several years after Prosper’s death, the HSMC had become a veritable giant. It was richer, fiercer, and better connected than ever before. The tentacles of the club’s influence were strong and far reaching. The symbol of the broken winged angel was widely recognized and highly feared.

  P.J. had lived up to the legacy of the club.

  But he had not lived up to the legacy of the man.

  P.J. found that he did not have the strength of conviction, the depth of character, or the innate sense of justice that his grandfather had had.

  Prosper had always been able to separate the good man that he was, from the bad things that he did.

  So, while his grandad had been able to rise above the muck and mire of an outlaw lifestyle, P.J. found himself drowning in it.

  The never ending stink of corruption.

  The deep, penetrating stain of blood on his hands.

  The target on his back.

  But worst of all, P.J. had lost his perspective. He had lost sight of the message and was blinded to the vision that his grandfather had once held most dear.

  The violent acts, the lack of humanity, the depths of depravity, and the heinous crimes that P.J. had commanded, committed, or bore witness to, had taken their toll.

  P.J.’s moral compass no longer existed. It had been smashed to smithereens and lay in glittering shards of sharp glass on the side of destiny’s road. Compassion, empathy, grief, guilt, and sorrow were all heaped together in a pile of dust and rubble.

  P.J.’s spirit had crashed and burned. Now it lay at the crossroads.

  One road led to salvation, and the other to damnation.

  And P.J. McCabe had absolutely no idea which way to turn.

  But now, as he set out for the bowels of hell, he was pretty sure he was headed in the wrong direction.

  Whoever had coined the phrase It’s a good day for a hanging never had had to sit outside in the goddamn pouring rain at the gates of a federal prison P.J. grumbled to himself as he made his way to the press tent. He stood under the protective canopy while he waited for his connection. P.J. made a quick call on his cell, poured himself a cup of hot coffee, and perused the crowd.

  Standing just outside the prison gates, were the usual bunch of social reformers and death penalty abolitionists. Protestors huddled together beneath large umbrellas as they held each other’s hands in unity and sang a haunting rendition of Amazing Grace over and over and over again.

  A small faction of ACLU members had braved the weather. They held up their homemade, rain soaked posters and spouted off their usual oppositional bullshit. There was a fat man with a long, gray ponytail and a too tight Civil Liberties tee shirt standing in front of the crowd; one meaty fist held a raggedy, black umbrella while the other one held a dirty, yellow bullhorn. He bellowed out a chant about constitutional rights while the protestors behind him clapped in resp
onse. To the left of the crowd a rabbi and a priest stood together under a ten by ten tarp and held the usual inter-faith prayer session.

  There were balloons. There were always balloons. Black in color and tied with plain brown string.

  But still… balloons.

  In his role as president of the HSMC, P.J. had witnessed his share of executions. His grandfather had seen it as his duty and obligation to attend the deaths of club members. But P.J. saw no point in attending these macabre dances. He found them a waste of time and resources. The palms that had to be greased, and the markers that had to be called in…all for what? To watch someone take it in the arm?

  Besides, once the sentence had been imposed, the actual executions took a while to carry out. The condemned spent years, sometimes decades, on death row. As a result, P.J. had had no real connection to any of the convicted men, minus the fact that they had been Saints soldiers. He found executions to be distasteful and…well…tedious.

  It was always the same damn thing.

  Musty, airless, viewing rooms cramped in with a dozen or so chairs in theater type seating. The loud tick tock, tick tock, of the death clock on the wall. The curtains swinging open, the intravenous tubes starting, the vitals flatlining, and the curtains closing. P.J. would wipe this duty off the books if he could. But he knew it would send his grandfather reeling over in his grave should P.J. make an executive order to throw out this grim task. And while P.J. felt his sense of humanity diminishing on a daily basis, the love and respect he had for his grandfather lived on.

  Besides, this time it was different.

  This time it was personal.

  The dead man walking was none other than Billy Bob “Beast” McKenna. A trusted family friend, Beast was a man of questionable morality, fierce will, indomitable spirit and vengeful heart. He also had the distinction of being a founding father of the Hells Saints MC. He had been as good a friend to Prosper Worthington as any man could hope to be, so it really hadn’t surprised anyone when Prosper chose Beast to be the godfather of his first and only grandson.

  Beast had embraced the role with a sense of pride, honor, and duty. He had always made time for P.J. and had been a driving force in his young life. Beast had never missed a birthday or special event and he always set aside two weeks a year for the Worthington family camping event.

  It had been almost two decades ago that Beast had committed the crime that landed him on death row.

  The man’s name had been Clayton Russell, a piece of shit heroin addict. He had had a long history of violent assault and burglary charges. His mother had been a federal judge, and his father had been a high profile defense attorney. Russell had led a privileged life of entitlement and excuses made on his behalf, always beating any charge that came his way. The victims and witnesses were either paid off or scared off. But this time, Clayton Russell had gone too far. While in the process of committing a felony, he had killed a young newly- wed couple. Russell had robbed and shot the husband, then had raped, and strangled the wife. The young man had been Beast’s grandson, a teacher named Derek Olson. Derek’s wife, Jenny, had been pregnant with their first child.

  Because the Russell family had had vast political connections and very deep pockets, the judge on the case had been persuaded to allow Clayton to await trial in a fancy drug rehab center. When Clayton Russell showed up in the courtroom with a closely shaven face, a two thousand dollar suit, and a signed certificate claiming that he was now addiction free, Beast was there too. Beast sat across the aisle, two rows behind the prosecutor’s desk with Prosper Worthington by his side. The prosecutor stumbled through the case, while the dream team defense took shot after shot at each and every piece of evidence that the district attorney’s office presented. Then three days into the proceedings, it was discovered that the chain of evidence had been broken. A vital piece of proof had somehow disappeared. The minute that the judge had finished the last pound of his gravel declaring a mistrial, Clayton Russell had turned to look directly at Beast. Then Clayton had given Beast a wide and winning smile.

