by Chris Bauer
Enraged and energized, Larinda hovered. She could do more damage to her attacker, older than she’d realized, a surprise, forties-fifties maybe, but buff. One more punch to the jaw knocked the woman out. Larinda sprinted around a treed corner then jogged along the street long enough for a cab to materialize.
Inside the cab her wrist dangled in pain, was maybe broken, the same arm as the one with the poorly healed palm, its cut open again. “Key Bridge Boathouse parking lot,” she said, out of breath. “Big tip if you’re quick about it.”
The driver was a pagan swami, turbaned. Pagan or not, she needed his help. “You have a first aid kit in here?”
A knock on Naomi’s courthouse chambers door. The Marshal of the Court entered and delivered an update on the incident. The courtroom had been cleared and the justices were in lockdown, separately, in their respective chambers.
“It’s impossible to screen for what just happened,” the court officer told her. “We have the man in custody, plus an accomplice. We’re interviewing them now. That’s all I have to report at the moment, Madam Justice.” He made eye contact with Marshal Trenton, at her side and standing at attention. “Nicely done, Deputy Marshal Trenton.”
Edward nodded.
Court adjourned early for lunch, maybe longer, to give Court Security a chance to analyze surveillance video plus assess the likelihood of an additional threat. The Chief Justice asked them all to stay loose pending a decision regarding holding the afternoon session. She dismissed her law clerks to their offices while she waited for lunch to be delivered. Edward had already seen the footage.
“Are you all right, Edward?”
“I’m fine, ma’am. The man’s name is Drury. He’s a Marine. We’re going to owe him an apology, Your Honor. We blew it.”
Physically, Edward did appear fine. Emotionally, Naomi wasn’t so sure. “I’m sure it’s not that bad, Edward.”
“The Marine’s explanation, ma’am, is that a certain woman who was in the courtroom is the threat, not him.” Edward swallowed hard. “I had to react like I did. But from the footage I’ve seen, Mister Drury was right. The woman who left the courtroom before him didn’t react to the takedown, didn’t miss a step or even turn around, just kept walking.” The more he talked, the tighter his jaw got. “I’m afraid, ma’am, we’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“Please, Edward, I’m sure your superiors will understand. I’ll speak with them. And I’ll also speak with Mister Drury.”
“Your Honor, ma’am, respectfully, you don’t understand what just happened. See…”
A hard knock at her door; the Marshal of the Court entered without waiting for an answer. “Madam Justice, security footage outside on the plaza shows an altercation between two women. We believe one of them was the woman who fled the courtroom in front of the men we apprehended. It appears the other woman was also in the chambers at the same time. I’ve just told the Chief Justice. You should remain here until further notice. Mister Trenton, stay sharp.”
With the Marshal of the Court gone, Edward finished his thought, his voice serious. “Madam Justice, after analyzing the footage from the cameras at the two Planned Parenthood buildings, the U.S. Marshal’s office, the court police, and the FBI all think the woman Mister Drury was pursuing is the Planned Parenthood terrorist.”
Edward didn’t do exasperation well. His upper torso inflated, his stare piercing. He was looking for something to hit. “She was in the courtroom, ma’am, less than fifty feet from you, and I let her walk.”
“Edward. Please. I am fine. All the justices are fine. Those fifty feet will now be the safest fifty feet in America, other than the perimeter the Secret Service keeps for the president.” She searched his weather-beaten face, for what, she didn’t know, but it pained her to see this brave warrior question himself. “Please know, Edward, that I do feel safe with you.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. But the consensus among the agencies is this person is less interested in the other justices and more interested in you.”
Her office phone rang; she picked up. “I understand. Fine. Thank you,” she said into the receiver. “Edward, a mailroom employee is on the way up to deliver an overnight package.”
“Your Honor, has it been…”
“They’re taking the proper precautions, Edward.”
“Your Honor, if I may…”
“Yes, you can answer the door and examine it.”
