Legally Wasted

by Tommy Strelka

  “Please my ass, Pillsbury,” said Trevor. “Why the hell were you breaking into this building?”

  “I wasn’t!”

  “Bullshit,” said Larkin. “We both saw it. You were striking the door with your shoulder.”

  “I did do that,” said the man. “But - -”

  “What’s your name, doughboy?” asked Trevor. The tag team stood less than a foot away.

  “Anthony,” said Anthony. “Anthony Swain.” Perspiration glistened on his pink face. His puffing cheeks looked like small glazed hams. “I was trying to see if the door was, you know, jammed. It is office hours.”

  “Sure you were,” said Trevor. “Unlock your office, Larkin. We’re going to take Tony for some interrogation.”

  “It’s Anthony,” said Anthony. He eyed Trevor nervously as Larkin unlocked the door. “The sticker on the door said that it was open. These are business hours.”

  “Sure, kid,” said Trevor. “Interrogation will get the truth.” Once Larkin had unlocked the door, Trevor grabbed Anthony by the collar and pushed him into the office. “Duct tape and screw driver time,” Trevor shouted as Larkin closed the door behind them.

  Anthony again reached for his inhaler. “Dear, Lord, please no! This is all a great misunderstanding!” Anthony pressed his back against the wall of the hallway that led to the lobby and secretary’s desk. He perspired heavily.

  “Get his wallet,” said Trevor.

  Larkin took a step toward Anthony, but rather than be pummeled or forced to suffer the pains of duct tape and a screw driver, Anthony grabbed his wallet from inside his jacket and threw it toward Larkin. Larkin caught it and handed it to Trevor.

  “What’s in the briefcase?” Larkin asked.

  “Just my things,” he said, “some things I was working on. I carry it with me. I’m a lawyer, Mr. Monroe, I’m - -”

  “He’s Anthony Swain,” said Trevor, “and he works for the Supreme Court of Virginia.” Trevor held up an identification badge. A picture on the badge showed Anthony smiling like an eighth grader in a yearbook photo. The seals of Virginia and the Supreme Court were printed about half an inch above his neatly combed hair.

  Larkin raised his eyebrows. “That’s right,” said Anthony, “I’m - -”

  “Byrd,” said Larkin. “Your Justice Byrd’s other law clerk.”

  Trevor continued digging through the wallet. “I thought Justice Byrd’s law clerk was a hottie. For a guy anyway. And dead too.”

  “Every Justice on the Supreme Court - -” began Anthony before Larkin held up his hand.

  “Quiet,” he snapped. “We’re talking here. We’re asking the questions.” Anthony nodded. “Every Justice on the Supreme Court gets two law clerks,” said Larkin. “Anthony is the surviving law clerk.”

  “Hmmm,” said Trevor. “He’s got a discount club card in here from Yankee Candle. What kind of guy has a discount card at Yankee Candle? Like scented candles do you now, son? Scented candles? Is that your thing?”

  Larkin squinted at Anthony.

  “Should I answer that?” asked Anthony, “or was it intended to be rhetorical hyperbole?”

  Larkin shook his head. “This is going too fast.” Despite the adrenaline surge that had accompanied street fighting, his tired brain was processing things barely above idle speed.

  “All the limeade’s gone, right?”

  Trevor nodded.

  “Get the Bowland’s.”

  Trevor whistled and shook his head. “Talk about torture.”

  “It’s needed.”

  “Right boss.” Trevor retreated into Larkin’s inner office.

  “What is a Bowland?” asked Anthony. His glasses fixated on the inner office door.

  “Tonic?” Trevor called.

  “Sure.”

  Anthony eyed the two fizzy drinks that Trevor clasped upon his return. “I’m not drinking that,” he said.

  Trevor laughed.

  Larkin took his drink and drank half. The Bowland’s did not taste as horrible as he had recalled. Perhaps because he had been jail earlier.

  “Ouch my liver,” said Trevor.

  Larkin drank and thought. “Keep an eye on him, Trevor. Don’t move, Anthony. We’re going to get to the bottom of this in a minute, but I need to check something first. One thing at a time.” He hustled past Charisma’s vacant desk and headed into his inner office.

