Lawyers in Hell

by Morris, Janet

  He tilted back his head and laughed. Then a light caught his eye, and another: light, like flashes of blue lightning far away in the sky. A sense of foreboding clutched at his heart, seeing those blue lights against the dim, gray sky. Nidhogg’s words came back to him:

  One of plagues shall come down. Seven weapons shall he wield. Lightning death will he deal and bright blue will his lightning burn.

  Wendell was certain something very bad was about to happen.

  The Dark Arts

  By

  Kimberly Richardson

  “Ah, my dear Clarence,” said a voice from behind him. Clarence Darrow, fierce litigator and civil libertarian, turned to face his client, a fallen angel named Penemue. The fallen angel was long-limbed and exquisite, lounging amid the luxurious library of his Lost Angeles mansion, into which Darrow had been spirited without warning. “I called you here for a most serious matter.” Penemue leaned back into his chair and closed his cats’ eyes. “I need your professional services. It would appear that I am being sued for plagiarism.” The fallen angel opened his beautiful eyes and focused them on Darrow’s grizzled face. “Another author charges that I have taken his work and claimed it for my own.” He cracked his fingers then laid them in his lap. “As you know, my own work is just that: mine. I have no reason to steal from another.”

  “Who made such a claim?” asked Darrow, trying to get to the heart of the matter.

  “Some lesser being of no particular repute, who claims that I stole from him. Can you imagine that, Clarence? The nerve!” Penemue got up from his chair and paced through the room, which looked a bit unnerving due to his height and facial expression of beautiful disgust.

  “So, how did you find out about this charge?” asked Darrow. The fallen angel stopped pacing, and blinked his red eyes at his lawyer.

  “That damned fiddler, Paganini, told me last night,” he hissed. “I am the fallen angel who gave man the use of ink and paper. It is absurd to think I would then steal the work of a mere human. Will you aid me in this matter? You have been quite a capable representative before and I see no reason to call upon anyone else for this.”

  Darrow closed his eyes and ran a hand across his jaw, rubbing the stubble. This might be the most interesting case he’d encountered since he defended the right to teach Darwin’s Theory of Evolution in public school in the famous scopes trial. Someone dumb or crazy enough to accuse a fallen angel of plagiarism had to be taken seriously; the game was most assuredly afoot. He opened his eyes, pushed his hair to the side of his face and said, “I’ll take the case.”

  *

  Penemue refused to have the case heard at the Hall of Injustice like a common criminal. Changing Penemue’s mind was like asking a demon to smile, so Darrow met with the plaintiff’s attorney at Thanatos Library to agree on a venue to discuss the case. When Darrow walked into the hallowed halls of the library, he was immediately greeted by opposing counsel, another damned soul, wearing a wrinkled suit with several grease spots.

  The other lawyer saw Clarence and rushed up to him, grasping his hand with a vice-like grip. “I’m Boulder! This is a real honor, Counselor Darrow!” he gushed.

  When Boulder released his grip, Darrow’s hand was covered in a thin and slimy goo. Darrow peered into the shadowed face of the lawyer with his piercing eyes then said in a low voice, “Well, shall we get to it, then?”

  Boulder led him amid rows and rows of books with various forms of flesh used for the covers. Some books on library tables had faces eternally locked in torments their own minds had devised: faces with sunglasses grafted upon them; faces slack-jawed from drink and vacant from drugs. Punishment suited to crimes against literature. Darrow shuddered. The scourges of literati were not his problem. At least, not today. Today he had a plagiarism defense to prepare and a case to win.

  He sat down across from the greasy opposing counsel and now noticed that the slime on Boulder came from boils and sores on his face and neck and possibly the rest of his body. Darrow looked down at his own slimy hand, wiped it on the chair and said gruffly, “So. What’s this about your client claiming my client committed plagiarism?”

