Legally Wasted

by Tommy Strelka

  “That’s what we normally do to make it easier on y’all,” said the clerk. “But I bet that Judge Loundsbury wouldn’t mind if we switched it up to allow you to speak with your clients.”

  “You have absolutely no authority here,” Larkin whispered to himself.

  “There you have it, Mr. Monroe,” said Wendy. She snapped and the deputy turned. “Why don’t you go ahead and call the first pro se case while Mr. Monroe works his magic?” The deputy nodded and stared back at Larkin’s table.

  “I’m moving, I’m moving,” said Larkin as he shuffled around the table and headed toward the door. He avoided looking in Wendy’s direction, though he could feel her thin smile burn into the back of his head as he pushed his weight against the heavy door.

  As the door swung open, every face in the lobby turned to view Larkin. Since juvenile and domestic cases were not open to the public, anytime an individual opened the courtroom door, dozens of people held their breath and bit their lower lips as they wondered if their turn had come. Larkin sighed, opened his briefcase, and began calling names. One by one he was able to find all six of his court-appointed clients. Their reactions to the prison settlement offer spanned quite an emotional range.

  “That’s a bunch of bullshit,” spat Mr. Taylor as he glared at the equally pissed mother of his child from across the lobby. “That bitch done got married well off and don’t need a dime. She’s with one of them contractors in Iraq. She sees him six months a year and he makes over six figures for guarding a goddamned dumpster. They can shove that deal up their ass.”

  “Jail? What kind of lawyer are you, man?” asked Mr. Nutley. “I know I ain’t paying you or nothing but I know if I walked in there without you, I bet I could get a better deal than that. What kind of law school did you go to?”

  “They want to put me in jail?” asked Mr. Thacker as he began to smile. “Well, don’t that just beat all? I done way worse in my life than not pay some dinky child support and I never had more than a weekend in the jail. And now they want me for a month.” He shook his head and whistled. “Yes, sir. We live in a funny world, ain’t no doubt of that.”

  The worst, of course, was Mr. Powers. When he made simple eye contact with Larkin, the larger man had to turn around and cover his eyes. “I’ve been watching you talk to people,” he said as Larkin approached. “It can’t be good. I’ve seen how they’ve been reacting. That one guy in the red hat looked like he was going to deck you. I’m going to jail aren’t I?”

  “Yeah, well the deputy will deck him if he wears that hat inside the court room, and I’m not warning him.” Larkin cleared his throat, wiped more sweat from his forehead, and tried to swallow some spit but he had none. His tongue felt as dry as if he had gargled sand.

  “So what is it?” asked Mr. Powers.

  Larkin shrugged his shoulders.

  “I knew it! I knew they would lock me away.” Tears welled in his eyes. A man seated nearby turned to avoid playing any part of Mr. Powers’ drama.

  “They’re not going to lock you away,” said Larkin, although his voice sounded closer to a croak. “They just presented everyone here with the same deal and it’s my ethical duty to - -.”

  “What is it?” interrupted Mr. Powers. “It’s jail time isn’t? How much? I might be able to do a weekend here or there and not get fired.”

  “Thirty days,” said Larkin. He immediately held up his hands to prevent Mr. Powers from reacting too dramatically, but the dam broke. Mr. Powers flung his immense body back to the wall as if he had been sucker punched. The sound of his large back smacking the wall forced a nearby deputy to clutch his CB radio. Larkin gently waved to the deputy and the deputy relaxed. He released his grip on his radio and smirked at the large man reduced to such pathetic behavior. Mr. Powers sobbed into his hands. From time to time he looked up at Larkin with tears in his eyes, but the sight of his court-appointed attorney only made the sobs more audible.

  “God, I hate her,” said Larkin as he approached Mr. Powers. “It’s just a bullshit plea deal, Mr. Powers,” he said in as soothing a voice as he could muster. “She’s just doing it to jerk our chains. You don’t have to take it. We’re not going to take it.”

  “I thought you said that you had these things worked out with the other lawyer.”

  “They fired the other lawyer,” said Larkin. For whatever reason, this news sent Mr. Powers reeling through another wave of unstoppable sobbing.

