“That wasn’t meant for you,” I said, as the officer pulled me across the floor. “This is all a big misunderstanding.”
I don’t know why I bothered. That line never works for anyone.
“Better you than me, baby,” Tiffany hollered. “Need a bail bondsman?”
“Don’t worry,” Harry called. “I’ll tell Cap and get you counsel.”
Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. I had a big ol’ plate of I told you so coming my way. “Harry,” I said, straining against the cuffs. “Whoever you get better come cheap. I can’t afford toothpaste, let alone an attorney.”
The officer dragged me toward the door, and I suddenly remembered Headbutt.
“Harry, can you let my dog out tonight? Please? And maybe stop by in the morning to feed him? The back door’s open.” Nothing like announcing to the world that your door’s unlocked.
Harry’s eyes twinkled as he waved goodbye, “Will do. Guess we’re off for tomorrow morning, huh?”
I dug in my heels at the doorway and spun toward Dallas. “I promise I’ll get this straightened out. Please don’t fire me.”
As the door swung closed behind me, I heard him say, “Crap. I’m back to mopping the damn floors.”
7
Opie Does Battle
A freckle-faced boy sat across the table from me in The Hamilton County Detention Center. He was red-haired and skinny. His brown suit hung on him as though it might have belonged to his father. A cream-colored shirt muted his already pale complexion, and his tie, a tan-striped relic from the disco era, boasted more stains than stripes.
He smiled and reached his fish-bellied hand across the table. “Hi. Timothy Andrews, your attorney. Harry sent me.”
The brain bitch took one look at him and guffawed. You are so screwed.
“You’re scheduled to be arraigned at nine,” Opie said, frowning at his watch. “We’ve got twenty-three minutes. Let’s discuss why you’re here.”
“Look, Opie. I’m in real trouble. How ’bout sending your daddy in here.”
Opie’s emerald eyes narrowed. “Ms. Nighthawk, I suggest you lose the sarcasm and focus on the matter at hand. Your future is at stake. Shall we start again?”
If nothing else, the kid had spunk.
I leaned back in my chair and regarded him in a new light. “Okay, Opie—”
He snapped his briefcase closed and glared at me. “I’ve read your file, Ms. Nighthawk. And I’m about five minutes younger than you. Call me Opie again, and you can find yourself another attorney. You’re wasting time. Your hearing starts in twenty-one minutes.”
Little Allie snapped off my bitch-switch without my permission. In hindsight, that was probably a good move. He was my only shot, so I sat up straight and gave him the highlights.
“I raised a female corpse — a hooker and potential informant — to obtain information relevant to the investigation of her murder. Captain Dorsey at the 51st precinct requested my services, subject to the issuance of a court order. My partner presented a request for the order to the DA, who subsequently refused to present it to the judge.”
Opie squished his brows together. “Why?”
“Craig Farragut, the DA, said we were fishing — that it wouldn’t matter what the corpse testified to because the testimony of the undead isn’t admissible in court.”
Opie folded his hands on his briefcase and stared into my eyes. “If you didn’t have the court order, why did you go through with the raising?”
I squirmed in my chair, and for the first time, pondered that question myself. “The ME, Doc Blanchard, got pissed. He had a full house, and no open autopsy tables. By dicking around, trying to get this order, we were wasting his time. Then he said that he was the ME, and he should be able to examine a corpse in any way he saw fit to determine cause of death.”
“And?”
“I went with it. I thought he was right.”
We were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Harry. I told Opie to let him in. The more the merrier.
“You’re being charged with gross abuse of a corpse,” Harry said. “Do you know what that means?”
“Well, duh,” I said, rolling my eyes. “If raising her from the grave wasn’t freaky enough, maybe it was drilling her corpse in the brain stem with my seven-inch knife.”
Harry covered his face with his hands but didn’t intervene.
Opie sighed. “It’s the word gross that concerns me. That’s makes your alleged offense a fifth-degree felony.”
Sweet Fucking Lorraine! A felony?
To be honest, that could have been my thought, or it might have been the brain bitch’s. Hard to tell. We were both stunned.
