Legally Wasted (11 page)

Holding his breath, he gripped the edge of
the sheet with his right hand. He counted to three and lifted. His
eyes wandered down Jordan’s flat stomach. A small pink penis, like
that of a child, lay against her left thigh.

The morgue door opened and light flooded the
room.

Larkin screamed, staggered backward, slipped,
and fell. His head hit something very hard. Intense pain
freight-trained through his nerves as he gritted his teeth. Men
shouted at him, but he could not discern the words. The pain was
awful. He opened his eyes and saw flickering spots and slashes in
his vision. The sheet that had once covered Alex Jordan floated
downward through the frigid air. As a tip of the fabric touched his
forehead and the rest blocked his vision, Larkin closed his
eyes.

More rough, thick fabric rubbed against the
nape of his neck. He opened his eyes and light struck his retinas
like spear tips.

“Jesus,” he growled. He tried to block the
light with his right hand, but a locked handcuff prevented him. The
cuff clanged against the metal railing that encircled his
stretcher. Larkin bit his lip as the sound echoed in his aching
skull.

“He’s awake!” hollered Terry from across the
room.

“Just kill me now,” said Larkin. “Please,
Lord, strike me down.”

Heavy footsteps smacked against tiles. Larkin
shifted on the cheap pillow. The back of his head stung like
hell.

“Good evening, Detective,” shouted Terry. “I
haven’t stepped a single foot on Hank’s land since last time. Have
your investigators found any leads, as it were, to what he done
with my dog?”

Through a crack in his eyelid, Larkin watched
Detective Kincaid grip the undrawn curtain near Terry’s bed and,
with a quick flick of his wrist, the curtain buzzed down the runner
and blocked Terry from view. “Aw, man,” said Terry, concealed from
view.

Kincaid approached Larkin’s stretcher. He
fidgeted with the remote control wired to his bed. Larkin’s bed
whirred as the back rest tilted upward to a more vertical
position.

“Mr. Monroe.”

Larkin squinted. Kincaid wore a full salt,
pepper, and a pinch of Cajun seasoning beard that was in great need
of a trim. Wild bristles poked out from his tan face like uncoiling
springs. Stubble marked his cheeks and neck where he had neglected
to shave for about three days.

“Detective,” said Larkin. “You look like you
could use a good cup of coffee.”

“I’ve had three. You’ve had quite a night,
here, Mr. Monroe.”

Larkin raised his cuffed hand. “I seem to
have been arrested.”

“Mmmm,” said Kincaid as if he had just
swallowed foul medicine. His fingers were noticeably worn and
callused. “You’re in custody right now. You’re not arrested.”

“You don’t need a lawyer to tell you that
there isn’t much of a difference.”

“You’re not in my custody. You’re in the
custody of the hospital.”

“I’m in hospital jail?” He smiled but it
hurt.

“You’re temporarily detained. Someone seemed
to think you may have suffered a concussion. The handcuff is
because of your trespass and a few other violations.” Kincaid
cracked his knuckles.

“So what do you plan on doing?” asked Larkin,
although he had already imagined his law license engulfed in flames
along with everything else in his dusty office. Strangely, he did
not feel nearly as remorseful as he would have predicted.

“Well,” said Kincaid, “I was thinking about
obstruction of justice. That’s a class five felony.”

Terry “ooohhhhed” from across the room and
behind his curtain.

“Shut it,” snapped Kincaid.

“It’s only class five if I threatened you by
force,” said Larkin. “Take it back to misdemeanor town, pal. But
you’ll never even get that to stick. I don’t suppose you can get me
a private room?”

“And desecration of a body.”

“A body,” repeated Larkin. “Would it be more
accurate to say,
his
body?” He stared at Kincaid, but the
cop did not even blink.

“When did you meet, Ms. Jordan?”

“You mean, mister - -”

“Knock the crap off, Monroe.” Kincaid drew in
close. “The attitude, I mean.” True to his word, he did indeed have
coffee breath. Bloodshot eyes, perhaps even worse than Larkin’s,
glared. “I’ve had to deal with two heaping handfuls of bullshit
tonight. You give me anymore and I’ll make it two fists worth.
Don’t dick me around. Not only are you going to lose your ticket
from what you’ve been doing tonight, but I can make sure that the
next several months are spent in close proximity to a lot of your
former clients. I have half a notion to believe that some of those
fellas were less than thrilled with your legal work.”