  “I knew it,” Mr. Powers kept repeating. “I knew they would get me.”

  “No one’s got you yet, Mr. Powers. You’re just going to have to buck up here. I’m going to tell them that we’re not taking this deal and we’ll deal with it.”

  “Deal with it?” Mr. Powers peaked out from between his large sausage fingers. “But we could get more time if we just walk in there with no deal, right?”

  “Probably not.”

  Mr. Powers shook his head and sniffed. “Probably not,” he repeated.

  “Look,” said Larkin, “I’m going to head back in there and I want you to listen carefully out here in case - -”

  “Can’t you beg the judge or something?” Mr. Powers interrupted again. “I mean if you had something worked out with the other attorney, I mean, shouldn’t that still stand? I’m not the lawyer, but maybe if you ask the judge . . . you never know until you ask, right?”

  Larkin nodded. Mr. Powers had a point. All of the Bowlands swirling in his gut may have blinded him a bit. He could still play a pretty strong card if he indicated to the judge that he had entered into some sort of binding agreement with Deveraux. Normally, first-timers got a harsh warning and a review hearing scheduled to determine if the deadbeat would begin paying during the following three months. Two-timers received a suspended sentence and deadbeats hauled into court for strike three took a turn down the hallway that led directly to jail. Most of the time, Judge Loundsbury simply nodded his head and approved Deveraux’s recommendation. There was no reason to believe that Wendy could manipulate the system any more than she already had.

  “Alright,” said Larkin he began nodding. With each bob of his head, his confidence grew. “I got it,” he said as he grabbed Mr. Powers’ shirt. “But we’re going first.”

  “What?” stammered Mr. Powers. “I can’t, I mean, we can’t - -”

  “Shut up and sit next to me,” said Larkin as he made his way back to the courtroom with Mr. Powers in tow. The larger man pawed at his eyes to remove the evidence of his minor tantrum.

  “Have we got a taker?” asked Wendy as Larkin proceeded into the courtroom while the giant mess of a man behind him attempted to quickly tuck his shirt into his pants.

  “You wish,” said Larkin. His pulse quickened as he reached the defendants’ table. He threw down his briefcase with a bang. The clerk jumped in her chair. “Sit here, Mr. Powers,” said Larkin as he slapped the wooden chair next to him. Mr. Powers nodded politely to the other people in the room before hustling into his seat.

  “Mr. Craig Powers?” asked Wendy as she disturbed her mountain of file folders.

  “You got it,” said Larkin.

  “He’s not who we’re calling first,” said Wendy. Mr. Powers immediately stood from his chair.

  “That’s fine, ma’am,” said Mr. Powers, “I can just go back - -”

  Larkin gripped the man’s belt buckle and jerked him back into his seat. “Be quiet,” he said. Mr. Powers placed his hands over his mouth and did the type of deep breathing a person did just before passing out.

  “He’s not our first case, Monroe,” stated Wendy. The boots crossed and pressed back against the bottom of her chair.

  “He was the first case with prior counsel. Prior counsel and I had agreements and I’m honoring those.”

  Wendy rolled her eyes. “Yeah,” she said, “that will fly.”

  “Your damn right it will,” said Larkin with a bit too much venom.

  “Who’s damning who, Mr. Monroe?” asked an older man’s voice. Everyone in the room leaped
to their feet as Judge Loundsbury entered the room. A genteel Virginia gentleman with trim bright white hair and a grandfatherly face, Judge Loundsbury would not have been out of place in a courtroom from the 1800s. He was the kind of person who held the common man to a high standard of moral and social responsibility. It was the kind of unrealistic standard that 19th century idealists published in pamphlets. Deadbeat dads were not merely expected to pay all of their child support obligations because a court order demanded it, but also to meet the demands of chivalry. The valley between this ideal and the reality of family court was very wide at times.

  “Sorry, your Honor,” began Larkin but Judge Loundsbury waved his hand.

  “There will be no profane utterances in this court,” Judge Loundsbury stated. He held the last word out for two distinct syllables. Co-art.