  “Refill already?”

  “What’s he doing?” asked Anthony.

  “He’s getting pliers to pull your teeth out. Never know who’s been bugged, or where they might have stuck the bug for that matter.”

  Anthony wrinkled his brow, however, given the flat expanse of his forehead, only one long wrinkle formed. “I believe now that you’re speaking in jest,” he said haltingly.

  “Why do you talk like a damn Klingon?”

  The line in Anthony’s forehead deepened. “I am not broadcasting aggression.” He shook his head.

  Trevor wiped his nose with the back of his hand and glared. “I think I’m going to have to kick your ass now. Don’t take it the wrong way, but it’s my . . . what do they call it? My moral compass, that’s it. My moral compass demands that I should kick your butt and take your milk money. I’m not responsible, you see. It’s just instinct at this point. Maybe even reflex.”

  Anthony remained surprisingly calm. “I heard you speak earlier outside. Just after Mr. Monroe finished his assault, you stated that you don’t fight . . . ever.”

  “It’s not a fight if you don’t hit back, junior.”

  The two men stared at each other. Rhetorical hyperbole was certainly Trevor’s stock and trade. Most people could grasp that within five or ten minutes after meeting him. But recent alcohol abuse had bestowed upon him a pair of eyes shot to bloody hell. Coupled with his stubbly beard, Trevor still looked dapper, but also a bit batshit. Like Mickey Rourke in 1989. Anthony seemed unsure of his next move.

  “I knew it,” shouted Larkin. He pounded his fist upon his desk and headed back to the hallway. “It’s all bullshit.”

  “Precisely put,” stated Anthony. “You have most likely concluded - -”

  “Stuff it,” said Trevor. “What is it?”

  “This whole thing is bullshit,” said Larkin. He lifted his arms in exasperation as he walked by Charisma’s desk. His left hand grazed a picture frame and knocked it a bit askew. He quickly straightened the picture of the three large black women smiling beneath three huge and nearly identical yellow hats.

  “Well didn’t we already kind of know that?” asked Trevor.

  “Yeah, but now we can prove it.”

  “How’s that?”

  “It was the evidence that Detective Kincaid showed me at the police station. He showed me an email that he and the Justice claimed I had written and sent to Alex Jordan. It was the bit of evidence that alleged that I had known her for quite a while. I didn’t write it.”

  “Okay,” said Trevor, though it was clear that he was not fully on board. “We knew that already, right?”

  “It was from a bogus free email account that just so happened to have my name in it. Larkin dot Monroe at H-Mail dot com or something. I just checked my internet history. My computer has never surfed to that site. If they were going to doctor my computer, they haven’t. Not yet anyway.”

  “How in the hell were you able to find that out?” asked Trevor.

  “Ever surf to a website you didn’t want your wife to know about?”

  “Yes,” said Trevor, “I see.”

  “I do know the basics.”

  “Mr. Monroe,” said Anthony as he dabbed his forehead with the cuff of his right sleeve. “I do believe that if - -”

  “Zip it, junior,” said Trevor. “So they busted you with an email that anyone in the world could have written from any computer in the world?” Larkin nodded. “Now that’s what I call solid police work. What the hell kind of evidence is that?”

  “The fabricated kind,” said Anthony.

  Larkin crossed
his arms. “Okay, Anthony. What is it? What do you know?”

  Anthony exhaled as his shoulders sagged a bit. “Finally,” he said. “You know, before I begin, might I trouble you for a sip of water?”

  “What?” asked Trevor. “You kidding me, junior?”

  “I was just assaulted and battered on the sidewalk. My sides hurt, my throat is dry, and I have frankly lost much of my composure.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Trevor, but Larkin had already returned from his office bathroom with a half glass of water.

  “Thank you,” said Anthony as he gripped the glass and put it to his lips. As soon as he took one sip, his body trembled and he nearly dropped the glass. “Goodness,” he said as he stared at the glass. “What is that?”

  “It’s water,” said Larkin. “The glass may need to be cleaned a bit.”

  Anthony cautiously sipped again. He immediately coughed into his closed hand and handed it back to Larkin. “Did you clean it with vodka?”

