“Paul, it’s time for him to move on,” she said. “You said he thinks and drinks and fishes around the country. No good is going to come of that.”
“I understand. And maybe I agree with you a little bit, but let’s both try not to be so judgmental. We can’t understand; let’s let him live his life his way.”
“That’s just the problem, honey: he’s not living his life. From what you’ve told me, he is simply existing. He used to be so full of life.”
Paul looked at her closely. “You are over him, right?”
“Of course. That was years ago. Besides, I married you, didn’t I?”
“You did. And it was the best thing that ever has, or ever will, happen to me.”
“And I've never regretted it either, Paul. Not for an instant. Now, don’t be getting all jealous on me because an old boyfriend is moving to town—especially since you invited him.”
“I’m not worried, dear.”
“Good. Now go holler at the boys to wash up. I think this chicken is just about done.”
“Veronica, what’s on tap this morning?” Howard asked his judicial assistant while pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“You’re going to laugh,” Veronica Simmons replied coyly. She was a local who had graduated from the county’s only high school a decade or so earlier. She had been Howard’s judicial assistant for a little over a year, having come to the court after finding herself a poor fit at the new box store in town, where she stood at a cash register for hours at a time listening to the banal musings of coal miners’ daughters and wives and ringing up their purchases of all things made in China. Despite her relatively short time on the job, she had quickly developed a fierce loyalty toward her boss. The way she saw it, her job was to be the gatekeeper, keeping everyone out of her boss’s chambers except when absolutely, positively necessary.
“I am?” he asked.
“You are.”
“Okay, whose ass is in a wringer?”
“Mark Bryant.”
“The same guy I released yesterday?”
“Yup.”
“Did he fail a piss test?”
“No. New DUI. Spice. He was passed out in his car in the middle of an intersection downtown, lighter in his hand and a burning pipe of spice between his legs. Then he jumped out of the car, attacking people, yelling about ‘jagulinas’—whatever they are—in his pants.”
“Good God almighty! He didn’t make it twelve hours, did he?”
“Nope. Missed his urinalysis at eight p.m. and was found just before midnight. P.D. took him to the hospital. Said he’s okay but walking kind of funny. I guess he’s a little tender down there.”
Howard smiled. “Nice. Well, let’s hold him over for a day or so and let his head clear. He was angry yesterday; let’s see how he’s doing tomorrow. Maybe he’ll be a little more receptive to following the rules when he realizes just how deep the crap he stepped in really is.”
It was just getting dark as Sam drove into Custer, Wyoming. Every town in Wyoming seemed to have a junk collector living on its outskirts, and Custer was no different. Sixteen acres of bus and truck hulks, small boats, trailer house shells, abandoned cars, and assorted metal refuse dotted the landscape on the north side of the highway. Sam gazed at the goats and sheep browsing between rusted frames and perused the entire property to see if he could discern which of the trailer houses were occupied.
The airport was next, north of the highway and not looking terribly busy. Then the trailer parks, frantically and haphazardly emplaced during one of the many boom times for coal, oil, or gas—back when time and housing were short. Now, the dirt streets and abandoned bicycles served as a reminder of both better times and innocence lost.
Next came the motels. Full during boom times, the owners now looked out the dirty windows at the weeds encroaching through the cracks in the blacktop. Then came the older homes, and finally, “downtown,” such as it existed in a town of eighteen thousand people. He wanted to find Paul’s office and have a quick look around town in the September gloaming. The downtown business district had been laid out just after namesake General George Armstrong Custer’s debacle across the border in what was now Montana. Two- and three-story buildings lined both sides of the Yellowstone Highway, called Main Street as it passed through the middle of Custer. Seeing the courthouse, Sam slowed and began looking at the stenciled windows on nearby buildings until he found it: Norquist Law Offices, P.C. Located next to First Wyoming Bank, the office was neat, tidy, and bereft of windows, no doubt to preserve a degree of client confidentiality. Having memorized the look of the place, Sam set off to find his lodgings.
The aging one-story log motel was streamside at the north end of town. Access was by means of a key, and parking was restricted to the spot immediately outside the room door. Breakfast, the clerk told him, was “continental,” meaning coffee, cereal, oatmeal, and stale donuts. The room itself was clean and tidy, although the ten years since the “No Smoking” designation had been given had done nothing to alleviate the smell. The television was small, and the toilet ran a bit; beyond that, nothing much to complain about.
Sam turned on the miniature refrigerator and heard the electric motor start the compressor. He sat on the bed, adjusted the prosthetic leg—it was rubbing him raw—and opened his suitcase. Finding the bottle he’d packed that morning, he cracked the seal and took a sip, washing down a pill before going to look for some ice.
The next morning, the old friends greeted one another warmly. “Sam, so good to see you. How long has it been?” Paul said, shaking Sam’s hand heartily.
“Fifteen years.” Sam matched Paul’s smile with one of his own. “I appreciate this, Paul. Thank you for the opportunity.”
“It’s my pleasure. I needed a guy, and when I found out you were available, well, it was a no-brainer. How was your trip?” Paul could smell the booze on Sam.
“Great. Caught some fish, saw some country.”
