Legally Wasted (28 page)

Larkin spat onto the ground. For a horrifying
moment, he imagined himself growing old on the mountain with Terry.
His hand rubbed the thick stubble dotting his chin. “Millie? Do you
have a cup of coffee to spare? And some Advil?”

“I think we can suit you just fine,” she
said.

Larkin made his way to his feet. Terry tried
to take his hand, but Larkin shoved him in the shoulder. Terry
faltered, but caught himself. Larkin’s muddy handprint smeared his
orange t-shirt.

Millie led him inside the small home. She
showed him to a bathroom just to the left of the mud room. The home
smelled like cigarettes and bacon. “You go wash up and I’ll set you
up with a plate of some breakfast.”

Larkin did as he was told. His shame
prevented him from even glimpsing his reflection in the bathroom
mirror. He avoided even a peripheral glance. He cleaned his hands,
washed his face and used the facilities and was careful not to step
through the hole in the floor directly to the left of the
toilet.

When he left the bathroom, he headed toward a
card table and chair just off from the kitchen. Millie scurried
about with a can of coffee tucked under her arm while Terry quietly
watched Larkin from the corner. Larkin seated himself. He took his
wallet from his pants and placed it upon the tabletop. He emptied
his pockets. Millie set a plate of delicious bacon down next to the
judicial opinions.

Larkin first thumbed through the contents of
his wallet. He had sixty-four dollars, various credit cards, a cool
leather flap that allowed him to flip out his bar card to deputies
at the jail as if it were a badge, and some receipts. His cell
phone had been smashed and was now a paperweight.

A hot mug of coffee was placed on the corner
of one of the opinions. “Mmm,” mumbled Larkin as he sipped it.
“Wow, Millie, that’s rocket fuel.” Larkin placed his cup down and
stared at each front page again. He looked at the time stamps and
thumbed his finger over Justice Lloyd Bird’s name as it appeared to
the right of the names of the parties. He sipped more coffee and
continued to trail his finger down the page.

“Now you eat some of that bacon, Mr. Monroe,”
said Millie. She hovered behind him and studied his items. “Are
them lawyer papers?”

“They are that,” said Larkin as his finger
ran further down the page. He picked up the longer version of
Bedford County, et al., v. Trans-Appalachian Railways
and
thumbed his way through. He set it aside and picked up the shorter
version. He read it again. Millie shoved a piece of bacon into his
mouth as he reached the last page. “This one makes sense,” he said
as he wiggled the shorter opinion in his hand.

“That’s the right one?” asked Millie.

“Right one what?” asked Terry. He could not
bear to stand silent any longer. He bounded toward them.

Larkin continued to hold the thinner opinion
as he glared at the longer one. “This one,” said Larkin as he again
shook the one in his hand, “is right. The Court nails it in this
one.”

“Nails what?” asked Terry.

“The case,” said Larkin. “In the shorter
version, the Court defines the case as turning on a single legal
issue. It’s really not even a very complicated one. That’s why the
opinion is so much smaller.” He sipped his coffee. “In the larger
one, the author went through a dozen other things that I don’t
think even really matter.”

Terry drew closer and grabbed a piece of
bacon. “Were they written by the same person?”

Larkin stared at the documents. “No. Actually
they weren’t written by the same person. One of them wrote this
one,” said Larkin as he shook the opinion in his right hand, “and
the other wrote the one by my wallet.”

Terry turned and rested his backside against
the table’s edge. He craned his neck and studied the papers for a
moment. “One of them who?”

“The law clerks. Each one wrote one of these,
I betcha.”

“Does that mean you can prove you didn’t do
it?” asked Millie, as she noisily scraped a cast iron pan with a
spatula.

Larkin shook his head. He flipped the lighter
opinion over on top of the thicker opinion and closed his eyes. His
mind both ached and raced.

“Is that the name of the guy who wrote it?”
asked Terry.

“What?” replied Larkin. He followed Terry’s
finger to the back of the last page of the smaller opinion.
Handwritten in deep blue ink were the words, “Trans-App Atty’s:
Havish Cromwell – BIG BNS.”

“Havish Cromwell,” muttered Larkin. He
repeated the name. “Anthony…,” he said. Larkin snatched the
document and studied the script. The letters were large, smooth and
loopy, the kind of hand writing that a girl would have. “Oh my
lord,” said Larkin.