  Boulder reached into his battered briefcase and pulled out several yellowed documents. He glanced at them for a moment, then handed them to Darrow without a word. As Darrow collected the documents, he noticed an unpleasant odor emanating from them. The first document was a hand-written statement from one Mr. John Ginger, a damned soul and struggling writer in Lost Angeles, who claimed he could not afford a computer and thus wrote all his manuscripts in his own blood with a quill pen. He lived alone, had yet to secure a book deal, yet asserted he had written brilliant novels. His testimony further claimed that Ginger’s works all suddenly disappeared, thanks to a certain fallen angel named Penemue who lived on Rue de la Mort in Lost Angeles. Darrow glanced up.

  The opposing counsel was staring right back at him: at some time, for some crime, Boulder’s eyelids had been cut away.

  Darrow glanced through the testament one more time, then handed it back to Boulder, who returned the document to his briefcase, which clicked closed.

  “My client was told by Nicolo Paganini, the composer and violinist, of accusations that Penemue had stolen works from someone else. Is your client the one spreading these rumors?” Darrow asked.

  Boulder shrugged innocently. “My client figured that, since Paganini and your client were enemies in the arts world, the mad violinist would prove to be quite an ally during this matter.”

  “I see.”

  The lawyer leaned forward in anticipation. “Do you, Mister Darrow?” Darrow peered into the lidless eyes of the lawyer. Boulder, misreading Darrow’s silence for puzzlement, folded his arms on top of the table, leaned forward and said in a hushed tone, “We’re ready to settle for appropriate compensation.”

  “Settle? Are you mad?” exclaimed Darrow, and received several orders to “Hush” from the faces in the books strewn about. He leaned closer to the greasy lawyer and said in a lowered voice, “Settle? Your client does know who my client is, correct?”

  “But of course, which is why my client expects a very large award.”

  Darrow leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. He really thinks he has a chance, Darrow thought to himself. “Look, Mister –”

  “Boulder,” said the attorney who reached out his greasy stained hand again for Darrow to shake. Darrow refrained. “Just call me Boulder, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all, but you must know that your client does not have a chance in –”

  “Ah, ah, ah,” interrupted Boulder, wagging his finger at Darrow.

  “All right, fine, but still, your client’s accusations are preposterous. My client would never steal work from anyone, let alone a being he deemed inconsequential.” Darrow allowed himself a smug smile as he said that; sometimes, it felt good to have certain clients – the kind who possessed a goodly share of the powers of hell.

  “What if I told you, Darrow, that my client not only knows your client stole from him but right under his nose? Called my client a lowlife form of algae whose only purpose was to be stepped on and then later scraped off while walking at a jaunty pace.

  “Mister Ginger also claims that he saw Penemue holding Ginger’s latest work and that, when he approached Penemue, the fallen angel only laughed in his face while cursing him out in some archaic language.”

  Darrow’s smug smile faltered a bit; that did sound like something Penemue would say. He rubbed his grizzled jaw again, trying to think of an appropriate response, then said, “My client would like the proceedings to take place at his home. He refuses to have them heard at the Hall of Injustice.” Boulder held up a hand and this time, it looked to be even dirtier than before.

  “My client knew that a fallen angel would feel that way and refuses the location. He wishes the hearing to be held at the Hall of Injustice, where his case can be heard in a public forum.” Now the greasy lawyer looked every inch a hard-
ass as his eyelid-less eyes focused on Darrow with an eerie sense of calm. “We will not accept anything less than that. Tell your client either he agrees to the conditions or he can admit his guilt and we can settle out of court. Your client has made quite a nice living writing books and we want half of his wealth. Nothing less than that. Good day.” Boulder picked up his beaten-up briefcase and walked out without a backward glance at the disconcerted Darrow.

  Darrow cursed inwardly then grabbed his client’s business card out of his pocket. One touch to the card sent Darrow immediately to his client’s home just as Penemue walked into his library with a grin on his face and blood splattered on his crisp white shirt.

  “Ah, Clarence,” Penemue purred, “so amazing is the female body. How supple under certain stress.” He looked at his bloody hands, then carefully licked them clean. “So, Clarence, how did the meeting go?”

  “It did not go well at all!” he said in a disgusted voice, not caring if Penemue took offense. Darrow walked over to the liquor counter, made a glass of what looked to be whiskey, and drank it all down in one gulp.

