Chapter 7 - The Atlanta Debt Collectors
Two weeks after the sentencing, the final lingering threat hanging over our lives reared its ugly head.
It was a cold Friday evening in late November. The sun had set early, casting long, dark shadows across Elm Street.
I was sitting in my living room, helping Emma with her third-grade math homework, while Max was building a lego castle on the carpet. Jennifer was in the kitchen baking a fresh apple pie, the warm scent of cinnamon filling the cozy house.
Suddenly, my outdoor motion-sensor security alarm chimed twice.
I looked at the live security camera feed on my smartphone.
A sleek black SUV with dark tinted windows had just pulled up directly behind my Honda Civic in the driveway. Two tall men wearing heavy black leather jackets stepped out of the vehicle and walked slowly up my front porch steps.
My heart hardened. I knew who they were.
The Atlanta debt collectors. The loan sharks David had owed nearly half a million dollars to. With David in state prison for life, they had come to see if they could intimidate an old retired postal worker into paying off his son's illegal debts.
I stood up quietly.
"Jennifer," I said softly, keeping my voice entirely calm. "Take the kids into the back bedroom and lock the door."
Jennifer looked at my face, saw the absolute seriousness in my eyes, and didn't argue. She gathered Emma and Max quickly and disappeared down the hallway, clicking the solid oak bedroom door shut behind them.
I walked over to my hallway coat closet.
Reaching up to the top shelf, I pulled down a heavy lockbox. I punched in the combination and opened the lid. Inside lay my father's old, pristine Smith & Wesson .38 Special revolver—a weapon he had carried as a deputy sheriff in North Georgia fifty years ago.
I checked the cylinder. Six heavy lead cartridges rested snugly in the chambers.
I loaded the revolver, slipped it securely into the deep right pocket of my heavy canvas work coat, and walked to the front door.
I didn't wait for them to knock.
I unlocked the deadbolt, pulled open the heavy wooden door, and stepped out onto the covered porch, standing right under the bright halogen security floodlight.
The two men stopped at the bottom of the porch steps.
The lead man was broad-shouldered, with a scarred jawline and cold, grey eyes. It was the man from the phone—the raspy-voiced Atlanta bookie.
"Bill Morrison," the scar-faced man said, keeping his hands in his leather coat pockets. "We spoke on the phone a few months back."
"I remember," I said, standing tall on my porch, my right hand resting deeply inside my coat pocket, my fingers curled firmly around the grip of the .38 revolver. "I told you then that if any of your people came near my house, my daughter-in-law, or my grandkids, I wouldn't call a lawyer."
The second man, taller and heavier, took a half-step up the porch stairs. "Listen here, old man. Your piece-of-trash son took four hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars of our money. He’s going to prison, but that debt didn't vanish into thin air. We know you got that four-hundred-thousand-dollar estate sitting in a trust."
I didn't flinch. I pulled the loaded revolver halfway out of my coat pocket, letting the heavy steel barrel glint sharply under the halogen floodlight.
The sound of the heavy hammer being pulled back with a loud, mechanical CLICK echoed clearly across the quiet porch.
Both men froze dead in their tracks.
"That trust," I said, my voice dropping into an icy, lethal register that carried forty-two years of unyielding grit, "belongs to two innocent children who almost died because of the filth your business encouraged. You take one more step up these stairs, and you won't leave this driveway on your feet."
The scar-faced leader stared at the gun, then looked up into my eyes. He saw no fear. He saw no hesitation. He saw an old man who had already faced down his own son's murder plot and had absolutely nothing left to lose when it came to protecting his family.
After five long, agonizing seconds, the scar-faced man let out a low, quiet breath. He reached out and grabbed his associate's leather jacket, pulling him back down the step.
"You got ice in your veins, old man," the scar-faced leader said quietly.
"I have family to protect," I corrected him. "Now get off my property before I pull this trigger."
The scar-faced man nodded slowly. "David lied to us. He told us you were an easy mark. We don't throw good money after bad, and we don't die over an amateur's debt. Consider David's account closed."
He turned, walked back down the driveway, and got into the black SUV. The vehicle reversed out of my driveway, hit the street, and disappeared into the night.
May you like
I stood on the porch until the taillights were completely gone. I slowly uncocked the revolver, slipped it back into my pocket, and took a deep, clean breath of the crisp autumn air.
The last threat was gone. The fortress was secure.
