"Uncomfortable Truths"
Juan Carlos Ortiz aka Juice finished off his apple pie and large iced tea at the truck stop diner. He had just crossed the border into Oregon. After riding for hours, he wanted to grab a snack before heading into Starling City. He looked at the headline of yesterday's USA Today:
'Masked vigilante foils underworld meeting in Starling City'
Juice smirked. He couldn't believe this Arrow guy got the drop on the MC. "It must be Halloween everyday up there." He checked his phone – a prepaid burner phone that couldn't be traced. No messages from Clay, Jax or anyone from SAMCRO.
In moments, he revved up his Harley and drove north. He knew he should be thinking about what SAMCRO could do to prepare for the next time the Arrow set his sights on them, but he was distracted.
Lt. Roosevelt's leverage terrified him. He knows who my real father is. I could be out of the club if anyone ever found out, he thought. I might get out alive in one piece … if I'm lucky.
He pushed these uncomfortable thoughts out of his head. Soon the endless rows of evergreens and pastoral scenery soothed his troubled mind. He would prove his loyalty to Clay, Jax and SAMCRO. Maybe if he showed that he was loyal and hard enough, the club might overlook the dangerous truth Roosevelt threatened to divulge to them.
After riding for an hour, he spotted a small yellow sign 'Now entering Starling City limits – Downtown in 15 miles'. He pulled into an isolated rest stop and checked his messages.
Before he could scroll down to the latest messages, he heard the sirens and horn of a police cruiser. The logo on the car said 'Starling City Police Department'. He quickly glanced at the last message on his phone. It was from Chibs, explaining that the SCPD had forbidden the wearing of "gang colours" within the city and that the Glades would be the only place in the city where Reaper cuts would be tolerated.
"Oh shit! Shit!" Juice said, as he struggled to take off his own cut. But it was too late.
Two uniformed SCPD officers approached him.
"License, please," the first officer demanded. Juice nervously pulled out his wallet and showed them his identification.
"Gang colours aren't permitted in Starling City, Mr. Ortiz," the second officer said.
"We're not in the downtown core," Juice said, hoping to get out of this awkward situation. "I'll be heading straight to the Glades."
"Well, we're not in the Glades, are we?" the first officer said. "You're within city limits. That means your cut now belongs to the SCPD."
"This is bullshit!" Juice said. His heated response was a mistake. The officers shoved him against the police cruiser and frisked him, taking his knife and a bag of weed.
"I have a card for that," Juice said weakly. The officers laughed.
"See that valley back there behind you?" the second officer said. "That's California. You're on federal release. That medical marijuana card means shit up here in Oregon." Before Juice realized what had happened, he was stripped of his MC cut and shoved into the backseat of the cruiser.
Fifteen minutes later, he found himself in the interrogation room of the SCPD's downtown precinct. Quentin and Laurel entered the room. They said nothing for several minutes as they skimmed through a thick legal file.
"Juan Carlos Ortiz, otherwise known as Juice," Quentin said, reviewing Juice's rap sheet. "SAMCRO's hacker expert, marijuana entrepreneur ... and colonic cleanse specialist."
"I want my lawyer," Juice said.
"Relax," Quentin said, "I'm not going to bust you on the weed. Or take your cut. I'd be well within my rights to do both. But I won't, for now."
"What the hell does that mean?"
Laurel pulled out a screen capture photo pulled from a gas station security camera.
"There was a recent killing of a Los Diablos gang member," Laurel said. "We know SAMSTAR was present, there's no mistaking the patches on those cuts. And from this photo, it's evident that you were there also. Tell us what you know about what went down that night, if it was an execution with the Reaper's blessing. Tell us what happened and you can still walk out of here a full-patch SAMCRO member."
"You can't prove anything!" Juice insisted. "I had nothing to do with that killing." He began to get out of his seat. "If you're not busting me on the weed, I'm outta here."
Quentin's phone buzzed. "You're not going anywhere until you take this call."
Juice was puzzled. "W-what's all this about?"
"Go on," Quentin said. "It's for you." Laurel also looked puzzled, as she had assumed that they were just going to use the weed and the gang colours ban as their leverage. Her father had another plan on deck.
Juice picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Hey, Juice, how's it going?" The other voice was Lt. Roosevelt.