  “That’s a special blend created by you know who,” Penemue said carefully just as Darrow realized his mistake and began to gag and cough. He glanced at his glass and watched the remains of the liquid slide up and down the glass as if it were alive. He lowered his head, trying desperately to breathe, but the liquid clogged his throat. He coughed, holding his glass over his mouth, and spat out the angry liquid that now attacked the glass with great and rare abandon. Darrow placed the glass on the table with shaky fingers and vowed never to do something so foolish again. He smoothed his hair to the side and fixed his gaze on his client.

  “Penemue, our terms on the matter were rejected,” said Darrow in a softer voice; his throat felt as though it were on fire. He rubbed it tenderly then continued, “Mister John Ginger makes a claim that he saw you carrying pieces of one of his documents around and confronted you. According to his attorney, a Mister Boulder, you ridiculed Ginger, then cursed at him in an unknown language.” He found a chair and sat down, “And, he refuses to meet you here. He wants to meet at the Hall of Injustice.”

  “What?!” cried Penemue as he began to pace back and forth. “This is ridiculous, Clarence. What should I do? I never made any such remarks to him or about him to others. I’d never even heard of him ’til that damned fool Paganini told me of the matter. I have no intention of lending his client credibility by having the case argued in public.”

  “He said that he knew you would want to meet at your home rather than the Hall of Injustice, so if you refused his venue, you could admit your guilt and they would meet you here to settle. He’s after half of your wealth.” Penemue stopped pacing and his cat-like eyes bored into Darrow’s soul. Darrow felt his mind wanting to snap into pieces as his bowels turned to jelly; mortals were never meant to bear up under a fallen angel’s full attention. This day was no exception.

  “So, what should we do?” asked Penemue in a soft but still deadly tone.

  “You’ll have to meet him at the Hall of Injustice, unless you want to admit your guilt and have him meet you here.” Penemue blinked a couple of times then his face erupted into a wide grin. He clasped his hands with glee.

  “Marvelous! Tell him that is exactly what we’ll do!” Now Darrow was stunned.

  “What? So you actually did commit plagiarism?”

  “No, no, but I shall admit my ‘guilt’ and once he and his damned lawyer arrive here, I will show them just how wrong this claim is.” Darrow looked at him questioningly then actually grinned when Penemue revealed why he was so confident.

  *

  Darrow contacted Boulder and informed him of Penemue’s decision. He could actually hear those eyes rolling around in their sockets as Boulder expressed his gratitude for bringing swift justice to this devastating matter. Mr. Ginger would be pleased as blood-punch when informed.

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Darrow with a lazy tone to his voice, “my client wants to make his admission of guilt formally, but out of court. He asks that you and your client arrive later today, if possible.”

  “What of the funds?”

  “We’ll handle that, don’t worry.”

  Boulder paused for a moment. “So, Darrow, your client actually admitted to it, huh? How does it feel to represent a liar?” Darrow was glad Boulder could not see his shit-eating grin.

  *

  Penemue had just finished “playing” with one of his slaves, a young woman with dark brown skin that rippled in a certain way when he toyed with her like a cat with a mouse. Darrow could still hear her screams as Penemue closed the door to his bedroom and walked into the living room to join Darrow sitting nervously on the couch.

  “My dear Clarence,” he said as he entered and made himself a glass of his ‘special blend,’ “do calm yourself. I have shown you all you need to know about this trifling matter.”

  “Yes, I know, but are you sure he doesn’t know?”

  “If he did, this case would not be in existence now,” Penemue took a sip of his harsh liquid then sighed as he swallowed the liquid. Darrow could actually see a small bulge sliding down the angel’s throat. He looked away just as a servant arrived, accompanying two damned souls.

  The servant bowed low and said in a muted tone, “Master, Mister Boulder and Mister Ginger to see you.” Penemue waved his hand at the servant, who then disappeared in a flash with an anguished cry, leaving behind a puddle of reddish gore on the floor. All eyes locked onto Penemue, who merely smiled and said, “What I do with my own servants is no business of yours.”

