Legally Wasted (6 page)

“Good god,” muttered Larkin, “it is daytime
television. It really is.” He cleared his throat. He looked over
his files again, but that did not distract him. He was very
thirsty. More sweat collected at his brow. He knew that he looked
terrible.

“So, uh, Ms. McAdams,” he started, “what do
you want to do? Do you want to have a trial on every single one of
these guys? That will surely take up most of the docket this
morning. Your cases will get backed up.”

Wendy stared at him and squinted. Her legs
continued to rock back and forth. “Every single one of these guys
here?” she repeated. “You’ve only got six guys here, Larkin.”

“You’re damn right that I’ve got six,”
grumbled Larkin. His fingers gripped the meaty portions of his
thighs as he closed his eyes. He tried to think of anything else
other than Wendy’s swinging legs or his want for water. He hated
Wendy for her tough attitude, envied her competence, and wanted so
badly to see what she looked like with nothing on but those
boots.

“Yeah,” said Wendy, “I’m fairly certain that
I have far more cases than you do today, Mr. Monroe.” She smacked
the heel of her hand against the intimidating pile of file folders
stacked neatly to her right. “I’ll pursue each one of them as I see
fit. However, right now, I will offer you thirty days in jail for
each guilty plea.”

“Bullshit,” said Larkin. “Some of these guys
just got jobs,” he said. He could not remember exactly who that
might have been, but he was fairly sure that
someone
must
have landed a job. “Child support payments will surely proceed
again in some of these cases with wage deduction orders. If you
throw them in jail, poof!” said Larkin with a clap of his hands,
“that money will be gone.”

“Your clients should have realized where this
was heading when they stopped paying their support,” said Wendy.
“Of course, some never started paying.” She drummed her fingernails
on the cheap wooden desk. “You realize, Mr. Monroe, that it would
be unethical not to present this settlement offer to your clients,
all six of them?”

“What’s that?” asked Larkin.

“The state bar provides that it is your
ethical obligation to present my offer of settlement to each of
your clients. You do not have the authority to deny them the
opportunity to settle for so low. This is a serious ethical
consideration for you.”

“Settle for so low?” Larkin’s growing anger
momentarily overshadowed his need for water. “You are not a
prosecutor here, Ms. McAdams. These are civil matters to be heard
by the judge. Do you even have the authority to offer such a
deal?”

Wendy did not skip a beat. “Whether I possess
that authority or not, if I were you, I would not want to waive any
duty that may be perceived as required conduct for an otherwise
ethical attorney. You of all people should be aware of what may be
construed as unethical.”

“Why, you . . . you . . .” Larkin stammered.
The vein that traversed the center of his forehead bulged as he
glared at Wendy with balled fists. He wanted to shout, to bellow a
litany of obscenities. But despite his rage, he knew that if he did
go on the offensive, he would be playing right into Wendy’s trap.
He would appear as an unhinged maniac, someone who probably should
not be carrying a law license, and that was just what Wendy had
implied. He cursed quietly under his breath. A drop of sweat fell
off of his nose and landed in his briefcase. “All six defendants,”
he muttered.

Wendy laughed. “I just don’t know what the
deal is,” she stated to the clerk. She reopened Deveraux’s file and
held up one of his notes. In bold strokes of permanent ink at the
top of the page, Deveraux had written a giant number six, circled
it, underlined the digit, and placed two exclamation points next to
it. Wendy rotated the paper as if showing it to a group of third
graders kneeling on the carpet. “Six,” she said. “I just don’t get
it.” The clerk shook her head and shrugged her shoulder.

Larkin pointed at the clock hung above the
main entrance. “We’re going to begin any second. It can’t possibly
be my ethical duty to advise clients not to take a terrible offer
that’s extended after the time the hearing was already supposed to
begin.”

“Judge Loundsbury had a lunch appointment and
I don’t think he’s returned yet,” said the clerk.

Larkin’s head hung low. He already knew what
lay ahead. He was being tag-teamed. The courtroom felt hot and
nearly as humid as the outside air despite the conditioning.

“I have an idea,” said Wendy as if the
thought had suddenly struck her rather than actually occurring to
her yesterday after her fifth unanswered phone call to Larkin’s
office. “Why don’t we just start with a few of the unrepresented
defendants first while Mr. Monroe circulates my offer in the
lobby?”

