Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 02 - City of Beads (8 page)

Tubby met Adrian, better known as Monster Mudbug, in the cathedral-ceilinged hallway of the Criminal District Court, Section T, at Tulane and Broad. Adrian was very happy to see him, and he jumped up with his hands waving. He was nervous. He had been worried that his lawyer wouldn’t arrive, even though Tubby had faithfully appeared the last half dozen times Adrian had been in a jam.

“Mr. Tubby, it’s real good to see you, yes sir.” He grabbed Tubby’s hand and shook it.

“All right, Adrian, how’re you making it today?”

“Not so good. I don’t want to be here, that’s for sure.”

“This shouldn’t take too long. Have you got some paperwork with you?”

“Yeah. Here’s what I got. I’m sorry it’s kind of crumpled.”

From the back pocket of his jeans he produced a blue Notice to Appear and a wrinkled receipt from a bail bondsman.

“You gave the bondsman twenty-five hundred dollars for a twenty-five-thousand-dollar bond?” the lawyer asked, translating the faded carbon copy.

“Right. My dad came down with the money to get me out of Central Lockup. I’m going to pay him back.”

“Okay, you’re charged with theft of a movable. Car theft?” Tubby knew nothing about the case. He had just gotten a message from Adrian’s father telling him his son was messed up again and what court he was in.

“A motorcycle. Ain’t that a trip?”

“What happened?”

“I don’t even know.” Adrian shook his head like he was trying to clear the sawdust out of it.

“Well, bear down a little on this one, Adrian. Real quick now. They’re going to call the docket in just a minute. Tell me what you do know.”

“Okay. I’m down at Bennie’s Bar, listening to music. We’re all drinking. I’m out of it. I mean totally out of it. And these guys tell me their motorcycle won’t start, or something. So I help them put it in the back of my truck, and then whoop, whoop.”

“Whoop, whoop?”

“The cops show up and we all get arrested.”

“It wasn’t these guys’ motorcycle?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Who are these guys?”

“I don’t even know their names.”

“They got arrested with you?”

“Yeah, I think they’re still in jail.”

“Where did you think you were taking the motorcycle?”

“I don’t know. To the guys’ house or something. They couldn’t get it started was the story. I’d had quite a few beers.”

“How’d you get it in the truck?”

Adrian made a motion to show he had lifted it. He was a towtruck driver, and he was seriously muscular, like he worked out with weights.

Tubby massaged his forehead and looked at Adrian through his fingers.

“You’re in a real tough spot, Adrian. I can’t sugarcoat that. This isn’t like a traffic ticket or something. It’s a major charge. Let’s see if we can get you out of it.” He guided his client through the tall doors into the courtroom. The benches were filling up, and there was considerable activity among the clerks surrounding the judge’s bench. Several prisoners from the jail wearing orange jumpsuits were led in, shackled, and put in the jury box. The judge might not take the bench for an hour, during which time a great many matters would have already been disposed of. Tubby hoped Adrian’s would be one of them.

“Have you ever been arrested before, Adrian?” Tubby asked as they pushed into the throng.

“You know me, Mr. Tubby.”

“No, I don’t mean for traffic offenses.” Tubby knew all about those. Adrian had been stopped numerous times for piloting his Monster Mudbug float, known as the Rolling Boiler, down public thoroughfares without benefit of a parade.

“Sort of,” Adrian admitted, worried.

“What for?”

“There’s the DWI, and my ex-wife had the cops talk to me once for coming around to see my kid.”

“But nothing like stealing something? Nothing like with a gun?”

“No way, Mr. Tubby.”

“Okay, you sit here.”

He planted Adrian on a crowded pew in the back and made his way forward through the swinging gates that separated those who were part of the system from those who were not.

He stopped to chat a minute with the clerk, located Adrian’s file in the pile on the table, and with a sober look carried it through a door behind the judge’s bench. There were already two other lawyers waiting to see the assistant district attorney, outside a tiny room used for that purpose. Tubby didn’t really know the other attorneys, but he recognized their faces.

“How’s it going?” he said to one and all.

“Same ol’, same ol’,” the man in front of him grunted in response. A couple of the others nodded.

