Page 117 of Off Limits
Jaxon seems a little nervous. ‘Mr McCoy’s in the office. I’m gonna tell him you’re here like we discussed. Wait here. Like I said to Serenity, I can’t promise nothing, okay?’
‘I appreciate you trying,’ I tell him.
From what Serenity has told me, Jaxon’s always had her back, and he knows her situation.
He disappears. It’s some minutes before he returns, and this time, there’s a guy with him, the size of a house.
‘Mr McCoy will see you,’ Jaxon says. ‘This is Hurley. You’ll be frisked. That’s standard. You got a problem with that, you can head on home.’
I nod in agreement. Gramps gets to his feet, holding his leather binder.
As we’re directed backstage, I glance left and right, searching for Serenity. I glimpse her for the briefest of moments, and she grants me a hopeful smile, and I’m glad she knows that we’re here. Seeing her makes my chest ache, and I know how much I want this meeting to succeed. The pair of us don’t have time to exchange words as a split second later, the guy called Hurley is roughly frisking me, checking my pockets, then doing the same to Gramps.
When Jaxon opens the door to the office, my heart starts to thud.
I go in first. Gramps thought it would be best if I made the introductions, to lull Kale McCoy into thinking that my grandfather’s just a useless old man.
I remove my cap. I note that Jaxon doesn’t remain in the room.
‘Mr McCoy,’ I say, keeping things polite. Southerners like their hospitality. ‘Thank you for agreeing to speak to us. My name is Jake Walsh and this is Art Mackabee.’
We shake hands. Kale McCoy’s got a firm grip. He eyeballs me but pays little attention to Gramps. He then indicates that we should sit down, where two seats have been placed facing the desk. The guard, Hurley, remains with his back to the door.
‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ McCoy ventures.
I hold my ground. ‘We’re here to talk to you about Serenity Harper.’
At my words, his eyes slant just a fraction, as though that’s not what he was expecting me to say. ‘Serenity?’
He leans back in his chair. Goes back to eyeballing me. ‘That’s right,’ he says eventually. ‘I know you. You’re that guy. You were here. You’re the pro football player.’
‘Yes, sir, I am.’
He looks to my grandfather for an extended moment. ‘So, he’s here to beg me to let Serenity go. What does that make you?’
‘His lawyer,’ Gramps says. ‘I’m here to ensure nobody fucks around.’
McCoy leans his elbows on the surface of his desk. ‘Then this is gonna be a very short meeting, old man. Let me make this clear to you, gentlemen. Serenity belongs to me. I don’t care who herboyfriendis, so long as she shows up and keeps those dollar bills rolling in. So, I suggest you get the fuck out of my club.’
He says the word ‘boyfriend’ looking right at me. Neither me nor Gramps moves a muscle. So far, exactly as expected. ‘This is a very nice venue you have here, sir,’ I say. ‘But with no disrespect to you, you keeping Serenity here like a slave… it’s not gonna fly. Not anymore.’
McCoy lets out a derisive snort. ‘Slave. She’s hardly chained up in the basement.’
Gramps clears his throat. It’s overexaggerated. McCoy glares at him like the old man might have a heart attack right here on the floor of his office.
This time, Gramps is the one eyeballing McCoy. ‘Have you ever heard of debt bondage, Mr McCoy?’
‘Debt bondage?’
‘It’s a form of modern slavery. Compulsory labor. Indentured servitude. It is banned in international law, in most domestic jurisdictions and in all fifty of our great United States. People in debt bondage very often work for wages below that of the federally mandated minimum, often based on a verbal ‘at-will’ contract, with none of the required employment conditions, such as family leave, sick leave or mandatory breaks. The agreement that was entered into by yourself and Ms Harper was consistently anchored in your favor. You waited until she was of legal age before you took advantage of her and employed her on the basis that she would work for you to pay off her father’s financial debt. US federal law considers the use of debt, or the threat of financial hostage-taking, as a form of coercion for forced labor. You, sir, are therefore breaking the law.’
Watching my Gramps tear shreds off this motherfucker, I’ve never been happier. I can see a muscle flexing in McCoy’s jaw, his face like thunder. When Gramps stops speaking, McCoy sits back in his chair, as though he’s just survived an onslaught.
In football, we call it a dog pile.
‘Furthermore,’ Gramps continues, and McCoy’s brow creeps up his forehead, ‘you and Ms Harper have both kept a ledger for the duration of her time in servitude. Not only did you withhold all her tips, you failed to adequately recompense her for her time served as a dancer at this establishment, and you refused her a salary to allow her to increase the amount of debt she was able to repay during every shift she worked. As her employer, you were legally obliged to pay her the federally mandated minimum wage, which you denied. Again, sir, you broke the law, on top of the several laws you had already broken.’
It’s hard to tell in this light, but McCoy looks like he’s turned a shade of beetroot.