Opie looked at his watch. “I need to make a quick phone call. Then we’ll have to go.”
“Go where?”
“Across the street to the court house.”
Opie left the room to make his call. When he returned, Harry pulled some strings and got permission to provide me with a private escort to the courthouse, as opposed to me joining the chain gang of losers who would enter through the underground tunnel. Opie accompanied us, wearing a taut smile and a far away look in his eyes. I hoped he was formulating my defense, assuming he thought I had one. Me? I pictured myself in a gray-green jumpsuit and winced. Nobody looked good in those moldy-colored potato sacks.
We sat on a bench outside Hearing Room A and waited for our case to be called.
Opie scribbled some last minute notes in his legal pad. “We’ve got Judge Franklin today.”
“Is that good or bad?” I asked.
“He’s a straight shooter. Doesn’t go for grandstanding. It could be worse.”
When my case was called, we pushed through the double doors and moved to the defense table.
Opie nodded toward a short chubby guy seated across from us. “That’s Jerry Milligan, one of the DA’s grunts.”
Jerry shuffled his papers, dropped his pen on the floor, and banged his head on the table picking it up.
“Please, God,” I prayed. “Let him be a doofus.”
The clerk of courts rose and announced my case. “The State of Ohio versus Allie Nighthawk.”
The brain bitch snickered in my ear. You’re going down so hard!
Judge Franklin peered over his bench, in our general direction. “Are all parties present?”
Opie and Jerry answered in unison, “Yes, Your Honor.”
The clerk gave a formal reading of the charges. “Ms. Nighthawk, you are charged with violation of O.R.C. 2927.01, subsection B, gross abuse of a corpse: ‘No person, except as authorized by law, shall treat a human corpse in a way that would outrage reasonable community sensibilities.’ How do you plead?”
I leaned into the microphone, cleared my throat, and answered, “Not guilty, as in absolutely no way under the sun would I ever do that. Totally innocent — like a baby lamb, or one of those cute little mini-goats. Your Highness…Honor. Sir.”
Judge Franklin glared first at me and then at Opie, who placed his hand over the mic and whispered, “Chill.”
It was time for Freckle-Face Strawberry to do his thing.
“Your Honor, the charges in this case are completely without merit. We request immediate dismissal.”
Milligan’s jaw dropped. “Without merit? She plunged a seven-inch knife into the skull of a corpse!”
“Mr. Andrews,” the judge boomed. “This is an arraignment, not a preliminary hearing. We won’t be arguing the merits. Let’s move on to bail, shall we?”
Milligan glanced across the table at me and squared his shoulders. “Your Honor, the State deems Ms. Nighthawk, having only been in residence here for a grand total of…three days, to be a potential flight risk. We request maximum bail.”
Opie rolled his eyes. “Ms. Nighthawk has no criminal record. She owns her own home here in town and has a job consulting with CPD on paranormal-related cases. She isn’t going anywhere, Your Honor. We request OR bond.”
Judge Franklin banged his gavel. “
So be it. Ms. Nighthawk, you are hereby released on your own recognizance. Mr. Andrews, you can confirm the time and date of the preliminary hearing with the clerk before you leave today.”
“What?” I asked, grabbing Opie’s arm. “We have to come back again?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Are you freaking kidding me? Can’t you just make this go away?”
“That’s the plan,” Opie said, nudging me down the aisle toward the hall.
Harry nodded at me from the doorway. “I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll check in with you later.”
“Thanks for…everything,” I said, feeling a little awkward.
Harry nodded at Opie and grinned. “Thanks for coming down, Tim.”
“No problem.”
Harry’s eyes sparkled when he shifted his gaze to me. “You should probably add Tim’s number to your contacts. I have a feeling it’ll come in handy.”
So far, Harry had saved my ass twice. I could have done far worse drawing a partner. After Opie and I said goodbye to Harry, Opie steered me down the corridor to check on our hearing date. I suppose I should have been satisfied, being out on OR, but all I could see were dollar signs.