“Mr. Dubonnet,” the lucky guy at the head of the line said. “I know you don’t remember me, but I was in your class on trial techniques three years ago at Loyola. Johnny Rolland.”

“Sure, Johnny. I remember,” Tubby said, shaking his hand. “You doing everything we taught you?”

“Trying to, and here we go.”

The door to the inner sanctum opened. A lawyer clutching a briefcase came quickly out, and she gave a secret smile to the line as she passed. Johnny Rolland slipped inside and said, “Good morning, Mr. Pettibone,” loudly as he closed the door.

“The DA’s name is Pettibone?” Tubby asked the man in front of him.

“Yeah. He’s easy to deal with. Just doesn’t like drug dealers though.”

Tubby leaned against the wall and relaxed. His client wasn’t a drug dealer. The picture of Potter Aucoin’s body came back to him. He tried to shake it off, but it wouldn’t leave. Why would anybody kill Potter?

Rolland came out.

“Piece of cake,” he whispered to Tubby as he squeezed past. The next man went in, and Tubby was on deck.

He looked at Adrian’s trial notice again. What a stupid way to get busted. The door opened. The lawyer emerging said, “Thanks a lot, Joe,” and held the door for Tubby.

“Good morning,” Tubby said.

The assistant DA was an extremely underweight black man with neatly clipped hair. It was obvious that he was tall, since his knees could barely squeeze under the small metal desk he was sitting behind. There was a chair next to him, but no other furnishings. It was worse than an interrogation room at the police station.

“What can I do for you?” Pettibone asked, without much interest.

“I’m Tubby Dubonnet, Mr. Pettibone, and I’m here to see you about Adrian, or Monster Mudbug.” He handed the file to the district attorney, expecting to get a smile.

The man did not oblige. He took the folder, but did not open it.

“I’m familiar with the case,” he said.

“Then you know that my guy was just an innocent bystander. He’s actually kind of a babe-in-the-woods. I’m sure you’ve seen him in costume at Mardi Gras, Monster Mudbug?”

Pettibone made no comment.

“Anyway he thought he was just helping some fellows whose motorcycle broke down. He had no idea they were stealing it.”

“Tough luck for him,” Pettibone said.

“Well,” said Tubby, “it was just a mistake. He wasn’t trying to steal anything.”

“That’s his story.”

“Yes, and it makes sense. He doesn’t have any record. He’s employed full-time as a towtruck driver. He’s a well-known public figure. He’s got no need to steal a motorcycle.”

“He was caught in the act. Who knows why people do things?”

“This guy is innocent, Mr. Pettibone. Can we do anything here today?”

“If he’ll plead guilty to first-degree theft, seeing it’s his first offense, the judge might put him on probation for three years.”

“That’s no deal at all. He’s not guilty, except of being stupid.”

“Let’s go to trial.”

“How about agreeing to a bail reduction. He’s working steady. How about we release him on his own recognizance.”

“I’m not agreeing to any such thing. You can always take it up with the judge. He might do it. I don’t know.”

“How about reducing it to five thousand?”

“No, Mr. Dubonnet. I’m not going to agree to cut your client any slack.” Pettibone slapped his hand on the table. “I’ve talked to the arresting officer. He wants to make the case. I’m agreeable. So let’s go to trial.”

Tubby couldn’t think of anything else to say. The old charm was about tapped out. He had been completely shut out before, but it had been a long time ago.

“Okay. See you down the road.” He got up and left.

“Piece of cake,” he muttered to the next lawyer waiting in line. On the way out he said a few more words to the docket clerk and got the case continued for two weeks. Tubby was suddenly very tired of being a lawyer. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted to keep doing this.

Adrian was fidgeting in his seat at the back of the courtroom. Tubby walked right past him, so Adrian jumped up and followed him out into the hall. He could tell by the look on Tubby’s face that things were less than perfect.

Tubby stopped outside and leaned against the marble wall. He thought about how this would be a good time to light a cigarette if he still smoked.

“So what happened?” Adrian asked.

“Is there something you haven’t told me about this thing?” Tubby demanded.

“No, I don’t even remember getting arrested.”

“This guy back there has a super hard-on for you. The best he’ll do is let you plead guilty and get three years’ probation.”

