The cop, who had turned away to inspect the gravel, couldn't help but look back at me.
"Don't you get angry at me, Michael," Janie hissed.
She always called me Michael when she was about to lecture me about how I failed to meet her standards and expectations. Like I was a little boy.
Before she could say anymore, I said through gritted teeth, "We'll talk later," and hung up.
I closed my eyes and waited for the rage to subside. It didn't. But it was interrupted.
"I'm divorced too," said the cop. I wasn't surprised.
"Congratulations," I quipped. "I don't really want to talk about it. I shouldn't have answered the phone. Sorry. What about my car?"
"Well, like I was saying," he shrugged off my declining to discuss our similar marital status, "there's not much we can do."
I remembered what I was going to say before my phone rang. "Can't you just go to Saturday's game and arrest whoever's in my seats?"
He shook his thick head. "Nope. That won't work. Just because they're in your seats doesn't mean they stole it. They could've gotten them from the thief."
"What about possession of stolen property or something?" I suggested.
"Sorry, that won't work either." He didn't seem particularly sorry. "You gotta prove they knew the tickets were stolen. They'll just say they bought 'em from some guy named Johnny, don't know his last name, in cash, didn't know they were stolen, blah blah blah."
I was dumbfounded. "So you're not even going to try to find whoever did this?"
The cop thought for a moment, mouth pursed, and shrugged. "No leads, sir."
I looked at my broken car window. "Are you going to dust for fingerprints at least?"
Officer Helpful shrugged again. "We got one forensics guy for the whole county working this shift. He's out at a homicide right now. I'm not going to bother him for just this."
"Just this?" I repeated. "My car was broken into. My briefcase was stolen. And you can't even dust for fucking fingerprints?"
The cop's attitude suddenly changed. "Look, mister. I've been doing this job for twenty-three years. I know how these things go down. We process your car for prints, we'll get maybe one thumbprint on the door. And you know what that proves? Nothing. It proves the guy touched your car. It's parked in a Goddamn parking lot. Anybody could touch it. And it was parked at the grocery store on Sunday and the hardware store on Saturday and he could've touched it there. So no, I'm not gonna pull my forensics guy from a real crime to waste time and money looking for your briefcase. You never should have left it in plain sight to begin with. If you ask me, you were just asking for your car to be broken into. Especially in this neighborhood."
I was speechless.
"Go home, sir," he finished and turned back to his patrol car.
"Aren't you even going to take a report?" I yelled at him.
"Nope," he called over his shoulder. "No use."
As he started his car and pulled away, my phone rang again. I pressed the green button and held it to my ear even as I watched the city's finest drive away. "Not now, Janie," I said quietly.
"Yes, now." It was Danielle. "You're late for court."
I shook my head, confused. I instinctively went for my briefcase, and the planner inside, but was reminded of the futility of the effort by the broken car window. "I don't have court today," I finally said.
"Apparently you do," Danielle answered. "It wasn't on my calendar either, but Judge Prescott's bailiff just called. The hearing on the Cunningham motion to dismiss was scheduled to start five minutes ago."
"I just got that brief this morning," I recalled. "They can't schedule a motion with no notice. Especially not a motion to dismiss."
"I know," she said, "but they did. I told them you were stuck with an elderly client and would be there in thirty minutes. I'll meet you in the courthouse lobby with the file."
My mind was racing. I hadn't even read their brief yet. "Thanks, Danielle. You're the best."
"I know," I could hear her smile over the phone, then hang up.
I brushed the broken glass off the driver's seat and peeled out of the parking lot, spraying gravel in my wake.
Judge Prescott was not going to be happy. He was old school. Hell, he was just old. And he expected attorneys to act the way they did back in his day. Being late was simply unacceptable. Being late and unprepared—well, I wasn't looking forward to that.
Danielle was already there, in the lobby just before the metal detectors, file in hand.
"Thanks," I said as I took the file. "Any idea how this got set without either of us knowing?"