  A week later, Shelley Carrel, a perky, excited, and eager young law student, arrived for the very first day at her new job at the courthouse. Shelley had been about an hour early, so she sat on a bench under the large oak tree in front of the stately building. There she tried to squelch down her excitement by sipping a large mocha latte and thinking about the day ahead. Shelley had been sitting only a few moments when she found her carefully chosen white silk blouse being splattered with thick crimson streams. At first, Shelley thought she had become the victim of droppings from a large bird who’d eaten too many red seeded fruits.

  However, when she had looked up into the tree branches, she hadn’t been quite sure what she was seeing. So, Shelley had put down her latte and put on her sunglasses. Then she looked up again into the green canopy. What Shelley saw that day would change the trajectory of her life forever. After that morning, Shelley Carrel quit her internship and went back home to marry the boy next door, Tommy Jenkins. Poor Shelley would be haunted by what she saw on that bright and sunny May morning for the rest of her life. As a result of the trauma, she would suffer from debilitating headaches, and develop a serious and profound anxiety disorder. Because seeing a man freshly skinned alive and hanging from a tree is no small thing; that morning would have similar and lasting effects on several other people who had had the misfortune of passing by the old oak tree that morning.

  Clayton Russell’s body hanging high had truly been a gruesome sight. What was left of his neck had been bent at a bizarre angle; his limbs had swayed in the breeze as if his bones were held together by rubber bands. His eyeballs had become bulging, bright white orbs; Clayton’s jaw had been locked wide open and his mouth had been set in a silent scream. His wrists had been bound behind his back and they had been tied tight with electrical wire. Clayton’s genitals had been severed with a jagged cut and stuffed into his anus. Enticed by the cloying smell of fresh carcass meat, insects had buzzed and landed, while their tiny feet became stuck in the gore and sealed their fate. Ravens, crows, and other large carrion birds had hovered around the strung up flesh. The bolder ones had pecked and cawed as they began their jubilant feast.

  A handwritten sign had been nailed to Russell’s skull. It simply read: Justice Served.

  The place had become a circus in no time at all; fire trucks, ambulances, police cars, reporters, and helicopters all jockeyed for a place at the scene. In the meantime, Billy Bob (Beast) McKenna (with Prosper Worthington by his side) had put in a call to Special Agent Kennedy and turned himself into the bureau. Once in custody, Beast had waived all rights to counsel. When questioned, he heartily declared that his only regret in killing Clyde Russell was that he could not slaughter the bastard again.

  It had been many years since the killing of Clayton Russell. Prosper Worthington had passed away and Beast’s time was up. Now on behalf of his grandfather, his club and himself, P.J. McCabe was here to say goodbye.

  With every step he took, P.J. had the feeling of being wrapped tighter and tighter in heavy, wet, strips of cloth bandages. His body stiffened as his chest constricted and his breath became labored. The rational part of P.J. knew that it was just bad air circulation, but the feeling of being suffocated was strong. He reached up to the collar of his shirt and pulled at it.

  “All these years and I’ve never gotten used to the compressed air down here. Just relax, the feeling will go away after a few minutes,” Warden Cartwright said. The warden was a short, stout man with round glasses and a widow’s peak hair line. He had a bum leg, wore a black suit, a white shirt and walked with a bit of a waddle. He had a reputation of being a fair and just man…even if he did look like a penguin.

  The warden and P.J. passed by a series of empty, dark, dank cells before they arrived at the one holding Beast. When P.J. first saw Beast, he was sitting on the edge of a rigid, steel bed frame with his head in his hands. Lost in thought, Beast didn’t look up right away. He had always be
en a brute of a man. Strong, tall, with a large barrel chest, and iron thighs. And although he was well into his seventies now, there was nothing about Beast that was frail. Years in prison hadn’t changed all that fierce strength. All that time with nothing to do but pump iron in a human kennel cage had kept him strong and fit. Over the years, Beast had managed to add some impressive jailhouse tats to his body, and now he was covered in India ink pretty much from top to bottom. P.J. noted with surprise that Beast’s long, gray mane of hair had been chopped off and shaved right down to the bone.

  Before P.J. could fully comprehend what that meant, Beast turned to him. Beast’s deep, brown eyes flashed with a quick. unspoken sorrow, before they lit with recognition. P.J. stepped into the cell and pulled him into a hard man hug. “Good to see you, brother.”

  “Appreciate you making the trip.” Beast embraced P.J. When he released him, a long look filled with heart felt memories passed between the two men. Beast was first to break the silence.

  “Hey, how’d you like the new do?” Beast rubbed his hand over his shaved head.

  “Gonna be a big hit with the ladies.” P.J. joked.

  Beast guffawed. “Yep, fuckers let me do it myself. I got a match going with my left leg. I feel like a goddamn woman with my calf shaved like this. But better than having my balls catch on fire, or that juice get stuck somewhere along the way and blow a hole right outa my ass.”

  “So, it’s the chair then?” P.J. worked to keep his voice steady. He had never considered the possibility that Beast would not be executed by lethal injection.

  “Yeah, it’s the chair. Not my first choice, brother. But all those years of drug use and then the damn diabetes, my veins are shot to hell. I’m not gonna spend the last minutes I have left being strapped to a gurney while they stick me with needles trying to find a vein good enough to kill me.” Beast hesitated then shrugged. “Might be a little tougher to watch, though. Better if we say our see ya laters now.”

  “I ain’t leaving you. You can bet your life on that.” P.J.’s tone was firm and brooked no argument.