Legally Wasted (29 page)

As he turned left as sharply as possible, the
sounds of stomping feet echoed from the stairwell behind him. 
He quickly gained speed on the smooth tiled floor and neared a
glass door with “Clerk’s Office” painted upon the streak-free
surface.

Grabbing the handle, he tugged, swung the
door as far as possible before wedging his footrest into the
doorway.  The door swung back, pinning his chair between the
door and the doorframe. 

Larkin grunted and with a mighty push, opened
the door to its fullest extent.  Momentarily free and clear,
he entered the clerk’s office and raced to the glass window. 
His footrest banged against the counter just as his hand struck the
tiny silver bell. 

“Yes?” asked a woman’s voice.  She
leaned close to the glass and spotted Larkin grimacing as he
gripped his leg.

“I need to file this,” he growled.  He
slid his papers through the slot in the window.  He kept his
head hung low.  Only the top of his head was visible from the
window.

“I don’t understand,” said the deputy
clerk.  “This is a State of Virginia case.  It says here
on the top.  This Court wouldn’t have jurisdiction.

“Get it to Judge Wexler,” said Larkin. 
The sound of footsteps grew louder.  At any moment the door
would burst open and it would all be over.  “Please just file
it,” Larkin begged.  “Just stamp it.  It needs to be
stamped. And then Judge Wexler.”  The deputy clerk said
nothing for a moment.  Larkin refused to raise his
head. 

“Well there’s the filing fee,” the deputy
clerk finally said.

“Last page,” spat Larkin.  “Affidavit of
Indigence, signed by me. I’m currently broke.  Just stamp it
and give it to Wexler.  Please.”

The deputy clerk clucked her tongue.  “I
just don’t see how’s there’s any jurisdiction. Is this a railroad
case?”

“Judge Wexler will find jurisdiction.” 
The footsteps grew louder.  Men shouted.  “Stamp the
paper!” 

“I think,” said the deputy clerk, “Yes . . .
you’ve got the case number here.  I just need you to sign
this.”

The woman slid a clipboard through the same
slot just as the door swung open.  Larkin finally heard the
sound that he had been waiting for, the automatic timestamp machine
punched the front page of his filing with the day’s date.  It
would get to Wexler.

“Freeze!” shouted the court security
officer.  “Hands in the air!”  The deputy clerk
shrieked.

Larkin snatched the clerk’s clipboard and
scrawled his last name in the signature space.  As a
court security officer approached him and grabbed his hands by his
wrists, he looked to the deputy clerk. 

“I signed it,” he said as handcuffs clamped
around each wrist.  The security officer pushed his chair and
Larkin finally came within full view of the deputy clerk.  Her
cheeks blushed as her hand cupped her mouth.  Larkin
smiled.  “Thank you for stamping that,” he said, “but be a
peach and fill in the other boxes would you?”
Hands patted him down. One of the deputies withdrew an airplane
bottle of rum which had been filled with “apple pie.”

“Please don’t take that,” said Larkin.
“That’s my medicine.”

The court security officer raised the rum
bottle and examined.

“It’s not rum,” said Larkin. “I filled it
with my medicine. Smell it and tell me if that smells like
rum.”

The court security officer did as he was
told.

“What is it, Kevin?” asked one of the
Officers.

“It don’t smell like rum. But it smells
strong. This is your medicine?”

“If you’re going to put me in lockup, I’d be
mighty obliged to take it now,” said Larkin. The Officer looked to
the others for a moment before handing the bottle to the disabled
man.

Larkin downed it. A dying man’s last
libation. He then abruptly stood. “I can walk!” he shouted, his
face feigning surprise. The deputy clerk gasped.

“Get him out of here,” said Officer
Not-Kevin.

The deputy clerk simply stared with her
fingers perched upon her lower lip.  She watched the court
security officers lead the man in the wheelchair out of her
office.  As they left, she reached for the clipboard and
completed the form.

Larkin stared at his reflection in the
polished steel plate mirror bolted to the holding cell wall. The
image was blurry, as if he looked at himself while three or more
sheets to the wind. He smiled and the mirror depicted a wavy blob
of white. Sobriety remained elusive but he was far from three
sheets.

The holding cell door swung open. “Wondering
how momma’s little boy reached such an end?” asked Trevor. He slid
into the holding cell dressed in a suit that probably cost more
than the jail’s budget.