“That sounds fair to me,” said the clerk, who
had apparently appointed herself interim judge.

The room suddenly shifted as if part of the
underlying foundation had crumbled. Larkin squinted and grabbed the
back of the chair next to him. He quickly realized that he had
begun swaying from side to side and the room was as still as it had
always been. “But, we . . .” Larkin began. His words came
purposefully and with difficulty, “the court does not hear
unrepresented cases until after all of the attorney’s have been
heard.”

“That’s what we normally do to make it easier
on y’all,” said the clerk. “But I bet that Judge Loundsbury
wouldn’t mind if we switched it up to allow you to speak with your
clients.”

“You have absolutely no authority here,”
Larkin whispered to himself.

“There you have it, Mr. Monroe,” said Wendy.
She snapped and the deputy turned. “Why don’t you go ahead and call
the first
pro
se
case while Mr. Monroe works his
magic?” The deputy nodded and stared back at Larkin’s table.

“I’m moving, I’m moving,” said Larkin as he
shuffled around the table and headed toward the door. He avoided
looking in Wendy’s direction, though he could feel her thin smile
burn into the back of his head as he pushed his weight against the
heavy door.

As the door swung open, every face in the
lobby turned to view Larkin. Since juvenile and domestic cases were
not open to the public, anytime an individual opened the courtroom
door, dozens of people held their breath and bit their lower lips
as they wondered if their turn had come. Larkin sighed, opened his
briefcase, and began calling names. One by one he was able to find
all six of his court-appointed clients. Their reactions to the
prison settlement offer spanned quite an emotional range.

“That’s a bunch of bullshit,” spat Mr. Taylor
as he glared at the equally pissed mother of his child from across
the lobby. “That bitch done got married well off and don’t need a
dime. She’s with one of them contractors in Iraq. She sees him six
months a year and he makes over six figures for guarding a
goddamned dumpster. They can shove that deal up their ass.”

“Jail? What kind of lawyer are you, man?”
asked Mr. Nutley. “I know I ain’t paying you or nothing but I know
if I walked in there without you, I bet I could get a better deal
than that. What kind of law school did you go to?”

“They want to put me in jail?” asked Mr.
Thacker as he began to smile. “Well, don’t that just beat all? I
done way worse in my life than not pay some dinky child support and
I never had more than a weekend in the jail. And now they want me
for a month.” He shook his head and whistled. “Yes, sir. We live in
a funny world, ain’t no doubt of that.”

The worst, of course, was Mr. Powers. When he
made simple eye contact with Larkin, the larger man had to turn
around and cover his eyes. “I’ve been watching you talk to people,”
he said as Larkin approached. “It can’t be good. I’ve seen how
they’ve been reacting. That one guy in the red hat looked like he
was going to deck you. I’m going to jail aren’t I?”

“Yeah, well the deputy will deck him if he
wears that hat inside the court room, and I’m not warning him.”
Larkin cleared his throat, wiped more sweat from his forehead, and
tried to swallow some spit but he had none. His tongue felt as dry
as if he had gargled sand.

“So what is it?” asked Mr. Powers.

Larkin shrugged his shoulders.

“I knew it! I knew they would lock me away.”
Tears welled in his eyes. A man seated nearby turned to avoid
playing any part of Mr. Powers’ drama.

“They’re not going to lock you away,” said
Larkin, although his voice sounded closer to a croak. “They just
presented everyone here with the same deal and it’s my ethical duty
to - -.”

“What is it?” interrupted Mr. Powers. “It’s
jail time isn’t? How much? I might be able to do a weekend here or
there and not get fired.”

“Thirty days,” said Larkin. He immediately
held up his hands to prevent Mr. Powers from reacting too
dramatically, but the dam broke. Mr. Powers flung his immense body
back to the wall as if he had been sucker punched. The sound of his
large back smacking the wall forced a nearby deputy to clutch his
CB radio. Larkin gently waved to the deputy and the deputy relaxed.
He released his grip on his radio and smirked at the large man
reduced to such pathetic behavior. Mr. Powers sobbed into his
hands. From time to time he looked up at Larkin with tears in his
eyes, but the sight of his court-appointed attorney only made the
sobs more audible.