  “It was gin. Now start talking.”

  Anthony nodded. He moved away from the wall and headed toward the secretary’s desk. The many pictures on the wall gave him pause before he sank into Charisma’s chair. He wrapped his fingers upon her desk before clasping them neatly in front of him. “Mr. Monroe,” he said as if he had begun a well rehearsed speech, “you are being framed for the murder of Alex Jordan.”

  “Jesus, he’s a sharp one,” said Trevor. Anthony unclasped his hands and squinted with displeasure.

  Larkin approached Charisma’s desk. “What do you know?”

  “Well the email is new,” said Anthony. He nodded slowly. With his shabby tweed suit, re-clasped hands, and ruddy cheeks, Anthony looked like a kid playing dress up. He was the neighborhood nerd who wrote wills and codicils in crayon for fun. “And to be honest, I’m unsure of why you were selected to be the fall guy, but that analysis is really immaterial. The conclusion is very clear.”

  “What did that email say anyway?” asked Trevor as he returned. He held a glass filled with several inches of what was presumably Bowland’s gin.

  “It doesn’t matter,” snapped Larkin. “Speak, Anthony. Tell me everything you know. What’s the conclusion that you’re talking about?”

  Anthony cleared his throat. “I believe that Justice Byrd, my boss, killed Alex. And I believe him to be working in concert with both the police and other individuals to conceal this fact.”

  “Knew it,” said Trevor as he swallowed half of the liquid in the glass. He winced. “Oh, God,” he said as he held the glass far from his face and examined its contents. “This is terrible.” His eyebrows raised and his hands shook as the liquid seared his throat. “Like trying to swallow something that hates you.”

  “How do you know?” asked Larkin.

  “It was evident from the start,” said Anthony. “Justice Byrd is known - -”

  Anthony was interrupted by a ringing cell phone. “It’s Carol,” said Trevor. “Excuse me,” he said as he answered his phone and stepped away. He slammed his empty glass upon the counter as if to signal the barkeep that it was time to leave the saloon.

  “Justice Byrd is known,” continued Anthony, “for consistently hiring one male and one female law clerk. During the clerkship application process, I did my research. I spoke with past Byrd law clerks to determine if this would be the right fit for me. You know, to gauge my eligibility and also to weigh the advantages and disadvantages of aligning myself professionally and perhaps politically as it were with Justice Byrd. These are important considerations lest you paint yourself in a corner of the political spectrum.”

  Larkin slowly shook his head. The kid was lucky that Trevor had busied himself with a shouting contest on his cell phone outside of the office. Anthony was pompous and arrogant, but no more so than his peers. He seemed a perfect fit for a penthouse in the ivory tower. “Right,” said Larkin, “you checked it out.”

  “Correct. I ultimately determined that I was a perfect fit for the office. This conclusion was predicated upon a number of facts, a full litany of which I shall omit at this time.”

  “Thank you,” said Larkin.

  Anthony seemed unsure of why he was being thanked, but he gave a slight nod. “Chief among these bases was my experience working with the Federalist Society. I was president of my law school’s chapter and I organized a symposium featuring a lecture from George Will.”

  Larkin ran his fingers over his scalp. He wanted to tackle Anthony again. As Anthony paused to clear his throat, the office door opened and Trevor stepped into the lobby.

  “Is he still talking?” asked Trevor.

  “Yes,” said Larkin.

  “So who did it?”

  “Excuse me?” asked Anthony.

  “Who killed the clerk, junior?” asked Trevor.

  “I believe it to be Justice Byrd,” said Anthony. “I already said that. You replied that you knew this already.”

  “Right,” nodded Trevor. “And we can prove this?”

  “I was explaining to Mr. Monroe that I had researched the position by meeting and discussing former Byrd clerks. I also informed Mr. Monroe that my experience as a staunch federalist also assisted - -”

  “Jesus Christ,” shouted Trevor. “My ears are bleeding. What the hell is he saying?” Larkin opened his mouth to answer, but Trevor waved his hand. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. He can talk in the damn car.”

  “Car? Where are we going?”

  “Carol can’t pick up Ryan at soccer. We’ve got to go right now.”