The mailroom supervisor arrived, prepared with powder-free sterile latex gloves. He slipped them on and commenced removing pages from the pouch, all handwritten, plus a sealed business envelope. He unsealed the envelope, slipped out a number of folded photocopies. Nothing in the pouch and the business envelope but paper. Edward escorted the supervisor out of Naomi’s chambers.
At a small table, Naomi sat unwrapping the lunch the café prepared for them. She would address the letter after she and Edward ate. “Please have a seat and join me, Edward.”
“Ma’am, no thank you, they’re about to release Mister Drury. I want to be there when they do. A court cop is posted outside your office. I’ll be back shortly. Madam Justice, I, ah…”
His face showed his conflict, the concern that he was abandoning her.
“I’ll be fine, Edward. Thank you. Go.”
The door closed behind him. She worked on her pasta salad, each forkful punctuated by a glance at Chester Plunkett’s letter on her desk. To peruse the pages now, while she ate, she’d need to enjoy teardrops in her food, but she couldn’t hold out any longer. She unfolded the letter.
The message was on his personal stationery, from the OU School of Law, the words in a shaky longhand.
“My Dearest Madam Justice Naomi,
I hope you are having a wonderful day in our nation’s great capitol. You receive this note on the occasion of my pending transition to the spirit world. My passing will be joyous, so do not dwell on it, please. The Great Spirit guides me, has granted me a clear, healthy mind, and with it a loving heart, but a heart that gets heavier the sicker it gets. I am so proud of you, Naomi, like your family is, and like our people and the people of Texas and Oklahoma are, but I must make you aware of something I’m sure you never knew. I’m sorry I can’t say this to you in person.”
Flashbacks queued up inside and played for her, of the Badger moving seamlessly between citing tribal court and national legal decisions, chapter and verse, in the classroom, to performing at Native American ceremonies in Cherokee dress, to practicing the traditions at powwows. A legal pioneer, and a preservationist who had embraced his heritage as a full-blooded Cherokee. She loved this man as much as she loved her father, and she’d known him almost as long. Tears slipped onto her cheeks, down them, into her salad.
“I made an inquiry via the Texas Public Information Act regarding the Texas Native American Scholarship Program, this after a number of years of steering students to the same scholarship that provided you with your college funding. For them, their applications met with zero success. Every one. What I learned was the scholarship program had considered only one application during its existence, yours, and the fund was active only for the years in which you were a student. Its support came from a small circle of religious and business leaders and one federal politician. The sole reason for this scholarship program was for your benefit, Naomi. What remains a mystery to me is the why.
Benevolence as welcome as this, so inviting financially for a family of limited means like yours, and awarded as it was to a high achiever, would rarely be questioned. Until your career success outstripped my wildest expectations for you, I thought better than to ever bring this up. What good does it serve to alert you to this now? Forewarned is forearmed, Naomi. Beware people looking to trade on, and assign your complicity with, this curious benevolence. Their names appear in the Freedom of Information response copies enclosed here.
I will visit you before I go, Naomi. Somehow, some way, I will visit you. Elohino dohiyi gesesti. (Peace upon this land.)
With love, your most humble law professor,
Chester Fights Like A Badger Plunkett, Esq.”
Naomi was stunned, and now felt physically ill. She reread the letter: “…one federal politician…a small circle of religious and business leaders…”
What the hell was going on?
THIRTY-ONE
“Mister Drury, apologies from the Court. And thank you for the information. We’ll take things from here. You’re dismissed.”
This agent wasn’t the one who took him down. Regardless, Judge flew out of the rubber-hose seat in their basement office, took the steps two at a time and headed in the direction of the public locker area, where his phone was. He didn’t get far. Overtaking him in a hefty jog was the guy who had actually body-slammed him. His big-ass girth stopped in front of Judge; he put his hand on Judge’s chest. It was abrupt, but it was also gentle, as gentle as a refrigerator with arms could manage for itself.