"Oh, I've got an idea," she snarled. "But I can't prove it. Yet."
I wasn't sure what she meant. Anyway, I was more interested in getting into Prescott's courtroom as soon as possible. I slipped off my suit coat.
"What are you doing?" Danielle asked.
I undid my holster and handed her my gun. "No way they're letting me in with this."
She grabbed it by the strap, letting the holstered gun hang down like a rat by its tail. "What am I supposed to do with this?"
"Just put it in my desk drawer," I said as I pulled my coat back on and headed for security. "I gotta go."
I practically ran to Judge Prescott's courtroom. When I got to the doors, I stopped, caught my breath, and straightened my tie. Then I opened the door and walked in.
Prescott was on the bench. Actually sitting up on the bench, waiting for me. Usually judges waited back in chambers until the attorneys arrived. But he was right up there, court in session. Waiting.
I was in a lot of trouble.
But the worst part was my clients. They were sitting at the counsel table. All alone, without me.
Everyone looked up and over at me when the door opened.
"Mr. Mitchell," Judge Prescott growled. "How nice of you to join us."
I could see the smug expression on the opposing attorneys' faces. I really hated lawyers from big corporate firms. But that's what the school district had hired. The parents of the little girl who got assaulted by the gym teacher, they could only afford me.
I slunk to my table. "My apologies, Your Honor. My car was broken into."
The judge raised an eyebrow at me. "Your legal assistant said your office hadn't calendared the motion."
"That too," I admitted nervously. "I was unaware this was docketed until she called me."
The eyebrow didn't move, but the frown Prescott already wore seemed to deepen a bit.
"What is the motion exactly?" I was compelled to ask.
"It's a motion to dismiss," one of the school district's attorneys chimed gleefully. She stood up to hand me a copy of her motion. I ignored her.
"I'm sorry, Your Honor," I shrugged at the bench. "I'll need a continuance. I'm not prepared."
Judge Prescott leaned forward and stared right through me. "It's your job to be prepared. You were hired by this family to be prepared. The defendant's attorneys are prepared. I am prepared. Why are you not prepared?"
"I just received the motion this morning," I explained. "Honestly, Your Honor, I never got notice of this hearing."
My opponent waved her paperwork. "It was delivered two weeks ago, Your Honor! I have a 'copy received' stamp from Mr. Mitchell's firm."
"Let me see that." I snatched the papers out of her hand. Sure enough, her copies showed that the motion to dismiss had been delivered to the office two weeks earlier. More than enough time to be prepared.
So why didn't it make my calendar?
"I— I can't really explain, Your Honor," I tried. "Obviously there's been a communication breakdown. If we could just set this over one week."
"We object!" Again, my worthy opponent. "We're prepared. We properly filed our motion. We properly noted it for a hearing. The plaintiff has failed to file any response because they know the case should be dismissed. You should grant our motion to dismiss, Your Honor!"
It was one thing to make me look stupid, it was another to try t
o use it to get a case dismissed on a technicality. "That's not why we didn't file a response. I already explained—"
"Yes," Judge Prescott interrupted. "You explained."
He sighed and set down the pleadings. "What would you have me do, Mr. Mitchell? The defendant filed a timely motion. They noted it for hearing according to the court rules. We are all here today. If the rules are to have any meaning, they must also have consequences."
He leaned forward and looked down at me over his large glasses. "I have been a judge for thirty-seven years, Mr. Mitchell. Thirty-seven years. And in those thirty-seven years, I have heard arguments from far greater lawyers than you. But all of those lawyers, great as they were, had to abide by my rulings, because I am the judge. You see, Mr. Mitchell, when you've been a judge as long as I have, you don't need to look up the law anymore. You know the law. You are the law."
He banged his gavel. "The motion to dismiss is granted. Court is at recess."
"Your Honor!" I tried, but he was already stepping off the bench. He strode into his chambers and slammed the door.