“First, an arraignment and now a hearing. What’s next?” I asked. “Talk about a freaking racket. You attorneys. You’re all a bunch of shysters. I hope you like cornmeal and meat by-products, ’cause that’s all I’ve got to pay you with.”
Opie stopped in his tracks. “I told Harry I’d take your case pro bono, but I may have to rethink that. Cheese and crackers, you’re high maintenance.”
Well, that was pretty damn presumptuous of him, given that he hadn’t even scratched the surface.
8
News Flash
Opie led me down the courthouse steps. I wasn’t a happy camper, and I didn’t care who knew it.
“January sixteenth? That’s ten days off. What the hell am I supposed to do for ten days?”
Opie shrugged and loosened his food-stained tie. “Keep your nose clean and don’t raise any corpses without an order until we get this sorted out.”
A Channel 10 news van screeched to a halt at the curb, and its crew sprinted up the steps in front of us. A cameraman jockeyed for position and hoisted his camera to his shoulder, then a short, dark-haired woman shoved a microphone in my face and peppered me with questions.
“Ms. Nighthawk, Jade Chen, Channel Ten news. Is it true that you reanimated a corpse without a court order and then killed it by stabbing it in the brain?”
Moron.
“You can’t kill a corpse, lady. It’s already dead.” I pushed the microphone away. “Back off, Buttercup.”
“The ACLU has publicly denounced your practice of raising the dead as a human rights violation. Would you care to comment on that?”
Opie stepped in front of me, shielding me from the camera. “No comment. Let us through please.”
Jade Chen swung the mic toward Opie. “Your name, sir? And your affiliation with this case?”
“Timothy Andrews, Ms. Nighthawk’s attorney.” He grabbed my arm and then bulldozed through the press. “Let us through. Please.”
The feisty reporter stood her ground. “Mr. Andrews, what will be your defense? Are you concerned about the public outcry against the practice of raising?”
“No comment. Move out of our way, Ms. Chen, or I’ll have you charged with harassment.”
“Talk to me, Mr. Andrews. Is there more to this story than meets the eye?”
Opie spun on his heel and turned pitbull. “Other than my client being ambushed here on the courthouse steps? Or you sensationalizing this case for the sake of ratings — casting judgment on my client before her case has even gone to trial? You tell me, Ms. Chen. That’s what I see.”
“Cut,” Jade snapped. “We’re finished here.” She turned to me with a thin, predatory smile. “We’ll get our story, Ms. Nighthawk. With or without your cooperation. Better for you with, don’t you agree? Think about it,” she said, shoving her business card at me. “In case you change your mind.”
I slapped the card from her hand and leaned in close. “Careful, Ms. Chen. I bite.”
“Was that a threat?”
“No, it was—”
Opie yanked me down the steps and pulled me through the last of the news crew, still packing up their equipment. Once we were out of earshot, Opie stopped short, spun me around and read me the riot act.
“Have you ever considered getting a muzzle for that brass-balls mouth of yours? You can’t threaten people, Ms. Nighthawk. Especially news reporters. Don’t make my job harder than it is.”
After I promised that I’d be a good little corpse whisperer, Opie dropped me off at The Blue Note so I could pick up my Harley. I considered going inside to talk to Dallas and make sure I still had a job, but I decided it might be best to give him some space. Besides, I was tired and Headbutt was probably wondering if I’d abandoned him.
My plan was to get some much needed sleep, and then report to the bar around seven-thirty, hoping to start back to work. With any luck, it would be busy and I wouldn’t have to grovel.
I slowed down as I pulled into my driveway, selfishly praying that Mrs. Nussbaum had gone deaf overnight and wouldn’t hear my Harley. Fat chance. Prayers like that never work.
The blue-haired fossil scurried out her door and crossed the lawn. “Mrs. Nighthawk,” she shouted. “You must vroom-vroom more quietly. You wake the dead.”
She had no idea how right she was about that. Why she called me Mrs. Nighthawk, I’ll never know. Crazy old bat. The odds against me putting up with a husband were astronomical — and vice-versa.