“What?” asked Millie. Terry ate.

Larkin turned. “Do you have a phone?”

“Only can do texts with mine,” said Terry.
“And I’m out of minutes anyway.”

Millie crossed to the kitchen to her
handbook. She dug for a bit before withdrawing the sleekest, most
expensive looking piece of hardware Larkin had ever seen. “Here ya
go,” she said as she handed Larkin the phone.

“This is your phone?” asked Larkin. He
flipped the thin cool piece of dark glass over in his scratched
palms. “I, don’t even know how to use it.”

“Just speak the number after you press the
green light,” said Millie.

Larkin shook his head. He pressed the light
and successfully dialed Madeline. He prayed for her to answer.

“Hello?” her voice projected crisply.

“Madeline, it’s me,” said Larkin. “Don’t hang
up.”

“Oh sweet Jesus, Larkin,” Madeline said with
a hushed voice.

“Just listen to me,” said Larkin. “Trevor has
been arrested and it’s only a matter of time until I am too.”

“Oh, Larkin.” She sounded defeated.

“None of it’s true,” he said. His heart
fluttered. “Well,” he said, “Trevor and I did both break into a
house, but I’m not guilty of murder.”

“Murder!” she cried.

“I know how to fix everything,” he said. “I
really do. But I need you to do something for me. Will you?”

The line was silent. Larkin waited the
requisite twelve seconds. “And your answer?”

“What is it?”

“I need you to go over to Carol’s and speak
with Ryan, Trevor’s daughter.”

“Okay,” said Madeline.

“I need you to ask her if she remembers where
Anthony, the man with glasses, was going to work in New York?”

“What? Where some guy in glasses is going to
work in New York?”

“Exactly,” said Larkin. “Have her write it
down.”

“Okay. Then what?

“That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes. Just wait to hear from me.”

“Oh mother of mercy,” said Madeline. She hung
up the phone. He looked to Terry. “She’ll do it.”

“You got the evidence now to set yourself
free, Mr. Monroe?” Terry asked.

“Nope. Not yet.”

Millie bumped Terry out of the way with her
right hip as she steered another load of bacon and some scrambled
eggs onto Larkin’s plate. “What do you need?” she asked.

“Three pieces of paper and a pen,” said
Larkin. He looked at Terry. “Can you get me a ride to downtown Big
Lick?”

Terry nodded. “Are you going to Big Lick to
get the evidence you need?”

“Absolutely,” said Larkin just before
chomping onto a bit of bacon.

Terry’s truck came to a stop about a football
field away from the U.S. District Courthouse, two blocks from
Larkin’s own office.  The brakes squealed and something made a
crunching noise as Terry shifted his truck’s gears.  The
wheelchair in the bed of the truck rolled to a stop almost at the
tailgate. 

     “Will this do you
for?” asked Terry. 

     Larkin sighed. 
He gripped the three pages in his hand tightly, before carefully
folding them in half and tucking them in his jacket pocket. 
“I really wish that you had parked out of sight of the building
like I said,” said Larkin.  “But this will have to work.”

     Terry gripped the
gearshift and yanked.  The engine or the transmission, or
perhaps the raccoon in the radiator, made the same dreadful
crunching noise again.  Larkin smacked Terry’s hand. 

     “Just leave it in
park,” said Larkin.  “Enough is enough.  Get me the
chair.”

     “The chair?” Terry
turned and looked in-between the bands of the tribal tattoo decal
applied to his rear window.  “You need me to get it for
you?”

     “That’s why I wanted
you to park away from the building,” said Larkin.  “Now you
have to get me the chair. Just go.”

     Terry hopped out of
the car and scurried to get Millie’s wheelchair from the bed of the
truck.  Though technically receiving disability income, Millie
only used the chair for when she headed into town. 

     “I suppose this is
for heading into town and all,” he said as he opened Larkin’s
door.  The two of them performed a not very convincing show of
a paraplegic man in tattered stained clothing leaping from a dented
rust bucket and onto a wheelchair.

     Larkin used his
hands to situate his legs and feet appropriately.  “Your aunt
is the most able-bodied disabled person I’ve ever met.”

