Legally Wasted (7 page)

“Sorry, your Honor,” began Larkin but Judge
Loundsbury waved his hand.

“There will be no profane utterances in this
court,” Judge Loundsbury stated. He held the last word out for two
distinct syllables. Co-art.

“What have we to hear first, Ms. McAdams?” he
asked as he motioned for everyone to take seats. He retrieved a
small pair of gold-framed spectacles from a pocket buried in his
judicial robe and placed them on his face. Larkin squinted. Judge
Loundsbury could easily find work in Colonial Williamsburg as a
founding father or some esteemed candle maker.

“Judge,” began Wendy, “the department has a
specific order in which to call these cases, but Mr. Monroe has
brought in Mr. Powers notwithstanding that order.”

The judge turned to Larkin. “Is that correct,
Mr. Monroe?”

Larkin stood. “Judge, in preparing for my
cases today, I made a number of arrangements with former department
attorney, Mr. Deveraux, regarding dispositions for my clients. In
my negotiations with Mr. Deveraux, we had agreed that Mr. Powers
would be the first today.” Mr. Powers jumped in his seat at the
mention of his name. Larkin placed his hand reassuringly on his
shoulder. “I put in a good amount of footwork securing these
settlement negotiations with Mr. Deveraux and I came here today
expecting the department to honor those agreements. However, Ms.
McAdams has informed me that due to her unilateral decision on the
matter, all of that is out the window.”

Judge Loundsbury nodded and clasped his
fingers. “Is that true, Ms. McAdams?”

Wendy was on her feet. “Judge, the only thing
Mr. Deveraux had arranged for today was a Bloody Mary. If Mr.
Monroe entered into any deal with Mr. Deveraux it was to determine
who was going to pick up the bar tab.”

“I object to this, you Honor!” shouted
Larkin. “She’s disparaging an officer of the court without any
justification.” He faced Wendy. “You ever heard of defamation,
missy?”

“Isn’t the truth the ultimate defense against
defamation?” she asked.

“Enough, everyone,” said Judge Loundsbury. He
quietly studied a sheet of paper before turning to Larkin and Mr.
Powers. “Just what deal did you have worked out?” he asked
politely.

“Your Honor - -” began Larkin, but the judge
held up his hand. “No, Mr. Monroe,” he stated. “I would like Mr.
Powers to answer that question.” The members of the defense table
sank lower in their chairs.

“Uhhh,” said Mr. Powers. He held the syllable
for some time.

“Mr. Powers,” repeated the judge, “have you
agreed to any plea deals with the Department?” Mr. Powers could not
even turn to Larkin, he was paralyzed.

“Your, Honor,” started Larkin again, “this is
a complicated legal process and - -” The Judge raised one
finger.

“Have you agreed to any deals, Mr.
Powers?”

With his mouth slightly agape, Mr. Powers
shook his head very slowly from side to side.

“I see,” said the judge. “Mr. Monroe, I don't
believe that your client has agreed to any arrangement presented to
him.” He nodded to Wendy. “Why don't you begin, Ms. McAdams?”

“Wait!” shouted Larkin. He had been bullied
too long. He was also drunk. “I mean,” he said, “objection!”

“Mr. Monroe,” the judge stated firmly, “I
don't think we need an outburst like that.”

“Do you want to hear my grounds?”

The judge nodded and shrugged.

“There has been no substitution order in
place here your Honor. No JDR judge has signed an order
substituting Ms. McAdams for Mr. Deveraux. Mr. Deveraux is still
counsel of record. I participated in early and frequent
communication with Mr. Deveraux and I have not been served any
notice by this court, this Department, or anyone else that there
has been a change in counsel.” His knee buckled a bit, but he
gripped his fingers tightly to the edge of the desk. The force of
his grip sent all of the blood out of his hands.

“Is that all, Mr. Monroe?”

“No,” he said. If his mouth hadn't turned
into Myrtle Beach, he might have been spitting. “I furthermore, I
mean, furthermore, I motion to continue this matter. If there was a
switch in counsel, my client and I need the additional time to . .
.” his eyes caught the boots, and he attempted to swallow, but his
throat muscles closed with a gulp of air stuck midway down his
throat. He coughed a bit. “I need the additional time.” He said as
he looked down at his hands. They appeared bone white. “Too white,”
he muttered. He wondered if he was wearing white gloves before the
table rushed at his forehead.