  “What have we to hear first, Ms. McAdams?” he asked as he motioned for everyone to take seats. He retrieved a small pair of gold-framed spectacles from a pocket buried in his judicial robe and placed them on his face. Larkin squinted. Judge Loundsbury could easily find work in Colonial Williamsburg as a founding father or some esteemed candle maker.

  “Judge,” began Wendy, “the department has a specific order in which to call these cases, but Mr. Monroe has brought in Mr. Powers notwithstanding that order.”

  The judge turned to Larkin. “Is that correct, Mr. Monroe?”

  Larkin stood. “Judge, in preparing for my cases today, I made a number of arrangements with former department attorney, Mr. Deveraux, regarding dispositions for my clients. In my negotiations with Mr. Deveraux, we had agreed that Mr. Powers would be the first today.” Mr. Powers jumped in his seat at the mention of his name. Larkin placed his hand reassuringly on his shoulder. “I put in a good amount of footwork securing these settlement negotiations with Mr. Deveraux and I came here today expecting the department to honor those agreements. However, Ms. McAdams has informed me that due to her unilateral decision on the matter, all of that is out the window.”

  Judge Loundsbury nodded and clasped his fingers. “Is that true, Ms. McAdams?”

  Wendy was on her feet. “Judge, the only thing Mr. Deveraux had arranged for today was a Bloody Mary. If Mr. Monroe entered into any deal with Mr. Deveraux it was to determine who was going to pick up the bar tab.”

  “I object to this, you Honor!” shouted Larkin. “She’s disparaging an officer of the court without any justification.” He faced Wendy. “You ever heard of defamation, missy?”

  “Isn’t the truth the ultimate defense against defamation?” she asked.

  “Enough, everyone,” said Judge Loundsbury. He quietly studied a sheet of paper before turning to Larkin and Mr. Powers. “Just what deal did you have worked out?” he asked politely.

  “Your Honor - -” began Larkin, but the judge held up his hand. “No, Mr. Monroe,” he stated. “I would like Mr. Powers to answer that question.” The members of the defense table sank lower in their chairs.

  “Uhhh,” said Mr. Powers. He held the syllable for some time.

  “Mr. Powers,” repeated the judge, “have you agreed to any plea deals with the Department?” Mr. Powers could not even turn to Larkin, he was paralyzed.

  “Your, Honor,” started Larkin again, “this is a complicated legal process and - -” The Judge raised one finger.

  “Have you agreed to any deals, Mr. Powers?”

  With his mouth slightly agape, Mr. Powers shook his head very slowly from side to side.

  “I see,” said the judge. “Mr. Monroe, I don't believe that your client has agreed to any arrangement presented to him.” He nodded to Wendy. “Why don't you begin, Ms. McAdams?”

  “Wait!” shouted Larkin. He had been bullied too long. He was also drunk. “I mean,” he said, “objection!”

  “Mr. Monroe,” the judge stated firmly, “I don't think we need an outburst like that.”

  “Do you want to hear my grounds?”

  The judge nodded and shrugged.

  “There has been no substitution order in place here your Honor. No JDR judge has signed an order substituting Ms. McAdams for Mr. Deveraux. Mr. Deveraux is still counsel of record. I participated in early and frequent communication with Mr. Deveraux and I have not been served any notice by this court, this Department, or anyone else that there has been a change in counsel.” His knee buckled a bit, but he gripped his fingers tightly to the edge of the desk. The force of his grip sent all of the blood out of his hands.

  “Is that all, Mr. Monroe?”

  “No,” he said. If his mouth hadn't turned into Myrtle Beach, he might have been spitting. “I furthermore, I mean, furthermore, I motion to continue this matter. If there was a switch in counsel, my client and I need the additional time to . . .” his eyes caught the boots, and he attempted to swallow, but his throat muscles closed with a gulp of air stuck midway down his throat. He coughed a bit. “I need the additional time.” He said as he looked down at his hands. They appeared bone white. “Too white,” he muttered. He wondered if he was wearing white gloves before the table rushed at his forehead.