“God, I hate her,” said Larkin as he
approached Mr. Powers. “It’s just a bullshit plea deal, Mr.
Powers,” he said in as soothing a voice as he could muster. “She’s
just doing it to jerk our chains. You don’t have to take it. We’re
not going to take it.”

“I thought you said that you had these things
worked out with the other lawyer.”

“They fired the other lawyer,” said Larkin.
For whatever reason, this news sent Mr. Powers reeling through
another wave of unstoppable sobbing.

“I knew it,” Mr. Powers kept repeating. “I
knew they would get me.”

“No one’s got you yet, Mr. Powers. You’re
just going to have to buck up here. I’m going to tell them that
we’re not taking this deal and we’ll deal with it.”

“Deal with it?” Mr. Powers peaked out from
between his large sausage fingers. “But we could get more time if
we just walk in there with no deal, right?”

“Probably not.”

Mr. Powers shook his head and sniffed.
“Probably not,” he repeated.

“Look,” said Larkin, “I’m going to head back
in there and I want you to listen carefully out here in case -
-”

“Can’t you beg the judge or something?” Mr.
Powers interrupted again. “I mean if you had something worked out
with the other attorney, I mean, shouldn’t that still stand? I’m
not the lawyer, but maybe if you ask the judge . . . you never know
until you ask, right?”

Larkin nodded. Mr. Powers had a point. All of
the Bowlands swirling in his gut may have blinded him a bit. He
could still play a pretty strong card if he indicated to the judge
that he had entered into some sort of binding agreement with
Deveraux. Normally, first-timers got a harsh warning and a review
hearing scheduled to determine if the deadbeat would begin paying
during the following three months. Two-timers received a suspended
sentence and deadbeats hauled into court for strike three took a
turn down the hallway that led directly to jail. Most of the time,
Judge Loundsbury simply nodded his head and approved Deveraux’s
recommendation. There was no reason to believe that Wendy could
manipulate the system any more than she already had.

“Alright,” said Larkin he began nodding. With
each bob of his head, his confidence grew. “I got it,” he said as
he grabbed Mr. Powers’ shirt. “But we’re going first.”

“What?” stammered Mr. Powers. “I can’t, I
mean, we can’t - -”

“Shut up and sit next to me,” said Larkin as
he made his way back to the courtroom with Mr. Powers in tow. The
larger man pawed at his eyes to remove the evidence of his minor
tantrum.

“Have we got a taker?” asked Wendy as Larkin
proceeded into the courtroom while the giant mess of a man behind
him attempted to quickly tuck his shirt into his pants.

“You wish,” said Larkin. His pulse quickened
as he reached the defendants’ table. He threw down his briefcase
with a bang. The clerk jumped in her chair. “Sit here, Mr. Powers,”
said Larkin as he slapped the wooden chair next to him. Mr. Powers
nodded politely to the other people in the room before hustling
into his seat.

“Mr. Craig Powers?” asked Wendy as she
disturbed her mountain of file folders.

“You got it,” said Larkin.

“He’s not who we’re calling first,” said
Wendy. Mr. Powers immediately stood from his chair.

“That’s fine, ma’am,” said Mr. Powers, “I can
just go back - -”

Larkin gripped the man’s belt buckle and
jerked him back into his seat. “Be quiet,” he said. Mr. Powers
placed his hands over his mouth and did the type of deep breathing
a person did just before passing out.

“He’s not our first case, Monroe,” stated
Wendy. The boots crossed and pressed back against the bottom of her
chair.

“He was the first case with prior counsel.
Prior counsel and I had agreements and I’m honoring those.”

Wendy rolled her eyes. “Yeah,” she said,
“that will fly.”

“Your damn right it will,” said Larkin with a
bit too much venom.

“Who’s damning who, Mr. Monroe?” asked an
older man’s voice. Everyone in the room leaped to their feet as
Judge Loundsbury entered the room. A genteel Virginia gentleman
with trim bright white hair and a grandfatherly face, Judge
Loundsbury would not have been out of place in a courtroom from the
1800s. He was the kind of person who held the common man to a high
standard of moral and social responsibility. It was the kind of
unrealistic standard that 19
^th
century idealists
published in pamphlets. Deadbeat dads were not merely expected to
pay all of their child support obligations because a court order
demanded it, but also to meet the demands of chivalry. The valley
between this ideal and the reality of family court was very wide at
times.