Capital Punishment (4 page)

His eyes finally lit up with something close to interest. "Oh yeah? Good seats?"

"Uh, yeah," I stammered. "Right behind third base."

"Those must have been expensive."

I could feel the acid dump into my stomach at the thought of Derek taking my kids to the amusement park with my money. "Yes, they were."

"Well those are gone too," he shrugged.

"Wha—?" Now that made no sense to me. "Can't you just—?"

But my question was interrupted by my phone ringing. I was so flustered I actually answered.

"Hello?"

"Mike, it's Janie." Her ears must have been burning. "Don't hang up on me again. We really need to figure this out."

"This is a really bad time," I started. "I'm standing here with a cop and—"

"A cop?" Janie barked. "You called the cops on me?"

"On you?" I was confused. "No, of course—"

"Jesus, Mike, it's one weekend. It's not like you always drop them off on time. But I don't go calling the cops."

"No, it's, my car, the tickets," I tried, but I couldn't string a sentence together.

"Derek said you'd be an asshole about this," Janie went on, "but I stood up for you. I told him—"

"Derek said?!" I forgot all about the cop and my car and even the Goddamn tickets. "Derek said?! That mother fucker has the gall to take my fucking kids to the fucking amusement park on my fucking weekend and then put you up to ask me to fucking pay for it?! And then he's got the balls to say I'm gonna be an asshole about it?!"

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 to 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.