  “Soccer?” Larkin balked. “You know I’m being framed for murder.”

  “I know, I know,” said Trevor. “It’s something to do with her damned acupuncturist or aroma therapist or something like that. Essentially, my spousal support check has funded someone to keep her ass pain-free or moisturized or waxed or whatever for the next ninety minutes and Ryan’s practice ends in five. Just bring junior along and he can tell us all about his participation in the renaissance fair in the car.”

  Larkin nodded. Trevor was a bit of a mess, but so was he, and he surely needed backup. “Alright. Anthony, you’re coming with us.”

  “But, I - -”

  “Look,” yelled Larkin, “it’s my ass on the line here, not yours. I’m the one staring at life in prison. Can you tell me in the car? After we talk, Trevor can drop you off wherever you need to go.”

  Anthony looked at Trevor. The single line in his forehead formed as he studied the man whom moments ago had threatened to extract his teeth with pliers. He bit his lip. “Okay.”

  100 Proof

  “You’re sitting shotgun,” said Trevor to Larkin as he unlocked his white SUV. “I’m not driving next to junior.”

  Larkin nodded and opened his door. Anthony stood several feet away from the car. “Come on, Anthony,” said Larkin, “no one’s getting kidnapped.”

  Anthony opened the door and skeptically viewed the backseat. Trevor gripped the steering wheel as tightly as one could as he watched Anthony dust off the leather seats with his hand before carefully selecting the perfect spot for his briefcase. As soon as he stepped inside the vehicle, and before he could shut the door behind him, Trevor gunned the accelerator and the SUV launched into the mid-morning traffic.

  “Goodness,” cried Anthony as he fell back onto his seat. His left hand worked at straightening his tie and next his hair, although neither had moved. His right hand groped for a seatbelt.

  “All right,” said Larkin. He swiveled in his seat and eyed Anthony. “What do you have to tell me?”

  “And give us the Wikipedia version,” said Trevor, “not the Oxford English Dictionary.”

  After he was situated, Anthony quickly lowered his window several inches. The interior did have a bit of an odor. The earthy smell of the dark leather upholstery was accented by lingering whiffs of smoke that had snuck down into the seat cracks. But there was something else in the air, something acrid that floated here and there. Larkin could not place the odor in his min
d, but it just smelled naughty.

  “Like I was saying,” began Anthony, “I was highly involved in the Federalist Society in law school.”

  “What’s he talking about?” asked Trevor.

  “The Federalist Society is a very right wing, very conservative group,” said Larkin. “They get together in law school to sip drinks, compare trust funds, and extinguish personal freedoms. Think Antonin Scalia and the second amendment and so forth,” said Larkin.

  “Abortions are evil,” said Trevor.

  “You got it,” said Larkin.

  “That’s really not the ethos of the Society at all, I - -”

  “Whatever,” said Larkin. “I just nailed it. Move on.”

  Anthony sighed. A breeze from the window moved a narrow lock of hair near his right temple and his hand instantly swatted it back into place. It seemed a subconscious move, like a cow whipping its tail about to ward off flies while its face was buried in clover. “Essentially, I did my homework. You could pair up my resume along with the vast majority of Byrd’s prior clerks and scant differences emerged. And then there was Alex.”

  “Finally,” said Trevor.

  “She was completely unlike the prior clerks,”

  “That’s an understatement,” said Trevor.

  Larkin punched Trevor in the thigh. “I swear to God, if you don’t let him finish,” said Larkin.

  “She was from Berkley of all places. Berkley. And not to mention, she had been president of the American Constitution Society.”

  Larkin raised his hand before Trevor could ask. “Think the opposite of the Federalists. An evolving constitution, gun control and the ACLU.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Larkin swiveled back to meet Anthony’s gaze. “So Alex didn’t fit the Byrd profile.”

  “Exactly,” said Anthony. He slapped the meat of his thighs as if he had just revealed the winning hand. Larkin stared at him with such a focused glare it could have started a brushfire.

  “And?”

  Anthony raised his hands palms upward. He raised his eyebrows and motioned with his hand as if to coax a response. “Don’t be so goddamned Socratic,” Larkin snapped. “Just tell me.”