  First Boulder, then his client, Mr. Ginger, stepped over the puddle and entered the room. Darrow got a good look at the young man who had made the plagiarism claim. Ginger was an emaciated soul with sunken cheeks and an odd clump of hair attached to his head, while his eyes appeared to roll loosely around in their sockets.

  Boulder looked at his client. Since Penemue had agreed to confess his guilt, Boulder still assumed he had a case … as long as he could keep his client under control. Darrow blinked once then set his piercing gaze upon the man who dared to threaten a fallen angel.

  Ginger focused on Penemue’s unnaturally beautiful face, grinned like a madman and said, “You! All those manuscripts! You took them from me and now I want them back!” His voice rose into a screech. Darrow held his hands over his ears while Boulder and Penemue merely glanced at Ginger as though at a rabid dog.

  Even his own attorney believes his client is a fool, thought Darrow.

  Clarence pulled out two chairs for Boulder and his client then sat back down on the couch while Penemue stood, nursing his drink. For too long, no one spoke.

  Finally, Penemue finished off his drink and said in a low voice, “So. You are here to accept my plea of guilty, correct?”

  Before Boulder could respond, Ginger jumped up, shaking his finger at Penemue and cried out, “You stole my work and I want money! Money!” He screamed the word over and over again until Boulder placed a hand on Ginger’s shoulder to calm him.

  “Yes,” said Boulder, “money. In cash, please. Now.”

  Darrow glanced at Penemue, knowing what was about to happen. Dread, anticipation and revulsion swept through him. Penemue smiled at his lawyer then walked casually over to Boulder and Ginger and began to remove his shirt in front of them.

  Boulder glanced at Ginger, realized that the poor fool was frothing at the mouth, then back at Penemue. Darrow watched from behind, knowing what was about to happen only because Penemue had warned him earlier.

  As Penemue unbuttoned each button, Boulder and Ginger got a look at his chalk-white skin … and something black swirling around on it. Then, they noticed that the swirls were words moving of their own accord. Finally, Penemue threw aside his white shirt and raised his arms.

  Then Boulder knew he had been assigned a fool for a client, but it was too late.

  Words scrambled all over Penemue’s too-perfect chest while gaping red holes appea
red here and there all over his body. Darrow noticed two long reddish gashes down his back that seemed to be fresh and oozed something darkly purple in color.

  To fall so hard for so long, Darrow thought.

  “Do you see now?” said Penemue in a harsh whisper. He then jerked his head at Darrow behind him; this was Darrow’s cue. Clarence arose, walked to a small table and picked up a manuscript. He handed it to Boulder so he and his client could look at it. Before Ginger could respond with more unsubstantiated accusations, Boulder said, “Yes, and…?”

  Darrow then calmly walked over to Penemue with the manuscript and touched it to Penemue’s torso; as the paper made contact with Penemue’s skin, a large hole the size of the manuscript appeared in the middle of the fallen angel’s chest.

  Darrow, as previously instructed, placed the document against the gaping red hole and it was sucked in loudly, then the hole closed. Suddenly, the words from the manuscript appeared alongside the rest of the words that were showing all over Penemue’s body. Penemue sighed as the manuscript returned to its master. For the manuscript had literally come from the fallen angel’s mind and body.

  The fool named Ginger sat up straight in his chair, watching with wide eyes as his case fell apart like a wet deck of cards. Boulder stared. Then, knowing the case was lost, he wordlessly dragged Ginger from the room and the house.

  Penemue shouted, “Run! Run away!” He was convulsed with laughter and roared, “this is hell. There’s no place to hide!” Darrow watched them leave and turned back to his client’s swirling body. Still smiling, Penemue turned to Darrow, saying “Am I not still the fallen angel of ink and paper? Surely, you never doubted me, Clarence?”

  Penemue squeezed shut his eyes, satisfied to his very essence. Perhaps he moaned softly. Perhaps not. Darrow stared at Penemue’s skin. Words faded and appeared repeatedly all over Penemue’s body while more red, puckering holes of all sizes opened here and there, transiently revealing other documents of various sizes and content.