  Larkin regained consciousness on the courtroom floor. The first thing he noticed was the deputy standing over him clutching his CB radio as if it were the ultimate tool for any crisis. He then noticed that Mr. Powers had his head on the table with his hands over his face. He could not tell if Mr. Powers was silently sobbing or whether he had also passed out. Finally, Larkin noticed the blobs of rust colored eighty-proof vomit on his tie. He laid his head back against the floor and sighed. He slid his right hand delicately into his jacket pocket and retrieved his red bandana. For a moment he wondered how long he would have to stay on the ground before a sexy boot appeared nearby. Would he get the opportunity to steal a glance at forbidden treasure? He let the thought linger before he eventually sighed and began picking himself off of the floor.

  “May I have a recess, your Honor?” said Larkin as he continued to dab the cloth against his tie. He refused to make eye contact with anyone in the room.

  “I should say you have it, Mr. Monroe,” said the judge.

  “Thank you, Judge,” said Larkin as he kept his gaze glued to the floor. He slowly walked away from the defendant’s table and out of the courtroom.

  30 Proof

  The lights in the dance studio had dimmed when Larkin returned to his office. The jazzercise had thankfully ended and Margie was either quietly cleaning the room or perhaps even leading an afternoon meditation class. With his necktie wadded in his left hand, he reached out and gripped the doorknob. His fingers fumbled with both his tie and his keys and as he tried to manage both, his right hip bounced against the door which opened easily.

  “What the . . . ?” he muttered. He dropped the tie on the ground and gripped his key as if it were a stabbing weapon. With his loafer, he pushed against the door until it opened completely.

  “Hi, Mr. Monroe,” said a familiar voice. Freddie Beard, a lean man in his forties stood from his seat in the lobby area of Larkin’s office. His right hand stroked against the many wrinkles in his khaki pants, but it proved useless. They were utterly wrinkled, not unlike the temples of Freddie’s eyes. Too many years spent harvesting in Bedford under the hot sun. Freddie’s left hand held a thick manila envelope.

  “Is this about the bill?” asked Larkin. “Did you come to make a payment?” Larkin had handled Freddie’s uncontested divorce a few years earlier. “And how the hell did you get in here?”

  Freddie took a deep breath and raised his left hand.

  “What?” asked Larkin.

  Freddie wiggled the envelope. Larkin snatched it out of his hand. “You’ve been served with process,” said Freddie.

  “What?” He tore open the envelope. The top page was a Notice of a hearing in two weeks in the Juvenile and Domestic Relations Court for sole legal possession of Rusty, Larkin’s cat. “What in the name of Christ is happening here?” He glared at Freddie. “Did you break into my office to serve me with this bull shit?”

 
“No,” said another familiar voice. Larkin’s heart fluttered before dropping like a dead butterfly. “I let him in.”

  A thin tiny woman with long attractive brown hair neatly pulled back with a tan headband walked out of Larkin’s private office. As Madeline passed the secretary’s desk, she briefly studied the dozens of pictures upon the wall. She paused and turned to regard Larkin. Her big brown eyes seemed full of fear, but Larkin knew that was how Madeline always looked, like a deer just about to leap behind a pile of brush and escape. The look was her secret weapon. She might have been the most confident and headstrong woman he had ever met. But she cloaked it, when needed, behind a mask of vulnerability. In short, she could push his buttons with a blink, even those he never knew existed.

  “You hid a spare key in the tomato can by the gutter,” she said as she held up the brass key. The size of the key strangely made her fingers appear even smaller. “You didn’t even turn over the tomato can. It was right side up, Larkin. It had filled with an inch of rainwater. You have confidential files in here, right? What are you doing? Anyone could have come in here.”

  Her sudden appearance was too much. Larkin turned to Freddie to delay, to stall, to breathe. “You owe me twelve hundred bucks, Freddie.”

  “I gave you all them cases of Sunny Devil,” Freddie quickly replied.

  “You’re not paying my bill with moonshine.”

  Madeline sighed. Larkin could hear her roll her eyes.

  “Hey,” she said. “Is this the same tomato can? You kept it?”

  Larkin headed across the room to take the key, but the thought of her proximity made him pause. He tried to remember the last time he had touched her hand, but he could not remember.