Larkin turned and hugged him. Trevor
laughed.

“You know, you’re getting orange prison
jumpsuit all over my pinstripes,” he said. “You smell like you
washed that in sweat.”

Larkin stepped back. “How in the hell are you
wearing that and I’m wearing this?” He tugged at the scratchy
day-glow orange one-piece.

“I had clothes dropped off for my appearance
in court.” Trevor stooped a bit and straightened his tie in the
steel mirror. Even blurry, the bastard was too handsome for his own
good. “I see you opted for something more traditional.” He turned
and leaned his rear against the sink. “So is this it?” he asked
with eyebrows raised, hands clasped. “Is this the big hearing at
the end where you save yourself and prove that your buddy was
justified in raiding that home and driving the cops on the lake
around in circles for over an hour?”

Larkin sat on the bench. “Over an hour?”

Trevor nodded. “I finished the bottle in
thirty and started getting bored. I had trouble getting the front
lights on so I’m really just happy I didn’t smash into a dock. Tail
lights weren’t a problem. I was quite easy to spot. They said the
whole thing had something to do with me being denied bail. The
Judge said that I had proven I was a flight risk. Didn’t seem fair
to me given that I was speeding around a landlocked body of water.
Judge didn’t buy it. Of course, I didn’t have you then.”

“More like thrill risk,” said Larkin.

“You could have come up with a better
argument.”

“Sorry about that,” said Larkin. “Otherwise
occupied.”

“I asked for you to defend me and the Judge
said since you were a co-defendant, it wasn’t going to fly.”

“So what did you end up telling the Judge
about what happened?”

“I told him the truth,” said Trevor. “As a
matter of fact, I turned myself in. That boat had half a tank still
in it when I popped it in neutral. After the Glen Livet emptied, I
was sure that the whole booking process would be more amusing
sooner rather than later.”

Larkin smiled. “Jesus, I hope this
works.”

“It will,” said Trevor. “I have full faith in
you.”

“You don’t even know what you’re doing here.
This is federal court. You have no idea what the plan is, if
any.”

Trevor cocked his head. “Sure I do. You’re
the plan. And that’s good enough for me. Good leaders delegate.” He
pointed to Larkin and poked him lightly in his blaze orange chest.
“Get me out of jail,” he delegated. “If you had been my lawyer, I
wouldn’t have had to beg my ex-wife to bring me a suit.”

“Did she say anything about Ryan? And why
does your breath smell like fruit cocktail?”

“That’s the hooch Garrison in D Pod made.
Fermented four weeks in a garbage bag in his pillow. Better than
that awful gin you drink. But Ryan? No. Was she supposed to?”

Larkin shook his head. “No.”

“You look nervous.”

“I’m facing a life sentence. You’re facing
twenty years in jail and you look and sound like you’re about to
head to a fundraiser.”

“It’s a public forum,” said Trevor. “If we
survive this, think of the advertising that this would do for my
next campaign. I’ll look bulletproof.” Footsteps in the hallway
caught Trevor’s ear and he turned and squinted through the small
hole in the metal door. “I’d ready yourself, Larkin. Game
time.”

The lock unlatched and the door opened so
quickly that Trevor nearly toppled from the sink. Justice Byrd
stood in the doorway. His tightly pulled expression of disgust
judged both men. Two U.S. Marshals flanked him on either side.
Kincaid had received his letter.

“Mr. Monroe,” he said. “Your subpoena will be
quashed today before this,” he looked at the stained walls of the
holding cell, “whatever
this
is, can even begin.”

“What do you want to say, Monroe?” asked a
familiar voice.

“Kincaid?” asked Larkin.

“I’m behind the wall of federal agents.” One
of the U.S. Marshals stepped aside and allowed Detective Kincaid to
position himself directly behind the Justice.

“I just need a second of your time, your
Honor,” said Larkin.

Justice Byrd shook his head. “This whole
incident is completely inappropriate.” He glared at Kincaid.

“It’s Detective, your Honor,” said Kincaid.
“And if your motion to quash his subpoena is successful today, then
you will never hear what this man has to say to you.” Kincaid
snapped his fingers and pointed at Trevor. “You.”

Trevor smiled. “In the hallway.”