“Plead guilty? I’d never get to see my kid again. That’s a terrible idea.”

“I know but right now you’re in big trouble. They’ve set it for trial early next month. I can try to talk to the other guys who got busted with you to see if they will tell what really happened.”

“Gosh. No telling what they’ll say. I don’t even know their names.”

“I can find that out. Now listen, I need a retainer for this of two thousand dollars.”

“Gosh, Mr. Tubby, I don’t have that much right now. My rent is due and everything.”

“Adrian, I’m not going to lead you astray. During those times in your life when you’ve got serious legal troubles, I suggest you pay your lawyer before you pay your rent. You could try out another lawyer, and it wouldn’t hurt my feelings one bit. But you gotta expect to lay out some money when you get yourself in a fix like this. I’m giving you some good advice here.”

Adrian hung his head down and thought it over. “I guess I’ve got only myself to blame,” he said. “I’ll talk to my dad about borrowing some more money.”

“Whatever. But get in touch with me soon while we can still locate your partners in crime.”

They left together. Tubby offered Adrian a lift downtown, but he said he would be better off walking to Canal Street and catching a Cemeteries bus back to his house. Tubby’s Corvair was in the other direction. It was unsafe at any speed and matched his mood exactly. He marched down the sidewalk feeling frustrated, angry, and tired.

The praline lady was sitting where he had last seen her, on a folding lawn chair, on the sidewalk, across the street from the Community Correctional Center. She had on a straw bonnet, held down with a red-checkered scarf, and a light pink raincoat buttoned up despite the warmth of the day. She was as out of place, displayed against the white concrete walls of the prison, as a potted geranium would be on the beach.

On her lap there was a cardboard box top on which were arranged nice round pecan pralines. Tubby spied her from the car and he detoured to see how she was doing.

“They look good today,” he said. She jumped a little.

“Dear me,” she peeped. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“I’m mighty sorry to wake you up,” Tubby said, “but I was hungry.”

“You just pick out whichever one you like.” She lifted the box top so he could see better. Each of the saucer-shaped confections was wrapped in its own little bag, tied with a red twist.

“This one looks good,” Tubby said, selecting the biggest one he could find. He handed over a dollar bill. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“I remember you,” she said with a small sly smile. “You the one asked about my godson, Jerome.”

“Yes. Jerome Rasheed Cook. Has he ever come out of there?” Tubby indicated the doorway to the prison complex.

“No, he ain’t,” she said accusingly. And I been watching for him every day.”

“You know, I asked the guard to give him my card the last time I was down here, but I never did hear from your godson.”

“They probably never give it to him. He would have got in touch with you if they had let him. There’s something they don’t want you to know going on in there.”

“Maybe.” Tubby unwrapped his candy and took a sweet bite. “It is strange. You know, they had him on the computer, but they couldn’t tell me what he was charged with when I was here last time. I don’t know what it means.”

“Police arrested him for selling that crack. Say he was a witness. They wanted him to say who he got it from.”

“He wouldn’t tell?”

“He told me,” she said, a crafty look upon her weathered brown face.

“What did he say?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t repeat that.”

“That’s probably smart. He should do the telling. But the question is, where is he? Haven’t you gotten a letter from him in all this time?”

“No, not one single card,” she said emphatically, patting her hand on her knee.

“Well, look. Something’s not right here. If you want me to look into this I will.” It might make him feel better about screwing up Adrian’s case.

“I’d be mighty happy if you would.”

“Well, you’ve got to hire me. I’ll take another praline as a retainer.”

She squinted up at him, trying to decide if he was worth that much. “That’s all you want?” she asked.

“For now,” Tubby said. “If it gets involved, we’ll have to talk some more.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, “but I’ll pay you one praline for today.”

“That one there,” Tubby said.

She handed it over.

He walked across the street to the prison and, as he had done before, presented himself to the black-uniformed man behind the big counter.

“I’m looking for Jerome Rasheed Cook,” he said. “I’m his lawyer.”

And, as before, the guard fiddled with his keyboard and brought the prisoner’s name up on the screen.

“I’m sorry” he said, “something’s wrong with the record. I don’t think he’s here.”

“Where is he?”

The deputy looked troubled.