"Why are you calling Captain Lance's phone?" Juice demanded.
"Let's just say Quentin and I have got common friends."
"What's all this about?"
"I had the chance to tell Quentin all about my experiences with SAMCRO here in lovely Charming," Roosevelt continued. "He knows a lot about SAMSTAR, but squat about SAMCRO. I helped him to fill in the blanks on all the players. That includes you, Ortiz."
Laurel noticed that Juice paled at something that was said on the phone. The toughness and bravado had completely melted away from his face.
"I strongly urge you to cooperate with my friend Quentin," Roosevelt said. "He knows all about your daddy and our shared cultural roots. Help them and I can help you."
"And what happens if I don't help them?" Juice said. His palms were sweating.
"Well then, the SCPD pays the SAMSTAR clubhouse a friendly visit and clears up any misconceptions about your colourful family. You know what that means, don't you?"
"Roosevelt!" Juice said, but he had already hung up.
"Stay available," Quentin said. He motioned to the officer outside. "Escort Mr. Ortiz to the evidence lockup, and give him back his cut and his weed. I don't ever want to see you with a Reaper cut outside of the Glades – or I will take it from you! You're free to go, Juice. But don't go too far. I'd hate to have to visit Jim and SAMSTAR just to look for you."
Laurel could see the terror in Juice's eyes as he shambled out of the room. Someone on the other end of the line had rattled him. Quentin's smug expression further prompted her suspicions.
"You know about the RICO case against the MC too?" Laurel said.
"Only me and my superiors at this point," Quentin said. "I had a really weird phone conversation with the AUSA in Northern Cali the other day."
"Yeah, he's a really weird guy." Laurel said.
"But he's apparently not weird enough to forget about extracting a signed agreement of cooperation from me," Quentin said. "We've gotta keep the circle of those in-the-know very tight. The feds are watching."
"Who was Juice talking to on the other line?" Laurel said. "Whatever was said to him, it really shook him."
Quentin sighed. "You're not going to like it. That's why Potter tasked me with pulling the leverage on Ortiz. He felt you might have some – reservations – about it."
"I don't like the sound of this," Laurel said. "What exactly do you have on Juice?"
Quentin rubbed his face. "This does not leave this room, you understand? Potter provided Roosevelt with information about Ortiz's real father, Michael Howard Cole. You see, his father is black."
Laurel's jaw dropped. "Dad, do you realize what this means? The Sons don't allow blacks to patch in. If the MC ever finds out about this – they'll take his patch away, make him scrape his Reaper ink and boot him out of the club. They could even kill him! We're going to play the race card … just to lock down the RICO case?"
"I know, baby," Quentin said, "but we're all getting a lot of internal heat on this. Your boss wants a conviction, my boss needs a guilty face we can feed to the press hounds and the AUSA is turning all the screws on it. Halloran won't talk about the port killing. If we can't get the MC on that, we have to nail them on something else. The good guys need a victory here. Fast. Juice could be our only way to get it."
"I want to get SAMCRO as much as you do," Laurel said, "but we're playing with someone's life here! It could go sideways, very fast. If the MC finds out and kills Juice, his blood would be on our hands!"
"I don't know what else to say, sweetheart," Quentin said. "As long as SAMCRO is in town, we'll be pressing hard on Ortiz to spill the beans about the Los Diablos slaying. I'm not crazy about it either, but we've got to think big picture here. Bringing down the MC and the Real IRA is worth the price, no matter how dirty the road to get there looks to us now."
When Quentin had left the room, Laurel picked up Juice's mug shot. It was the face of a hardened criminal, not afraid to do time in service to the Reaper. It was a face that Laurel had just seen evaporate into the air when Quentin revealed the leverage he had on Juice. He was a newer member too, so there was a chance that he could turn on the club to save his own skin. With the intel he could provide, they could break every Sons charter from here to the Mexico border and both the D.A.'s office and SCPD would come out of this as winners.
Then why do I feel so uneasy about this whole situation, she thought.
Jax, Chibs and Bobby arrived at The Smiling Geisha spa in the city's Chocolate District. There was no signage on the storefront indicating it was anything other than a place for manicures and pedicures.