“Don’t mind me,” said Trevor as he approached
the Justice. “Is this Oleg Cassini?” he asked as his finger grazed
the Justice’s lapel. “I love the globe bar, by the way. I owe you
one, mate.”

One of the Marshals escorted Trevor back into
the hallway while Kincaid pushed his way past the Justice and
entered the holding cell. As he looked at Larkin in his orange
jailhouse uniform, the cop bit his lip to stifle a grin.

“I know,” said Larkin. “It’s not my color.
I’m a winter not a fall.”

“Your Honor?” asked the remaining
Marshal.

“Yes?”

“Will you be entering the cell?”

The Justice peered at the crude graffiti
marring the cinderblock walls.

“Yes, he will,” said Kincaid.

The Justice stepped forward as the Marshal
reached for the handle on the holding cell door. Before the Justice
seemed able to stop it, the door had shut behind him locking him in
the dank cell with Larkin and Kincaid.

“Take a seat, your Honor,” said Kincaid as he
motioned to a small square of space on the bench.

“I’d rather stand.”

“Now, your Honor,” started Larkin.

The Justice cleared his throat so loudly that
it echoed off of the thick walls. “You listen here, Monroe. I see
you’re pulling every string in the book to get some sort of local
hometown treatment, but I will fight this. I am fighting this. You
have violated not only the sanctity of my office, but the very
privacy of my home. I hope you spend many years in a room such as
this, focusing on your decisions.”

“This isn’t an appeal, your Honor,” said
Larkin. “I’m innocent until proven guilty, remember?” The Justice
crossed his arms. “Look. We got off to a terrible start. I made
some assumptions about you. As you’ve no doubt made assumptions
about me. I just want to talk to you about
Bedford County v.
Trans-Appalachian Rail
.”

“You have absolutely no jurisdiction,” said
the Justice. “You may be able to get me here on a handwritten
subpoena scrawled on jailhouse letterhead, but you have no
authority to compel a federal judge to touch that case. It’s nearly
been decided.”

“Exactly,” said Larkin. “That’s what I want
to talk to you about. You were assigned that case, right?”

The Justice said nothing. He kept his arms
tightly bound around his chest.

Larkin looked to Kincaid. “He was assigned
the case.”

“I was not assigned the case,” said the
Justice. “It doesn’t work that way.”

Larkin rolled his eyes. “Jesus. Lawyers. He
is responsible for drafting the Court’s opinion. And, I might add,
is the deciding swing vote on the issue.”

“Okay,” said Kincaid.

“Okay?” asked the Justice. “What does that
prove? What is the point?”

Larkin clapped his hands in frustration. Just
like the Justice’s cough, the sound bounced off the walls and
commanded attention. “You haven’t made up your mind though, have
you Justice Byrd?”

The Justice raised his eyebrows.

“You see?” Larkin said to Kincaid.

“See what?” asked the Justice.

“I’m about to prove that you didn’t murder
Alex Jordan,” said Larkin.

“You’re the one charged with murder,” said
the Justice.

“Oh,” said Larkin. “Getting me off the hook
is easy. Now why don’t you take a seat, your Honor, and we can have
a nice discussion about railroads in Bedford County.”

The federal district courtroom was big. It
could have easily gobbled up two of the state circuit courtrooms
and left plenty of room for a juvenile and domestic relations court
in the back corner. Everything was broad, and dark, and wooden.
From the huge tables that lined each party’s particular side of the
courtroom, to the thick and high-gloss polished witness stand,
everything seemed very permanent and somehow brand new. The Judge’s
unoccupied bench must have been wrought of three tons of timber. It
was a courtroom made for television, the kind of place that a juror
would walk into and nod slightly as if she finally understood and
appreciated where her tax dollars had gone. And like a courtroom on
television, multiple video cameras kept on rolling.

The crowd hushed. Larkin felt as if he had
just walked into a room immediately after everyone had been joking
about him. He nodded to himself. They probably had.

Tiny security cameras buried in off-white
crown molding high above honed in on Larkin as he was led by a
marshal toward one of the tables. News cameras dotting the front
lines of the packed gallery swiveled as he made his way toward his
seat. He scanned the audience for Madeline or Ryan but he could not
find them among the throng of people who had packed the courthouse
that morning. He searched the crowd so intently, he completely
overlooked the prosecution’s table.