Legally Wasted (18 page)

“Your Honor, though I’m readily familiar with
the procedures necessary to schedule a bond hearing, it will be a
bit difficult for me to procure an agreement from the Commonwealth
while I am incarcerated.”

“What’s that?” asked the Judge. He peered at
Larkin and then at the twelve year-old of a prosecutor who sat at
the other table in the room. Larkin had tried a few misdemeanors
against the young man, but he could not recall his name. At the
mention of his employer, the prosecutor raised his head and looked
sheepishly at the seventy year-old civil rights activist in the
black robe.

“I just said, your Honor,” began Larkin,
“that since I am representing myself and I am a licensed attorney,
and, as you know, the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office in this
circuit has a long history of being somewhat hard to reach at times
- -”

“Hard to reach?” the Judge interrupted. The
junior prosecutor stood.

“Yes, your Honor,” Larkin continued, “with
that consideration coupled with the interest of judicial
efficiency, it would behoove the Court to have a quick bond hearing
at this time.” Larkin nodded to himself. It did not sound so bad
coming out of his mouth as he had previously thought. In fact, he
felt that it had been a long while since he had articulated a legal
position with such poise.

“Judicial efficiency,” repeated the Judge.
Good, thought Larkin. Judge Wallace had latched onto it. Mumbling
from the audience reached a crescendo. Larkin did not have to turn
his head to know that ink was flying from pen to page in the
gallery behind him. “What does the Commonwealth have to say to
that?” asked the Judge. The prosecutor opened his mouth but the
Judge cut him off before a sound escaped. “Is the Commonwealth
prepared to proceed with a bond hearing right now?”

Perspiration gleamed off of the prosecutor’s
prematurely balding head. He gave Larkin a look that said,
this
was only supposed to be an arraignment
and,
don’t you
realize that no matter what happens after this, I’m going to get
yelled at?

“Your Honor,” he began as his fingers rapidly
buttoned his coat. “I do not have Mr. Monroe’s file and - -”

“What?” asked Judge Wallace. “You don’t have
his file? He’s being arraigned for homicide.” The cameraman
swiveled his camera and put his crosshairs on the prosecutor. Judge
Wallace pointed to the stack of manila folders on the prosecutor’s
table. “What are all of those?” The prosecutor looked down and
opened his mouth, but the Judge interrupted him again. “What do you
have to say about this argument of judicial efficiency?”

“Well, you know how the Commonwealth’s
Attorney’s Office always wants to consider that interest in every
case and - -”

“Good,” said the Judge. “This case would be
included in ‘every case.’” He nodded at Larkin. “You may proceed
with your bond hearing, Mr. Monroe. The Court will entertain
argument on your oral motion. Anything from the Commonwealth before
I hear Mr. Monroe’s motion?”

“I . . .” The poor prosecutor sifted through
the folders. The audience was stunned into complete silence. “Um.”
The prosecutor glanced at the full house.

“I could short circuit this, your Honor,”
said Larkin.

“Oh?”

“Your Honor, I proffer to the Court that I’m
a licensed attorney and that I work as an attorney on a fulltime
basis. I’ve never been convicted of any crime and I’m currently not
on probation of any kind. I grew up in this area and I still have
family here.” Madeline’s hurt face flashed in his mind. “I am fully
aware of the necessity of returning for the next proceeding in my
case.”

Judge Wallace nodded.

“And I might also add,” said Larkin, “that I
don’t believe I’ve ever been late for a hearing in front of you,
your Honor.”

“Well that’s good,” said the Judge. He turned
to the prosecutor. “Any objection?”

“Yes, your Honor,” said the prosecutor. He
puffed out his chest a bit as his second wind buffeted his sails.
“We object to the very scheduling of this hearing. It has not been
placed upon the docket today and – -”

“Any objection to the defendant’s proffer?”
asked the Judge. “I’ve already ruled as to whether we’ll be having
this hearing.”

“Your Honor, I do not have a sufficient basis
to form an opinion as to the veracity of Mr. Monroe’s - -”

“I don’t give two figs about your opinion.
Overruled.” He made a shooing gesture with his hand before picking
up his pen. “I’m going to set the bond amount for Mr. Monroe at ten
thousand, secured.” He began writing, but paused and peered over
the rim of his glasses at Larkin. “You won’t be going anywhere,
will you Mr. Monroe?”