“When did you get in?”
“Late last night.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Out on the Yellowstone Highway, log place—stopped at the first place I saw with a ‘Vacancy’ sign.”
“Kind of a dump, ain’t it?”
“It's okay. I think my fridge is out. Asked them to fix or replace it. We’ll see.”
“Well, good,” Paul said. He turned and sat behind an ornate oak desk, gesturing for Sam to join him. “You come highly recommended, you know.”
“Paul, you and I both know that’s bullshit,” Sam said, taking the chair. “I got fired.”
“Well, given what happened,” Paul began, and then, trying not to stare at Sam’s leg, added only, “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” Sam said, and noting Paul’s glance, tapped his leg. “I’m not going to be shagging any flies, but I’m over it.”
“I haven’t thrown a pitch in years myself. No company softball team, either.” Paul smiled. “But we’re glad you’re here; we’ve been a little short-handed. Ever worked collections?”
“No.”
“Well, not a lot to it. Everyone hates it, and since you're the new guy I think we’ll start you out with some of those, and then gradually work you into the more complicated stuff as you get familiar with Wyoming law. Later on, I’ve got a private road situation I’m gonna need you to handle. How’s that sound?”
“Good with me.”
“Good thing about Wyoming law is that there ain’t a whole hell of a lot of it. This is a small state, and a newer state, so in some areas of the law we’re making law, rather than adhering to precedent.”
“That will be different.”
“And I’ll need you to handle the majority of the criminal defense stuff as well. Nothing too serious—DUI, domestic violence, pissing in the street, possession, stuff like that.”
“Sure.”
“We got a methamphetamine problem here in town, just so you know. I haven’t done a lot of serious criminal defense stuff because I don�
�t want some tweaker sitting in my waiting room next to the little old lady waiting to get her will done,” Paul said, and then abruptly changed the subject. “How’s your drinking?”
“I’ve got a grip on it.”
“D.C. guys said it was an issue sometimes.”
“It was.” Sam was looking at his shoes.
“What about now?”
“I’ve got a grip on it today, Paul,” he said. “It’s a one-day-at-a-time deal.”
“Good. I can’t have any trouble, Sam. I know this place ain’t much.” He gestured around his office. “But it’s all I’ve got.”
“You got it. Hey, how are the boys?” Sam ventured. “They must be in high school by now.”
“They’re doing great. I think Ronnie has a shot at starting this year, and he’s only a junior. First game is in a couple weeks. Friday night lights in early September—nothing better! Why don’t you come with us? It’s a home game. Weather is usually perfect.”
“I just might do that.”
“Paul—we call him P.J. for Paul, Jr., get it? He’s too small right now. He’s just a freshman, playing junior varsity. Gotta game on Saturday in Casper.”
“Sounds like you’ve got your hands full. How is Jeannie?”
“She’s a handful, too,” Paul said, smiling. “In all sincerity, she is well. We look forward to having you over for dinner. How’s tomorrow night sound?”
“Sounds good.”
4
No one, to Jack Fricke’s knowledge, ever grew up wanting to be a janitor. Notwithstanding, here he was, thirty-five years old and armed with mop and bucket, swabbing the courthouse floors for the umpteenth time on this snowy day in Bumfuck, Wyoming, and praying like hell some old bag didn’t fall on her butt on a slick floor, which would result not only in his getting his ass chewed by the building manager, but probably one of the courthouse commissioners would demand he be docked a day’s pay.
In between jobs Fricke and his assistant—a kid named Michael who was apparently related to one of the county commissioners, and whom courthouse wags had christened “Frac”—would ogle women and await a call from elsewhere in the courthouse whenever some drunken defendant vomited or urinated on the courthouse floor. All in all, it wasn’t a bad job, and since it was a county job it came with benefits, like two weeks’ vacation and a couple of sick days per month. Fricke had been through rehab four times, but he still drank a bit, and once every couple of weeks or so he’d call in sick while he slept it off. No one seemed to mind too much, except for the building manager, who was a Type-A asshole and hated being stuck alone with Frac.
“I don’t understand how you can work with that kid, Fricke,” he’d say. “He’s got a brain the size of a pea.”
The benefit, from Fricke’s perspective, was the sheer entertainment available. It wasn’t just anyone who could laugh at the drunks and addicts and ogle their women and get paid for it. In addition, Fricke looked forward to snooping through attorneys’ and judges’ files and garbage cans, as well as pocketing change left on desks and in chair cushions. On a good night Fricke and Frac could pick up two, maybe three bucks. They split it fifty-fifty, or so Frac thought.
Plus, there was the opportunity to watch arraignments, or as Fricke had long-ago named them, “Night Court,” in honor of the old television show. In truth, in-custody arraignments in the circuit court occurred every afternoon. But like the television show, they were unpredictable and generally funny as hell—if you weren’t the one in a jumpsuit and chains, of course.
Fricke and Frac had gotten into the habit of watching arraignments just after Frac came on board. Fricke wasn’t sure that Frac ever really understood what was happening, but he laughed obligingly when Fricke did, and on those rare occasions when he didn’t, Fricke elbowed him in the ribs. Today was a Monday, and there had been a full moon over the weekend, so Fricke suspected the “local color” had been out in force.