“Da’yum,” drawled Terry.

“For Pete’s sake,” said Kincaid as he swatted
Terry’s curtain aside. Despite his two fists being filled with
bullshit, Kincaid gripped the railing of Terry’s bed and escorted
him to the door.

“You’ve always done right by me, Mr. Monroe,”
said Terry as he coasted by. He fell backward in his bed as the
other end punched the double doors open and Kincaid sent him
sailing into the hallway.

“Watch out for nurses,” said Larkin as
Kincaid returned to Larkin’s bedside. He gripped the aluminum
railing of Larkin’s bed as if the cop planned on violently moving
two beds that evening.

“When did you meet the victim?”

“I never met her,” said Larkin. He dropped
all of his gin-infused, brain injury pseudo pretense. “That’s the
God’s honest truth.”

“You never met her,” repeated Kincaid
flatly.

“Never. I mean, come on, Kincaid. You know
who she works for. I haven’t had a case go up the chain to the
Supreme Court of Virginia in over five years and I’m certainly not
her boss’s golfing buddy.”

Kincaid took a step back and rubbed his
beard. His eyebrows lifted as if he suddenly seemed to realize that
he did indeed need a trim. “Then why did she have your business
card?” he asked.

“Business card? My business card?”

“Cyber Card Print dot com,” said Kincaid.
“One thousand cards for free,” he said as he recited the small
print marking the back right bottom corner of each of Larkin’s
business cards. “You just pay the shipping.”

“Why did she have my business card?”

“I already asked you that.”

“Well,” said Larkin, “clearly, I don’t know!”
He tried to raise his hands in exasperation, but only one arm would
raise more than a few inches. “You read it yourself,” he said. “I
ordered a thousand cards. That’s a lot of damn cards. I’ve been
doing that deal online for years. I don’t know how in the hell she
received one or why. I never met her . . . him.”

“Where were you two nights ago?”

“Drinking. Alone in my house. You can ask my
cat.”

Kincaid crossed his arms. He wore one of
those neat blazers with suede patches on the elbows. “If you don’t
know her, why did I just watch you knock yourself out looking over
her body in the morgue?”

“Look, Kincaid, I’m going to level with
you.”

“Now would be about the time.”

“I came here tonight because Terry, the guy
out in the hall - -”

“I know him,” said Kincaid, “or at least his
family.”

“I figured you would. Well, I’ve represented
him before. You see I have this deal worked out with this paramedic
named Ron. I’m sure you can track him down if you want. He kind of
gives me a heads up when good cases come rolling through the door
here.”

“Terry Woolwine is a good case?”

Larkin had to laugh a bit to himself. At
least others shared his opinion. “I didn’t say that. He’s a
terrible case. But that’s why I was here. You can report me to the
state bar if you want. I’m guilty of soliciting cases from people
in the damn hospital. Report me, I’ll be in good company.”

Kincaid smiled. He had a warm smile, a big
welcoming Christmas morning smile. “Soliciting,” he said. “You mean
ambulance chasing.”

Larkin ignored him. “Whatever you call it, I
was here to dig up work. That’s when I accidently bumped into a
nurse outside in the hallway, a little thing filled with piss and
vinegar. She alerted security because it wasn’t visiting hours or
what have you. I thought about my law license and I panicked.”

Kincaid continued to smile, but despite its
warmth, Larkin knew that he was now just a punch line. “So in a
panic you bolt through the building and instead of heading outside,
you run down into the basement to let things cool off. When all of
a sudden, you realize that the best possible hiding place is in a
large cooler filled with dead bodies.”

Larkin cocked his head. “In so many
words.”

“And you’ve never even heard Alex Jordan’s
name before.”

“Saw her on the news tonight,” said
Larkin.

Kincaid rolled his eyes. He walked toward the
doors.

“Hey,” called Larkin, “when do I get to post
bail here?”

“Hold your horses, Monroe,” said Kincaid as
he rushed out of the room. “I’m checking on a few things,” he said
before the doors shut.

Twenty minutes later, after Kincaid located,
interviewed, and educated the fiery nurse on the procedures for
filing a warrant with the magistrate for assault and battery, two
cops came into Larkin’s room and uncuffed him. Thirty minutes after
that, he was driven to the police department, inked, photographed,
and cited for drunk in public, a petty violation, but one the state
bar would not look kindly upon. Kincaid most likely had believed
Larkin’s story, nutty as it was. Still, the cop thought that a
weekend in lockup might be the best for all concerned parties.