The other attorneys were handshaking and high-fiving. I know because I was watching them. I was watching them because I couldn't bear to look at my clients.
I finally turned around.
"I'm sorry," I started. "I'll file a motion to reconsider. We can appeal—"
I didn't say any more because the girl's mother slapped me across the face.
"You won't do anything!" shouted the father. "You won't do one more damn thing on this case. We'll get a different lawyer. A better one. And if we can't sue the school district, then we'll sue you and your entire firm for malpractice."
"Look, I know you're upset—"
"You don't know anything," screamed the mom.
The dad grabbed my coat. "I oughta punch you right in the face. Go to hell."
He shoved me away, then took his wife's hand and they both stormed out of the courtroom.
"Mr. Mitchell?" It was the attorney for the district. I didn't turn around. "No hard feelings?"
I still didn't turn around. I didn't trust myself. I wasn't sure what I'd do if I saw her smarmy smile. Instead, I lowered my shoulders and marched out of the courtroom.
I wanted to jump in my car and drive away. Anywhere. The office. My house. The Ice Cave. I didn't care.
But I couldn't. My car was parked in by a burrito truck.
I would have been pissed—even more than I was—if I hadn't been so hungry. I got one to go and then forced my car out by driving over the curb and gouging out a nice wide swath of Judge Prescott's immaculate lawn.
I parked in the garage and stormed into the office, burrito bag in hand. I was angry at the judge for dismissing the case. I was angry at the school district's attorneys for filing the motion. I was angry at Danielle for screwing up my calendar. But most of all I was angry at myself for having let it happen.
"What happened?" Danielle ignored my mood and followed me into my office.
I looked at her sideways, eyes flaring. "Prescott dismissed it."
"What?!" She was as shocked as I had been in court. "How could he do that? They didn't give you any notice."
"Apparently they did," I growled as I dropped my greasy bag onto my desk. I pulled the pleadings out from my coat pocket and slammed them on the corner of the desk for her to see.
"Two weeks ago?" Danielle was as incredulous as me. "How did they get that date stamp?"
"Because they delivered it here two weeks ago." The obvious, and only, explanation. "The real question is what happened to it after that."
"Mitchell!" It was New Man Johnson. 'Mr. Johnson.' I could hear it in his voice; he was pissed. I knew why. "Where is Mitchell?"
I heard some paralegal tell him I was in my office.
"Mitchell!" He started to storm into my office, but pulled up short when he saw Danielle there. I don't think he expected to have a witness. "I just got off the phone with the Cunninghams."
"Yeah," was all I said.
"They're threatening to sue us."
"I know," I answered as I pulled my burrito out of its bag. "I don't think they're just threatening it."
"What the hell happened, Mitchell?"
I inspected my burrito. "Damn it," I muttered. "They forgot the sour cream." Luckily I kept a stash in my office mini-fridge.
I picked the pleadings up off the desk and handed them to Johnson as I walked around to my fridge. "These never made it to my desk."
Johnson reviewed the documents while I reached in and pulled out my sour cream tub. It seemed light.
"This is a bullshit motion," Johnson said. "Summary judgment. You can beat this with a simple one page reply."
"I know." I opened the sour cream. It was empty.
"What the hell?!" I yelled. I threw the container against the wall. "God damn it!"
"What is it?" gasped Danielle. Johnson looked askance as well.
"I'm out of sour cream!" I shouted. "I could have sworn I had some sour cream left. How the hell am I supposed to eat my burrito without any sour cream?!"
"Pay attention to the real crisis here, Mitchell," Johnson barked. "Why did the judge grant the motion if all you had to do is file one fucking piece of paper?"
"Because I didn't file that one fucking piece of paper!"
"Why the hell not?"
I stepped over and smacked the papers in his hand. "Look at the date stamp."
He did. "Two weeks ago. That should have been plenty of time."
"Sure," I agreed. "If I'd gotten it two weeks ago."