“State of Wyoming versus Mark Bryant,” Judge Howard announced. He was looking into a television monitor. Defendants appearing before the judge often appeared remotely from the jail, saving the county the time and cost of transport. A dozen or so young men and women were sitting on plastic chairs in a jail room equipped with a similar monitor. The judge had earlier advised the defendants as a group of their constitutional rights. It was now time to speak to them individually.
“Uh, here, Your Honor,” Bryant said.
“Mr. Bryant, why don’t you have a seat in that chair up front?”
“Yes, sir.”
After Bryant was seated, the judge continued. “Mr. Bryant, you are here pursuant to a warrant that alleges you violated the terms of your bond by consuming spice, a controlled substance and/or altering substance. More particularly, you were placed on bond a couple days ago pending trial in a possession matter—do you remember?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“The allegation is that at approximately ten p.m. the night before last, you were reported to police by passersby after you were observed doing seventy-five miles an hour on 2nd Street, crashed the car, got out, stripped naked, and began berating folks who tried to assist. Says here you accused them of ‘bathing in the blood of the jagular’—whatever that is—and ‘trying to steal your, er, penis.’ You then, according to witnesses, dropped your trousers and defecated.”
“Well, I had to go—”
“Just a minute, Mr. Bryant.” Judge Howard held up a hand. “According to the officers on scene, you could not remain still, had pinpoint pupils that did not react to light, could not maintain a train of thought, and kept clenching and unclenching your jaw—all signs of methamphetamine use, according to the drug recognition experts. You were cited for use of a controlled substance and taken to jail. Now, do you have an independent recollection of the events of that night?”
“Kind of.”
“Good. Now, do you remember me saying that a bond was a sort of agreement between you and the court?”
“Yes, Judge.”
“And I explained that, were you to appear in front of me as the result of an allegation that you were using or drinking, I was probably going to deal rather harshly with you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah.”
“So, you understand your rights in this matter?”
“Yes.”
“And you understand the allegation?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, you’ve indicated you understand your rights and the allegations against you. To the charge that on or about the 21st day of September you violated the terms of your probation, do you admit, or do you deny?”
“Well, I admit, Judge.”
“Okay, Mr. Bryant, what happened?”
“Well, my girlfriend picked me up after you released me. But she has been bathing in the blood of the devil, so I got out of the car . . . no, I took her home, and because she was morphing into a jagular, I took her car to get away.”
The judge raised his eyebrows and stared at Bryant. “She was attempting to harm you?”
“Well, of course. Jagulars live on human flesh.”
“Okay. So, you took off in her car?”
“Yes.”
“And later you were stopped on 2nd Street after you crashed the car?”
“Yes. I did that on purpose.”
“You crashed the car on purpose? Why?”
“Because I had a jagular in the car with me, and it was in my pants.”
Howard stared hard at the courtroom audience, then those in jail, quieting their laughter. “Okay . . .”
“So, that’s why I crashed that car.”
“Okay. Let me ask you this: at any point that night—and I’m talking about before you had the jagular in your pants—did you use methamphetamine?”
“No . . . spice. Spice is the only way to keep the basilisks away.”
“I guess I’m not sure what a basilisk is, Mr. Bryant.”
“A basilisk is a reptile that can kill you with a single glance. But they won’t look at s
omeone who has taken spice, so as soon as I heard there was a basilisk loose in Custer, I went and got me some.”
“And you used that spice?”
“Yes, sir. You would too, rather than have a jagular in your pants.”
Again, Howard stared hard at the other inmates and the audience in the courtroom. Having decided that Mr. Bryant was truly troubled and not just putting him on, he made his decision. “Okay, Mr. Bryant. I’m going to suspend proceedings here and order you held without bond until you can be examined by a mental health professional. Ms. Fulks, please prepare the appropriate order.”
5
By early October, Sam was starting to get the rhythm of his new firm. Norquist Law did some collections and—true to Paul’s word—as the new guy, Sam had been assigned to the unenviable task of collecting debts for some of the physicians in town. The job was not a difficult one, but it was unpleasant.
Not infrequently, the debtors were angry at the world, suffering from an addiction disorder or marital/relationship issues, and were being pursued by multiple creditors who employed various tactics to get their money. It was a volatile business, and in just a few weeks, Sam had observed various blow-ups.
Today's defendant owed money to Sam’s client, one of the town’s OB/GYNs. She showed up late, snipped at the receptionist, and was shown to a conference room. Sam entered a couple of minutes later and found the defendant on the phone. She kept talking while Sam noted the time. At some point, she said, rather disdainfully, “I'll be with you in a minute.”
Sam replied casually, “Okay with me. It’s your money.”
“What?”
“The judgment against you includes attorney’s fees, which—much like the interest on your debt—accumulates. In my case, in six-minute increments.”
The phone was snapped shut. He had her attention. Decent-looking gal, Sam thought, but a very hard edge to her. She was wearing the tightest jeans he had ever seen. Her T-shirt showed it all, and there was plenty to see, courtesy of a very talented plastic surgeon somewhere. Sam began the questioning.
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