“Mister Drury, apologies from the U.S. Marshal’s office also. Madam Justice Coolsummer would like a word with you please, to thank you for what you did.”
The guy was sincere, but Judge didn’t give a shit right about now. “Look, my girlfriend’s missing. I need to get to the lockers so I can get my phone back and check for messages.” At six-three, Judge still had to raise his head to face him. “We’re not gonna have another episode right here, are we, Shrek, ’cause you didn’t get to see the real me earlier. You need to move.”
“Fair enough,” the marshal said and surprised Judge by backing off. “Follow me.”
At this point Judge became an NFL running back following a pulling guard. Early afternoon in the Supreme Court’s concourse had returned to business-as-usual busy after the morning’s excitement, but with a U.S. marshal as large as this man in front of him, it was like a parting of the Red Sea. As an afterthought Judge remembered Owen had left the court police office with him, so somewhere behind them he was no doubt hoofing it as fast as he could.
They reached the lockers. Judge found theirs and opened it. He stuffed everything from the locker into the backpack they’d left there, except for his phone.
Shrek got chatty. He was brownish, so maybe Shrek didn’t work as a name. He identified himself. “I’m U.S. Deputy Marshal Trenton, Mister Drury. If I can be of any help…”
“Un-bruise my ribs for me, will you, Mister Trenton? You think you can you do that for me?” Judge didn’t smile while he scanned his messages. Two from Geenie. He listened, shadowed by his escort. She left the phone number for the emergency room of a hospital, and she sounded out of it.
“On meds,” her message said, “dislocated jaw,” and “I had her, Judge,” although what left her lips sounded more like “piss-located chaw” and “I sam her, Hutch.” Owen arrived alongside them, exhausted. Judge punched in some numbers looking for the name of the hospital and its address. Mr. Trenton put his big mitt over Judge’s hand and his phone together.
“I can’t undo the damage to your ribs, Mister Drury, but I can get you a ride to the hospital. Except you’re going to see Justice Coolsummer first. Now, please.”
His gentle demeanor gone, Judge sensed a man who was extremely dedicated to his assigned duties, and who wouldn’t be nice to them if Judge didn’t let him perform them.
Tough shit.
“Get me that ride now and I promise I’ll come back after I check on my girlfriend. Or we go through the same shit we went through earlier, which does neither of us any good.” The marshal looked past Judge’s shoulder, in ponder mode. “And when we visit with Justice Coolsummer, Mister Wingert here gets included, too.”
The marshal hesitated, then, “Fine.”
Judge decided that maybe he should stop being such an arrogant asshole. “Look, Mister Trenton, I accept your apology.” He offered his hand. “Call me Judge. Judge Drury, USMC Former Enlisted Marine. And a fugitive recovery agent.”
They shook. “Your first name is Judge?”
“My whole life.”
“A name like that around here, get ready to hear it a lot. I’m Edward.” The stuffed Sasquatch smiled. He retrieved his phone and made a few calls. “Transportation will be here in a minute. For you and Mister Wingert both.”
This newest marshal’s name was Abelson. They climbed into a government minivan with Mr. Abelson driving and they headed up to Howard University Hospital. A ten-minute ride, their driver said.
“They sure do grow the brothers big at the U.S. Marshal’s office,” Owen said to the back of Deputy Marshal Abelson’s black flattop head. With Owen it was always how best to piss off the hand that fed him in ten words or less. Their host ignored him. A quick park job, then they hoofed it with Abelson to the hospital entrance.
“Yo, give a brother a break, bro,” Owen pleaded, trying to keep up. “Yo! Slow up!”
The hospital sliding doors slid open. Abelson glanced at Judge. “He always like this?”
“If you mean short, yeah, it’s a genetic thing,” Judge said.
“I heard that, Judge, you prick.”
They moved from room to room, Abelson badging the hell out of everybody. Deep in the emergency beds section, they found her. Judge’s heart sank.