Larkin regained consciousness on the
courtroom floor. The first thing he noticed was the deputy standing
over him clutching his CB radio as if it were the ultimate tool for
any crisis. He then noticed that Mr. Powers had his head on the
table with his hands over his face. He could not tell if Mr. Powers
was silently sobbing or whether he had also passed out. Finally,
Larkin noticed the blobs of rust colored eighty-proof vomit on his
tie. He laid his head back against the floor and sighed. He slid
his right hand delicately into his jacket pocket and retrieved his
red bandana. For a moment he wondered how long he would have to
stay on the ground before a sexy boot appeared nearby. Would he get
the opportunity to steal a glance at forbidden treasure? He let the
thought linger before he eventually sighed and began picking
himself off of the floor.

“May I have a recess, your Honor?” said
Larkin as he continued to dab the cloth against his tie. He refused
to make eye contact with anyone in the room.

“I should say you have it, Mr. Monroe,” said
the judge.

“Thank you, Judge,” said Larkin as he kept
his gaze glued to the floor. He slowly walked away from the
defendant’s table and out of the courtroom.

The lights in the dance studio had dimmed
when Larkin returned to his office. The jazzercise had thankfully
ended and Margie was either quietly cleaning the room or perhaps
even leading an afternoon meditation class. With his necktie wadded
in his left hand, he reached out and gripped the doorknob. His
fingers fumbled with both his tie and his keys and as he tried to
manage both, his right hip bounced against the door which opened
easily.

“What the . . . ?” he muttered. He dropped
the tie on the ground and gripped his key as if it were a stabbing
weapon. With his loafer, he pushed against the door until it opened
completely.

“Hi, Mr. Monroe,” said a familiar voice.
Freddie Beard, a lean man in his forties stood from his seat in the
lobby area of Larkin’s office. His right hand stroked against the
many wrinkles in his khaki pants, but it proved useless. They were
utterly wrinkled, not unlike the temples of Freddie’s eyes. Too
many years spent harvesting in Bedford under the hot sun. Freddie’s
left hand held a thick manila envelope.

“Is this about the bill?” asked Larkin. “Did
you come to make a payment?” Larkin had handled Freddie’s
uncontested divorce a few years earlier. “And how the hell did you
get in here?”

Freddie took a deep breath and raised his
left hand.

“What?” asked Larkin.

Freddie wiggled the envelope. Larkin snatched
it out of his hand. “You’ve been served with process,” said
Freddie.

“What?” He tore open the envelope. The top
page was a Notice of a hearing in two weeks in the Juvenile and
Domestic Relations Court for sole legal possession of Rusty,
Larkin’s cat. “What in the name of Christ is happening here?” He
glared at Freddie. “Did you break into my office to serve me with
this bull shit?”

“No,” said another familiar voice. Larkin’s
heart fluttered before dropping like a dead butterfly. “I let him
in.”

A thin tiny woman with long attractive brown
hair neatly pulled back with a tan headband walked out of Larkin’s
private office. As Madeline passed the secretary’s desk, she
briefly studied the dozens of pictures upon the wall. She paused
and turned to regard Larkin. Her big brown eyes seemed full of
fear, but Larkin knew that was how Madeline always looked, like a
deer just about to leap behind a pile of brush and escape. The look
was her secret weapon. She might have been the most confident and
headstrong woman he had ever met. But she cloaked it, when needed,
behind a mask of vulnerability. In short, she could push his
buttons with a blink, even those he never knew existed.

“You hid a spare key in the tomato can by the
gutter,” she said as she held up the brass key. The size of the key
strangely made her fingers appear even smaller. “You didn’t even
turn over the tomato can. It was right side up, Larkin. It had
filled with an inch of rainwater. You have confidential files in
here, right? What are you doing? Anyone could have come in
here.”

Her sudden appearance was too much. Larkin
turned to Freddie to delay, to stall, to breathe. “You owe me
twelve hundred bucks, Freddie.”

“I gave you all them cases of Sunny Devil,”
Freddie quickly replied.

“You’re not paying my bill with
moonshine.”

Madeline sighed. Larkin could
hear
her
roll her eyes.

“Hey,” she said. “Is this the same tomato
can? You kept it?”