I waved at her, wondering if I would have to start walking my Lowrider down the street and into the driveway. “Yes, Mrs. Nussbaum. You bet,” I hollered over my shoulder and sprinted for the door, hoping to avoid a conversation. My bed and a lonely dog called.
After slipping in the key, I turned the knob and rushed in. Headbutt was right where I’d left him, lying on top of the register vent. I was beginning to wonder if he was kinetically challenged. His food bowl was empty and his water dish looked low, so I topped them off and then opened the kitchen door to let him outside. The red ball I’d bought him stared at me accusingly from the kitchen sink. I picked it up and joined Headbutt in the backyard.
Once he’d done his business, he sat in the grass with his eyes glued to me. I showed him the ball, hoping for a reaction. Nothing. Not even a tail wag.
“Fetch?” I said, throwing the ball.
Headbutt watched it sail by, then turned his head and fixed me in his bloodshot gaze.
“Go get the ball! Go on! Go get the ball, boy!”
He yawned and then farted. His stubborn bulldog butt never moved.
“Run, run, run.” I trotted toward the ball, hoping he’d take the hint.
He lay in the grass, closed his eyes and ignored me. That dog had no intention of chasing a ball, and probably never would. I picked up the ball, then walked over beside him and bent down.
“That’s okay, Headbutt. You do you,” I muttered, scratching behind his ears.
He gave me a kiss and followed me back into the house, breaking wind the whole way.
My dog. I think I’ll keep him.
I finally finished making my bed for the first time since I’d arrived, stripped off my clothes, and then crawled under the covers. Headbutt launched himself up and burrowed in alongside me. Best. Nap. Ever.
I might have slept the night away but Harry called, wondering if I’d be at The Blue Note.
“At least for a few minutes,” I said. “Maybe longer if I’m not fired.”
Come seven-thirty, feeling like an absolute dillweed, I walked my Lowrider to the street, kickstarted it, and headed for the bar. I practiced my speech for Dallas along the way. But the truth is, from one moment to the next, I never know what’s going to come out of my mouth. It’s always a crapshoot.
I pulled into the parking lot of The Blue Note and br
eathed a bit easier. Dallas had a packed house. He wouldn’t have the time, or the desire, to rip me a new one. The juke box was blaring and the crowd was in high gear. I spied Dallas behind the bar and sucked in a breath. It was time to throw myself on my sword.
Dallas glanced up and caught my eye. He must have been a good poker player; his expression was tough to read.
“Busy tonight,” I said, feeling my cheeks burn. I shifted my weight from foot to foot and finally blurted, “Listen. About last night. I’m sorry. It was all a big misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding,” he repeated. “Let’s see, now. Would that be the part where you got arrested for abusing a corpse? Or the part where you forgot to mention that you already had a night job when you accepted this job? Did it ever occur to you that hunting zombies at night might pose a scheduling problem here?”
My freeloading brain bitch pitched a hissy. Commence groveling. Look pathetic. NOW, Dumbass.
“I need this job, Dallas. I’m broke. CPD hasn’t paid me yet for the couple of jobs I’ve done. I promise, if you let me work the eight to midnight shift, I’ll talk to Harry about scheduling our jobs in the off hours. Sure, there could be some overlap,” I said, ignoring Little Allie’s screams. “But if, and when, that happens, I’ll make it up. Take other shifts. Clean grease traps. Haul out the trash. Bust heads—”
“Just shut up and get back here,” Dallas said, pointing toward the ladies’ room. “Grab the plunger out of the back and unclog that toilet.”
What can I say? The life of a broke-ass zombie hunter isn’t always sunshine and roses. Sometimes, you have to deal with shit. Literally.
Around nine o’clock, Harry walked in and bellied up to the bar with Opie.
“ID, please?” I said to my freckle-faced lawyer.
“Your whimsical sense of humor never disappoints, Ms. Nighthawk.”
“Just Nighthawk, Opie.”
“I’m Tim. Seriously. Is there no end to your abuse?”
“Not really,” I said, “I’m a bottomless pit of contempt. Ask anyone.”
Life Among the Tombstones Page 5