Since they were technically no longer in the Glades, they had left their cuts at the SAMSTAR clubhouse to keep the police off their backs. Only their SAMCRO hoodies identified them as Sons.
Chibs plugged two quarters into a newspaper box and pulled out a copy of the Starling City Record. He read the headline and winced.
"It figures," he said.
"What is it?" Jax said.
"Looks like all latte-sipping pricks who now live in the Chocolate District don't want a One Stop superstore opening up around here. They're afraid it might cause more traffic for their big-ass SUV's."
Jax glanced at a few lines in the article. "It says it could create 300-plus jobs for Glades residents. The locals need this, but Oliver Queen's upper-crust friends don't."
"You know, this hood used to be a really cool place," Chibs said. "Good pubs, artist communes and such. Now, it's all hippy-dippy yoga studios and brand-name boutique shit."
"Boys, we'll have time to debate urban gentrification later," Bobby said. "We've got a meet with Hideki right now."
They wandered into the front door. The spa looked nothing like they expected. It was full of middle-aged Japanese and Korean women getting their nails and pedicures done. One of the ladies glowered at the rough-looking bikers and grumbled something in Korean to her neighbour. Another was reading a glossy Japanese tabloid during her pedicure.
"Fellas, are you sure this is the right place?" Chibs said.
A stout, middle-aged Japanese woman barged out of a back office, brandishing a broom.
"Who are you?" she demanded. "What do you want?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am," Jax said. "We were looking for The Smiling Geisha. There were no signs outside."
The woman let loose a string of Japanese expletives, causing many of the clients to chatter among themselves.
"Yeah, I think we're in the wrong place – unless you guys actually want a pedicure!" Bobby said.
They heard footsteps coming down an unseen stairwell. A rear door opened. It was Hideki, still wearing his loud purple suit.
"I didn't think you were going to enter through the front door," Hideki said. He got into a lively discussion in Japanese with the broom-wielding woman.
"This is Rose," Hideki said. "Make no mistake: she's the real boss of this establishment. It's her name on the lease, the licenses and permits. As you can see, it's a legitimate business." He managed to convince her that the Sons were associates of his. She relented and allowed them to go to the rear of the spa.
"Next time, come in through the alleyway entrance," he said.
When they climbed the stairs they entered what seemed to be a waiting room or lounge. Several men – all in suits and ties – waited on plush red chairs or couches. Some were tapping furiously into their Blackberrys and iPhones, while others were skimming through magazines.
In moments, several well-dressed Asian women – all in evening gowns and heels – approached the seated gentlemen and, one by one, they accompanied the men down the hall to a series of rooms.
"Now, this is more like it!" Chibs said.
Bobby grinned with excitement. "I'm soo in the mood for sushi!"
"Go ahead, gentlemen," Hideki said. "Relax and enjoy!" In moments, Chibs and Bobby disappeared to the back with some of the escorts.
"I have some business to attend to but I won't be long," Hideki said. "Will you be joining your men as well?"
Jax showed his engagement ring. "I'm spoken for, sadly." Hideki nodded and retreated to one of the rear offices.
A few more men, also dressed in suits, arrived from the alleyway and settled on the couches. The massage parlour business seemed to be good for the Japanese.
Jax was distracted by a TV monitor in the lounge, which was showing some sort of historical documentary – narrated by a nasally-voiced Englishman:
"…the Roman legions used the testudo formation during their campaigns to protect their cohort from projectile weapons and shield them from long-distance attacks …"
Jax watched, fascinated, as the historical re-enactment showed the Roman cohort cover themselves with their shields as spears, arrows and stones rained upon them.
"A student of history, I see," Hideki said.
"I didn't think PBS would be your go-to programming in the waiting room of a massage parlour," Jax said.
"The clients seem to like it," Hideki said. "All of them are educated professionals. We don't allow just anyone to partake of The Smiling Geisha's wares. The girls have a safe, clean place to conduct business. We even have dress codes. No jeans – present company excluded."
"Impressive," Jax said. "Who handles protection for you?" Hideki settled in the seat beside him and offered him a sparkling water, which Jax declined.
"When I first arrived in Starling City," Hideki said, "the area was still under the control of the Italians and we paid Don Marco for protection. This connection kept other players at bay and gave us the air of legitimacy needed to make a successful launch. We may even open up a new spa in the Financial District next year."
