Rich Blood (Jason Rich #1)(7)

Jana let out a ragged breath. A wave of nausea was coming on, and she swallowed hard. I . . . need . . . a Xanax.

The only thing that seemed to keep her mind off the withdrawal was the anger permeating every pore of her being.

“This isn’t my fault,” she whispered, remembering her daughter’s words. If Nola had kept her mouth shut, I’d be taking visitors at the house. Friends and colleagues, paying their respects and dropping off food. That’s what should be happening . . .

Instead, she was here. In this stink hole going through the first stage of benzodiazepine withdrawal.

Why won’t they give me my damn Xanax?

Jana closed her eyes. By now, they must have found the drugs. Before being taken to the jail, she’d been told by one of the deputies that the sheriff’s office had obtained a warrant to search the house and all the vehicles for any evidence linked to Braxton’s death. Jana had a stash of pot in the trunk of her Mercedes. Worse, she’d hidden the coke she’d bought from one of Tyson Cade’s dealers in a drawer in her bedroom closet, and there was also a baggie in the glove compartment of her SUV. She couldn’t remember if she’d used it all last night or not. Whether she was deemed a suspect or not in her husband’s death, Jana figured there was a good chance she’d be charged with possession of an illegal substance.

But she knew that the sheriff’s department was fishing for something bigger than a drug charge. Jana had already been interrogated twice since she’d been brought to the jail, and the questions had focused solely on her whereabouts last night and her estranged relationship with her dead husband. Jana understood that the spouse was always a suspect in these types of cases—she watched enough Investigation Discovery to understand that. But Jana also knew that this situation was different. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” the saying goes, and she’d created a good bit of smoke in the last couple of years.

Her use of pot, alcohol, and benzos had probably contributed to her problems, but that alone wouldn’t have been enough. And she had a prescription for Xanax, didn’t she? Yes, she sometimes exceeded four milligrams a day and her oldest daughter would fill scrips for herself and give them to Jana, but so what? She’d suffered from anxiety since she was a teenager, and the benzos took the edge off. As did the alcohol. And the pot. Everyone she knew did some combination of the same thing.

No big deal, nothing to see here.

Jana’s recent taste for cocaine was a different story. Her association with Tyson Cade had put her and her family in peril. She’d gotten behind on her payments, which had led to . . . consequences. Why in God’s name had she taken up with Cade? Now she was hooked on coke, too, and she knew she was withdrawing from that as well. If only they would give her a Xanax, she could keep it together.

Jana continued to convulse in the cell. Withholding her meds was all part of the plan. They were trying to make her uncomfortable, hoping she would say something to hang herself. Jana tried to focus on what the deputies must be discussing. What had she told them?

She rubbed her hands over her face and, with a burst of energy, scrambled toward the door of the cell.

“I need a Xanax!” she screeched. “Y’all trying to kill me? Can’t you see I’m having withdrawals?” She beat on the door several times and rolled over on her back, gazing up at the ceiling, which was also gray cinder block.

And then her thoughts gradually turned over to Waylon Pike. He’d been obsessed with Jana and literally had nothing to lose. Easy to manipulate. Valuable.

What did I do? she thought as her arms and legs continued to shake.

The door clanged open, and a pair of guards stepped inside along with a woman in scrubs who identified herself as the jail nurse. Jana turned away and squeezed her eyes shut, seeing Waylon’s dull eyes in her mind.

What did I do?



After being examined by the nurse, Jana was finally given a Xanax. One of the officers asked if she wanted to make a phone call. She said yes and was led down a narrow corridor to a room with a desk and phone.

“Five minutes,” the guard said.

Jana felt better as the calming medicine worked its magic. She gripped the telephone and placed the receiver in front of her mouth, which was a chore since her hands were shackled together.

Who could she call? Her daughters? Both would be reeling from their father’s death. She couldn’t put this on them.

Who then? Jana couldn’t think of a single friend who’d be willing to lend her assistance.

If only her father were still alive. He’d know what to do. How many times had her dad bailed her out of jams? But he’d died three years ago, and her mother a year before that.

Jana needed a lawyer, but there were none in Guntersville she trusted.

Finally, closing her eyes and grinding her teeth together, she realized there was only one option. She couldn’t remember his cell phone number, but that didn’t matter. Everyone in the state of Alabama knew how to reach her brother.

Setting her jaw, Jana dialed the digits she’d seen on a thousand billboards.

1-800 GET RICH.





PART TWO





9


“Jason James Rich.”

The voice was a deep baritone. Distinguished, firm, but with the slightest twinge of condescension. It belonged to Winthrop Brooks, the chairperson of the Alabama State Bar Disciplinary Commission. Brooks wore a charcoal suit and a maroon tie, complementing the reading glasses that hung low on his nose. He was bald except for a couple of gray patches on the sides of his head. To Jason, he looked every bit the no-bullshit commercial litigator that he was.