Larkin headed across the room to take the
key, but the thought of her proximity made him pause. He tried to
remember the last time he had touched her hand, but he could not
remember.

“I’ll just leave it on Charisma’s desk,” she
said after easily interpreting his hesitation. She looked to the
pictures on the wall. “Where is she?”

“She passed away,” said Larkin. “It was
sudden. A heart condition.”

Madeline’s hand covered her mouth. “How long
- -”

“A year . . . no. Two years.”

Madeline’s hand fell from her mouth and
covered her chest. “Two years?” she repeated. “Two years, and still
this?” She gestured to the array of family photos hung behind
Charisma’s vacant desk.

In the time that she had worked for Larkin,
Charisma had done little else besides straighten the seldom used
waiting room and clean the twenty-seven picture frames of her
enormous extended family that hung behind her desk. After Sam
Wexler’s final trip to Richmond, Charisma had asked Larkin if he
would consider allowing her to personalize her workspace. He had
readily obliged, not knowing that Charisma had planned on putting
two dozen holes in the wall. Nearly one hundred smiling black faces
greeted anyone who entered his office.

“Didn’t you tell?” asked Madeline.

“Tell?” asked Larkin. She always assumed that
Larkin could read her mind.

She pointed to the photos. “Didn’t you tell
these people that they could come and get these pictures?”

Larkin nodded. “I did, I made a number of
calls, left messages, but no one came.”

“No you didn’t.

“No. I really did.”

Madeline glared at him, her lie detector on
maximum sensitivity. Her shoulders relaxed and she returned her
gaze to the photographs. “That’s sad.”

“It saves on spackle.”

“None of these people loved her as much as
she loved them.”

“That’s a bit of a leap,” said Larkin. He
could tell that his comment irritated her. “What the hell is this?”
Larkin flung the manila envelope across the room. It landed neatly
on the edge of the desk and slid to a stop directly in front of
Madeline. He could always throw things.

“Nice toss,” said Freddie.

Larkin nodded. “You’re goddamned right. Now
explain to me just how in the hell you think you can sue me for
Rusty?”

Madeline picked up the envelope. She withdrew
the contents and straightened the stack of papers. “That’s not all
I’m doing,” she said. She held up the Notice. “You’re not the only
one who can learn the law, Larkin. We have a never-ending divorce
case pending in Circuit Court. I talked to the clerk and the Court
typically refers custody matters to the family court. I went down
there, and brought it to the Clerk’s attention. Apparently Judge
Loundsbury found it worthy of consideration.”

“Son of a,” said Larkin. “This is
insanity.”

“These,” said Madeline with guttural
inflection. She swung a stack of seventy-five pages or more over
her head. As smooth and steady as a construction crane, she moved
the stack laterally until over the middle of Charisma’s desk.
Freddie and Larkin’s eyes trailed her slow and somewhat graceful
movement. “Are the final divorce papers that I prepared requiring
your signature.” She slammed the paperwork down upon the desk.
Larkin jumped.

“You? You prepared? Didn’t I type up the
separation agreement?”

“Which you never signed and then lost. I did
the research. To be honest, I’m glad I didn’t sign that thing. Do
you use that as a model? It was missing some key things.”

Larkin raised his hands. “Don’t even - -”

“I was going to ask you about that, Mr.
Monroe,” Freddie interjected. “You see, I was flipping through some
of the pages in the documents your wife prepared, and there’s a lot
more in there then what you put in my divorce papers. I mean a lot
more. That thing’s got some weight and I think you gave me no more
than twelve or so pages. There’s Latin stuff in her work. That’s
important right? The Latin stuff?”

Larkin turned to Freddie. “You’re divorced.
You owe me twelve hundred bucks. Get out.”

“Right,” said Freddie. “I’ll wait by your
car, Ms. Monroe.”

Freddie brushed past Larkin. Larkin squinted.
“Her car?” The light went off. “And you owe me another eight
hundred bucks for that DUI last fall,” shouted Larkin as Freddie
raced out the door. “You get your license back when I say so, pal!”
The door slammed.

Silence. Larkin could barely turn to face
her. “So that’s it?” he finally asked.

Her huge brown eyes blinked.

“You found someone?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I want you to handle
this. Put it on the front burner, Larkin.”