     “That’s saying
something there,” said Terry. 

     Larkin patted his
jacket to ensure that his document was safely tucked for the
ride.  With the palms of his hands resting upon the top of
each wheel, he pushed off.  The chair scooted forward.

     “Are you sure you
don’t want me to do it?” asked Terry.

     “You’re already too
involved as it is,” said Larkin as he turned gracefully in the
street and headed back to the truck.  Part of him wanted to
add
because I need to make sure it’s done right
, but Terry
had truly helped him in his time of need.

     He gripped the
wheels tightly and came to a stop next to the front of the
truck.  His head was at the same height as the front
headlight.  He looked to Terry.  “Wish me luck.”

     “Do you really think
that will work?”

     Larkin
shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I think when people see a man
in a wheelchair, they mostly just see the chair and not the man.
We’ll see.”  Larkin gripped the wheels tightly before
propelling himself forward. Terry patted him on the back as he
rolled by.

“Thank you, Terry,” said Larkin. “For
everything.”  He pumped his arms casually, and approached the
courthouse at a comfortable speed.  The tires rolled smoothly
over the sidewalk.  Cars passed and people strolled, but no
one seemed to pay him much mind.  He aimed for the handicap
access ramp to the right of the courthouse building.

The brick pathway leading from the handicap
entrance extended roughly twenty yards ahead of him.  Beyond
that, he would have to pass through the security check.  After
running mostly nonsensical fractions and equations through his
brain, he estimated that he had about a twenty to thirty percent
chance of reaching the elevator.

“Third floor,” he said under his
breath.  “Third floor.”  Reaching the handicap entrance,
he smacked the cold steel plate with the light blue handicap symbol
and the door swung open.  Ducking his head low, he rolled
steadily forward until a pair of neatly pressed khakis intercepted
his path.

“Good morning,” said the aged court security
officer.  His glasses were as large and as thick as ceramic
drink coasters.  He held up his right hand, which shook with a
slight tremor.  Larkin recalculated.  He now had a
seventy percent chance of making it to the elevators.  “Where
are you headed this morning?”

“Clerk’s office,” he said, as he reached into
his wallet and withdrew Uncle Donnie’s driver’s license.  The
old man made two attempts at grabbing it before his fingers finally
touched upon the plastic card.  He looked briefly at the name,
scrawled it onto a piece of paper attached to a clipboard and
handed it back to Larkin. 

“Please step . . . please roll . . . er,
forward,” the man said as he brandished a metal detecting wand from
his pocket.  He waved it around Larkin and although it made a
dozen squeaks and whistles, the old man nodded and waved him
through the corridor. 

     “Thank you,” said
Larkin as he hurried to the elevators across the large lobby. 
Framed pictures of the President and the Vice President looked down
upon him from just above the brass trashcan.  Moving as
quickly as he could, he extended his arm and smacked the elevator
call button.  Luckily, one of the five sets of double doors
immediately opened and Larkin headed inside. 

As he turned and pressed the button for the
third floor, he spied a janitor with a vacuum cleaner across the
lobby.  The man stared directly at Larkin.  The janitor’s
eyes lit up.  Larkin knew before the janitor took a step that
he had been recognized.  As the doors began to close, the
janitor released his grip on the vacuum and began walking in the
direction of the court security officers. 

“Hey,” Larkin could hear the man call before
the elevator began ascending.

“I’ve got to be fast,” said Larkin as the
elevator began its ascent.

In a calm feminine voice, the elevator
announced that he had passed the second floor.  Larkin gripped
his wheels as tightly as he could. He considered ditching the chair
altogether, but he might need to pass another person or two before
reaching his destination. A memory of zooming down a hillside on
his Aunt Tricia’s wheelchair with his two year-old cousin flashed
in his mind.

“Floor three,” said the elevator as it slowed
to a stop.

Larkin leaned low and prepared for blastoff.
The doors opened.  Striking the wheels so hard with the palms
of his hands that his footrest lifted six inches off of the ground,
he yelped like a child.  His arms shot out and he gripped the
elevator hand rails.  With a curse buried behind gritted
teeth, he steadied himself and exited the elevator just as the
doors began closing.  An arrow on the wall directed him to the
clerk’s office.  Video cameras protruded from the crown
molding about every twenty feet.