"The guidos still run protection for you?" Jax said.
"Not since last month. Don Marco has been downsizing certain areas of his operations and running protection in the Chocolate District was becoming a money-losing venture for him. We have an associate that runs his own security firm. It's a temporary fix." He pointed at the uniformed security guard outside the alleyway entrance. "We get the Yamamoto clan discount."
"Jim was saying you're second-in-command up here," Jax said. "You thinking of ever moving up in the samurai ranks?"
Hideki chuckled. "The succession has long been settled. The oyabun, Frankie Yamamoto, has ruled the clan for nearly 30 years. He is my lord and master – and my uncle. His youngest son, Kota, is wakagashira. He will lead the clan when his father dies."
"Youngest son?" Jax said. "What happened to the oldest one?"
"The eldest son, Ryo, was groomed to take his father's place. He was also my best friend, I grew up with him. He died two years ago – a rival clan assassinated him in Okinawa."
"I'm sorry, bro," Jax said. "Do you have any family here?"
Hideki's mood brightened. "My wife and daughter. Jenny will be seven next month. She has autism. Everything I do here is for her, so I can afford to get her the best care and education. I serve the Yamamoto clan, but my family is my top priority." He looked at Jax's engagement ring. "Engaged for long?"
"Only a couple of weeks," Jax said. "My old lady is a surgeon in Charming. We've got two boys already: Abel and Thomas. Family is my top priority too."
"You hang on to that, Mr. Teller," Hideki said, with a hint of sadness. "Without family, we have nothing. Nothing at all."
A loud crash of broken glass and a woman's scream interrupted their conversation. A young Japanese woman in a bathrobe bolted out of one of the rooms, blood streaming from a gash in her forehead. A large, muscled Japanese man stormed after her.
He tried to grab her arm, but Jax had already stepped in his path.
"It's over, asshole," Jax said. "Your rub-and-tug party is over. Get your shit and get out!"
"I will break every bone in your little white trash body," the man said in heavily-accented English. He noticed the engagement ring on Jax's hand. "Then, I will have my way with your wife."
Jax punched him in the jaw. The Japanese man stood his ground and flung Jax onto a coffee table, breaking it. Clients and escorts scattered in panic as the two men brawled on the floor among the debris. Chibs and Bobby – both in various stages of undress – lunged to Jax's defence. Two security guards climbed the staircase and pulled out their guns.
Hideki grappled with the Japanese man. "You're drunk! This is my place of business! Your behaviour of late brings dishonour to your father. To your clan! Next time, not even your name will protect you from me. Get out! " The Japanese man scowled, but said nothing. He picked up his jacket from the floor, pushed his way past the guards and bounded down the stairs to the street below.
Chibs and Bobby struggled to restrain Jax. "Who the hell was that guy?" Bobby asked.
"That," Hideki said, as he consoled the injured escort, "is Kota Yamamoto: first lieutenant and heir to the Yamamoto clan."
"Oh my God," Jax said. He turned to Hideki. "Sorry, bro. I had no idea. He left me with no choice!"
"Kota is a loose cannon," Hideki said. "He's reckless, violent and unstable. He may be the heir in name, but he is not universally loved in my organization. The oyabun will hear of his actions here. He will need to do penance to save face. As far as I'm concerned you were protecting a Yamamoto business … and my personal honour. For that you have my gratitude. Still, it would be best if you made yourselves scarce, just in case the neighbours call the police. We'll talk later."
"Jesus," Chibs cursed, as they quickly descended the steps to the alleyway. "Jackie boy, you just picked a fight with the clan's shogun-in-waiting. Not sure how this'll blowback on the Sons in the Glades."
Jax held a bloodied cloth to his lip. "If we get in good with boss man Frankie, it won't matter. I'm thinkin' we can do business with Hideki too. The sushis may be lookin' for protection help. Let's just hope Frankie lives to be 100 years old."
As their Harleys roared out of the spa's parking lot, Jax contemplated the real possibility that this incident might scare the Japanese off from making any deals with the MC.
If it does go south, Jax thought, making nice with the Chinese would be more important than ever.
Or we're all dead men.