The cops snickered at him as he was handed a
phone to place a call. Larkin recognized all of them from traffic
court and they likewise remembered him. “Just wait until I
cross-examine some of you wise-acres,” he imagined himself saying
in a tough-guy tone to the assorted men in uniform. But he kept his
mouth shut until a phone was handed to him. He dialed the only man
with enough clout to help him, that is, if he wasn’t passed out in
the back of his Mercedes with the hot local news anchor’s panties
in his pocket.

Fortunately, the night seemed to be just
beginning for Trevor Meeks. After five minutes on the phone, much
of it filled with Trevor laughing like a hyena, Larkin did as he
was told and handed the phone to the nearest deputy.

About fifteen minutes and a few more jokes at
Larkin’s expense passed before a surly deputy escorted him out of
the police station. The crickets were chirping at full capacity as
he flung open the door of the taxi awaiting his arrival. Larkin
flopped into the backseat. Trevor had worked his magic.

His head still stung like hell. He wondered
whether he could sleep on it. His watch told him that it was
already approaching two in the morning. He vaguely remembered
something someone had told him about not sleeping after suffering a
concussion and he was half-mad that the hospital staff had not
seemed to have cared one way or the other.

He groaned as he stretched his legs as far as
he could manage. Part of him wanted to simply ask the cabbie to
drop him off at home. “Hells bells,” he mumbled as he felt his car
keys in his coat pocket, “might as well be done with it. Excuse
me,” he said, “driver? Can you take me to the hospital please?”

The wooly old man behind the wheel winked at
Larkin in the rearview mirror. He smiled and his reflection
depicted a smattering of teeth and gaps. “I got instructions,
sir.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m to take you down to the country club to
see Mr. Meeks.”

“Bullshit,” said Larkin. “Mr. Meeks can go
kiss my foot. It’s almost two in the morning. I need my car.”

The driver turned on Melrose Avenue and
played with the radio a bit, ignoring Larkin. Agitated, Larkin
leaned forward but the driver raised his hand. “He said you’d be
feisty.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Larkin as he reached for
his wallet. “I’ll pay you.”

“Mr. Meeks already paid me. And he said that
whatever you would offer me, he would double.”

“You’re going to trust that tom cat? I offer
you two million dollars.”

“This wouldn’t be the first time that we’ve
done some business.”

“Wonderful,” said Larkin. The lights of a
nearby donut shop forced him to cover his eyes. “You ever kill
somebody for Mr. Meeks?”

“It’s a nice night,” said the driver.

“It’s false imprisonment.” Larkin sunk back
into the frayed tan fabric of his seat. “You know, I’m a lawyer. I
could sue. You could lose this job.”

“Mr. Meeks said you’d say some of that, the
suing business that is.”

“Yeah?” asked Larkin. “And what did he tell
you to do when I said it?”

“In his words?”

“In anyone’s words.”

“He said, I don’t care what the little
shyster tells you. He ain’t gonna sue nobody. He said your law
license was pulled on account of your public drunkenness.”

“Drunkenness? What the hell, Meeks? Look,”
said Larkin as he gripped the fabric of the front passenger seat.
“I have my law license and I’m not afraid to use it.” He smiled a
bit, impressed with the toughness of his words.

“That was the police department we was just
at, right?” asked the driver.

“Of course it was, but—”

“And what pray tell were you arrested
for?”

“Jesus!” Larkin wailed. He smacked the back
of the passenger seat. A cloud of dust rose and sank.

“I ain’t trying to offend you,” said the
driver.

Larkin looked out the window. “Well we’re
almost there anyway. He shook his head. “What a night.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You did some pretty good cross examination
there,” said Larkin as he rubbed his eyes.

The taxi pulled up to the Big Lick Country
Club. A few decades earlier, the area surrounding the club was only
notable for a few rolling hills and several sleepy neighborhoods.
Now, the club was an island of Southern Aristocracy surrounded by a
neighborhood beset with high crime. Larkin had himself represented
at least three individuals who had picked up criminal charges for
drug deals or violent altercations that had occurred at the
convenience store located not two hundred yards from the club’s
nearest security camera. He always got a kick imagining the
well-heeled of Big Lick rolling their windows up and driving their
luxury SUVs above the speed limit in order to feel secure. Like the
train tracks that crisscrossed town, the club had rusted some in
recent years.