“No, sir.”

The Judge nodded. A ten thousand dollar
secured bond meant that with the assistance of a bail bondsman,
Larkin would only have to cover one thousand dollars in order to be
released. Fortunately, he knew just the man to help him with the
funding. The only difficulty would be in getting Trevor on the
phone.

“Thank you, your Honor,” said Larkin as he
nodded to Judge Wallace. The Judge nodded again and Larkin returned
to his table. Wendy McAdams, eat your heart out.

“Hot damn, Mr. Monroe,” whispered Terry. His
reddened eyes could not have opened any wider. “That was impressive
as all get out.”

“Thanks,” said Larkin. He had left himself
half-impressed at least. But five minutes later, after he had made
an about-face, grabbed the podium, and successfully argued as
Terry’s attorney for a $500.00 bond for his fellow bondsman, he
felt like king of the world. The reporters flipped through their
spiral bound pages filling them with excited scribbles. With Judge
Wallace allowing him such a long leash, Larkin had become the star
of center ring, or at the very least, General District Courtroom
Four. Wendy McAdams raised her eyebrows and Larkin imagined it was
due to the onset of sudden sexual attractiveness traditionally
coupled with such acts of alpha male awesomeness. He also knew what
a loser this thought made him, but he didn’t care.

He nodded to the sad mess of a prosecutor and
headed toward the door that led to the holding cell. His city’s
Vice Mayor, and hopefully bail money, was only a phone call away.
Soon, he would be back on the street.

Terry smacked his attorney approvingly on the
shoulder. “That was something. I’ll get you back for all of
that.”

“Sure you will, Terry.”

“Now are you going to need help on getting
out of the murder fix’n?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“There she is,” said Trevor with a grin as
large as a billboard, “the prize.” He set a large foam cup
overflowing with shaved ice upon the bistro table and slid it
toward Larkin. The limeade looked damn good, especially after
eighteen hours in jail. “You drink that,” said Trevor, “and you’ll
be right as rain, so they say.” He sunk into the metal and plastic
chair across from Larkin. Like Larkin, he was a bit worse for the
wear. Trevor had neither shaved nor washed the Jim Beam out of his
shirt. “It will keep you free from scurvy too.”

Larkin nodded and Trevor smiled. “You know,”
said Larkin, “when you’re hungover, you look like Miami Vice.”

“I know.” A revolving rack of postcards sat
immediately behind Trevor in the Star City Pharmacy. The post card
closest to his half-closed eyes depicted a fat cat dangling by his
paws from a tree limb. It probably had a line inside like,
hang
in there
.

Larkin’s right hand darted for the limeade
while his left lowered the rim of a Hokies baseball hat on sale for
$5.99. “You see that?” he whispered after sipping the limeade. He
pointed through the glass of the pharmacy’s storefront window to
some obscure shadows that lurked across the street. “That stretch
of darkness by the stairs has grown. I bet we’ve been here for
forty minutes now.”

“Who the hell cares?” said Trevor, although
he also found himself staring at shadows. “I’m telling you,” he
said after a few more minutes of surveillance, “we can do this with
a two-man infiltration.” He took a gulp of his nearly finished
limeade and wiped his chin. “Right now.”

“No.”

“Right, bloody now.” Trevor’s cell phone rang
but he quickly silenced it.

Larkin sipped again. “What did you add?”

“Two Grey Gooses. Grey Geese, I guess. Why do
you think I took our drinks to the bathroom?”

“I wasn’t paying attention.” He continued to
look out the window.

Trevor followed his gaze. “Hey,” he said as
he squinted. He placed his hand at his brow to block ambient light.
“That bench across the street . . . is that?”

“Yes,” said Larkin.

Trevor’s jaw dropped. He nearly tipped over
his shaved ice. “You mean to tell me that your wife’s face is
plastered to the bench right across from your office?”

“She’s a realtor.”

Trevor shook his head. “I know,” he said,
“and believe me, I hear she can move some properties, but I mean,
her face . . .
her face
, man, is right next to your
office.”

“I know.”

“I mean, she’s looking at your office. Her
picture is literally staring at your office. Isn’t that odd? There
are other benches. Look at her eyes. Look where they’re looking.
Who even poses for a picture like that?”