“Geenie honey…”
Her bed was raised at one end and she was resting, bandaged around the head and under her chin with gauze and adhesive tape. From the nose down, what was visible of her face was puffy and purple, with some red from bloodstains. Six weeks at a minimum like this, the ER doc said. Painkillers, antibiotics, liquid diet. Six agonizing weeks. Her espresso eyes opened, then her arms beckoned. Judge leaned in, hugged her, kissed her on the forehead, squeezed her shoulder. “Sorry, baby. So sorry.”
The doc explained. “No breaks. Only a dislocation and a concussion. Aside from the meds, she’s thinking clearly. She can open her mouth enough to talk, but not much more than a sliver.”
She winked, acting playful. “A sliver’s room enough, for you, lover,” she said to him. Her speech was slow, garbled. “Just joking, you big boy you,” she said, but without the b’s. She squeezed Judge’s hand.
“She’s still a little looped, Mister Drury.”
“But looking great,” he said and meant it. No long-term physical effects or disfigurement, the doctor added; her jaw just needed time to heal. And Judge so needed to hurt someone because of this. He went for the rabbit’s foot to calm himself, able to choke back a douche-waffle and a puke-slapping rumble-cunt queued up with a prick-bastard chaser. A Tourette’s episode there could have landed him in the Psych Ward.
“I had her, Judge,” she said, her tongue thick, “then after…she threw…that punch from her heels…I didn’t.” Her lips moved only slightly when she spoke, like a drunken mummy ventriloquist. Judge was loving her lots here.
“She’s right.” This was Abelson, interrupting. “I saw the footage. Your friend was awesome on the takedown, just got tagged with a roundhouse right. If she hadn’t gone after her, there’d be no additional video. Plus now the perp is hurt. We’re checking the hospitals.”
Geenie’s eyes pleaded with Judge. “Get me out of here.”
She wasn’t attached to anything, no fluids, no heart monitor, and even though she looked every bit like a shell-shocked battlefield vet, her limbs were all intact, so she was mobile. “Doc, not sure if she told you this, but she’s a nurse. If she thinks she can leave, she’s good to go. We’re due at the Supreme Court Building for a debriefing on what happened today. There’s a terrorist on the loose. Let her sign herself out.”
“I’d rather not,” the doc said.
Mr. Abelson stepped up, flashed his U.S. Marshal’s five-pointed star at the doctor. The discussion ended.
A wheelchair ride brought Geenie to Abelson’s minivan. Inside the van she asked if she could have her gun back. Judge told her no, no guns, they were still all locked in his van’s glove box.
“Dogs?” she asked.
Judge sighed; they had to be tired of the B&B room by now. “We’ve got an audi
ence with Justice Coolsummer, Geenie, like it or not. They’ll get a long walk when we get back.”
THIRTY-TWO
The ligaments in Larinda’s ballooning left wrist were a mess but she could still move it, so maybe it wasn’t broken.
“Stop here,” she told the cabbie. He pulled the cab to the curb. She handed him three twenties, told him to wait.
Inside the pharmacy she grabbed a cloth bandage, more gauze pads and some snacks. Back in the cab, she opened a Slim Jim and bit off a generous hunk. She slipped a package of beef jerky into the front seat through the hole in the partition, just to be nice to the swami.
He checked her out in the rearview, ignored the gift, shook his head. In disgust, disbelief, she didn’t know which, but it was not favorable.
Then she remembered. Beef was cow. Not a favorite Hindi foodstuff.
No matter. The cabbie needed to read the Bible, not the Bhagavad Gita.
She bandaged her crucified palm then wrapped the wrist and hand with the cloth bandage, which left her fingers free. The cab left the street, drove down a short, paved incline to the Key Bridge Boathouse dock shack.
“Leave me off there,” she said, pointing at the entrance to the shack. She’d rather he didn’t see her vehicle. Taking his generous tip, the cabbie hustled off. Around her, people waited for their rental kayaks and canoes. On the dock, and on a small stretch of sand next to it, returned boating equipment awaited check-in by the busy attendants.