"But we did get it two weeks ago," Johnson protested. "The date stamp shows that."
"No," I growled as I plopped into my desk chair. "It shows that the motion arrived at the office two weeks ago. Danielle didn't get it until this morning. And even then, there was no scheduling order with it so we didn't know it was set for a hearing until the fucking judge called to find out why I wasn't there."
Johnson didn't say anything for several seconds. "When did you get the brief, Danielle?"
"It was in my in-box when I got to work this morning," she answered.
"It must have gotten buried underneath other stuff," Johnson suggested.
He was going to blame it on her. But everybody knew Danielle was the most organized paralegal in the office. Hell, she was the most organized person—lawyer or support staff—in the office. I was about to defend her, but she didn't need me.
"No sir. It was on the very top. I noticed it as soon as I got here. It was not there when I went home last night."
Johnson smiled. "Well, I think everyone will believe you, Danielle."
Then he turned to me. "So what's your excuse, Mitchell?"
"I— I beg your pardon?" I tried to catch myself. "What do you mean my excuse?"
"Why didn't you know about the hearing?" he demanded.
"I just explained," I said.
"I didn't hear any explanations," he sneered. "All I heard were excuses."
I was speechless for a moment. "I didn't get notice of the hearing because something broke down in our office. But it's not my fault."
"Did you see the motion this morning?"
I set my jaw. "Yes," I admitted.
"Was the date stamp on it?"
"Yes," another admission through clenched teeth.
"So why didn't you call the court to see if anything had been scheduled when you noticed the date stamp was two weeks old?"
I pressed my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my nose. "I didn't notice the date stamp was two weeks old."
Just then Fletcher darkened my doorway. "What's going on?" he asked a little too cheerily.
"Did you eat my sour cream?" I accused. He seemed like the kind of prick who would do that.
"What?" he stammered. "No. I—"
"Forget the Goddamn sour cream, Mitchell," Johnson ordered. He turned to Fletcher. "Mitchell just lost the Cunningham account. And they're threatening to sue us."
"The Cunningham account?" Fletch
er repeated. "Isn't that the little girl who got diddled by the school janitor?"
"It was the gym teacher," I corrected. "And yes."
"What happened?"
Again, Johnson jumped in before I could and explained it all, with an emphasis on how I'd overlooked the date stamp.
"Sucks to be you, Mitchie," Fletcher said. Then he looked at the windows. "How long do you think the drapes should be?"
I stood up and for a second I thought about rushing him. It had been a long day. I didn't need any more of his crap.
"Wait a minute," Danielle interjected. "I have an idea. Just because they delivered the brief to us doesn't mean they delivered the scheduling order too. If we didn't get that, then we didn't really get notice of the hearing."
That was a great point. "I didn't think of that in court," I admitted. "I was so flustered by the judge I only looked at the brief, not the order. They never showed me a scheduling order with a date stamp."
"I'll go check my in-box," Danielle announced.
"I'll come with you," I decided. I wasn't sure what I could do to help, but I didn't want to stay back with Fletcher and Johnson. I was afraid Fletcher would jab me again, say something else smarmy and stupid, and I'd end up doing something I'd regret.
Fletcher and Johnson just looked at each other but didn't say anything as Danielle and I stepped out of my office. She and I headed toward her work station at the end of the hall until I realized I still hadn't eaten anything that day. Even without sour cream, that burrito would taste good while I watched Danielle scour her area for that scheduling order.
But when I got back to my office I stopped short. Johnson and Fletcher were talking and I heard my name.
"—Mitchell will weasel his way out of this?" Johnson was asking.
"No way," Fletcher replied. "The scheduling order was date stamped the same day. I just didn't think to put that in Danielle's box too. I'll stick it in some papers of hers tonight and you can 'find' it in the morning."
Johnson laughed. "Okay, that'll work. Then I can even accuse her of hiding it to help Mitchell."
Seven Deadly Sins Page 3