“You acquisition tax dollars to fund a giant
neon star on top of a mountain that everyone can see from anywhere
in the city.”

“So the hell what?” asked Trevor. “We’re the
Star City of the South. Don’t change the subject, counselor.”

“I’m just saying that there’s a lot of quirky
things happening in this town. That bench is no different.”

Trevor shook his head. He stabbed his straw
repeatedly into his shaved ice and vodka. “I tell you what,” he
said after a quiet moment. “If my ex-wife had a giant permanent
poster of her face right next to my office, I’d probably go batshit
crazy.”

“Too late,” said Larkin as he stared at the
front door of his office. It was closed and presumably locked as it
had been since the stakeout began. There was no real reason to fear
exploring his home turf. Despite this, Larkin had ducked into the
pharmacy across the street with visions of car bombs and gun men
dancing in his head. Conspiracy theories of corporate-sponsored hit
men and covert federal agents had sounded fairly absurd a day ago,
but that was a day ago.

As Larkin drank his limeade, the voice of
reason/vodka became clear. This was his
own turf
for crying
out loud; he held the upper hand. He nodded. He felt confident,
emboldened even. And yet, he had barely touched his fritter.

“I meant to ask,” said Trevor as his fork
slid steadily toward the plate near Larkin. “Are you going to
finish that?” Without waiting for a reply, he stabbed the pastry
and violently dug out a heaping mouthful of flaky, gooey, cinnamon
goodness. “You’ve got to taste that,” he murmured with his cheeks
bursting with pastry. His words were barely discernable.

Larkin studied a man carrying a small brown
package walking his dog. “They’ve been there too long.”

“The dog’s sniffing the hydrant,” said
Trevor. “Wait.” Trevor leaned closer to the window. “Who’s that
guy?”

Larkin spun. “What guy?”

“That little chubby guy there.”

A pear-shaped young man in a tweed suit stood
directly in front of the office door. He turned and checked over
his shoulder. The man wore large thick glasses that obscured his
face. A sentient pair of spectacles bobbing down the sidewalk.

“Young guy,” said Larkin. “What do you think?
Twenty-three?”

“He’s got a briefcase,” said Trevor

They watched the man return his gaze to the
office. He leaned in close and put his face to the glass. The man’s
left hand rose and wiggled the locked door knob.

“Another lawyer?” asked Trevor.

“Maybe. Never seen him before.”

“Right now,” said Trevor. “He’s not knocking.
He’s trying to get in.”

“Shit,” snapped Larkin. The last shot of
adrenaline in his body electrified his limbs.

The two men stood. Though tired, Larkin’s
legs were resolute.

“Right now,” Trevor repeated, this time with
his mouth full of food.

“Yes.” Larkin stormed through the pharmacy.
His shoulder struck a counter top and a bottle of ibuprofen fell
from a cardboard display. Trevor caught it and watched Larkin march
toward the exit.

“You read my mind.” Trevor caught up with his
friend. As they headed toward the door, Trevor held up the bottle
of pills to the cashier and gave him some sort of nod.

Larkin pushed open the double doors. The man
across the street continued to peer into his office. He had placed
his briefcase on the sidewalk and began bumping the door with his
shoulder.

“He’s testing it, I think,” said Trevor as
they stepped quickly through the pharmacy parking lot. “To see if
there’s a deadbolt. Watch out!”

The driver of a red Volvo wagon slammed on
her brakes as Larkin bolted in front of her on a direct path toward
his office. A young teenage girl, rolled up her window as the man
with the Terminator gaze and baseball hat with a large visible
price tag still affixed to the bill passed by her car.

“Warpath,” said Trevor. “I like it. But don’t
kill my voters.”

“That’s my home,” said Larkin as he stomped
through a flowerbed and onto the sidewalk. The man across the
street continued to push his body into the door. “So how do we do
this?”

“We grab his ass,” said Trevor. “Two against
one. We grab him, take him into the office.”

“Right,” said Larkin. “Two against one.”

Larkin focused his anger on the man’s
back.

“A bit hot for tweed don’t you think?” asked
Trevor from a few feet behind. Neither man knew why this made him
even more suspicious. Their hearts beat hard and heavy.