Black Mustard: Justice

by Dallas Coleman

  “Hey!” He scowled over. “You’re more than a gopher! You’re also a lackey and one hell of a Girl Friday.”

  Anna flipped him off in one, slow gesture, her cracked black fingernail glinting in the light and Justice couldn’t help but crack up. He did like her.

  “Do I have to be nice to you now or something, since you’re knocked up and giving notice? I mean, I feel like I should harass you or something. Make you run laps.” Could pregnant girls run laps?

  She shook her head, looking like a great big porcupine. “Hell, no. One, I don’t run, even when being chased with an axe. Two, you should be kissing my boots for giving notice and not just disappearing. Hell, I was even nice to you, like in a serious way. I put an ad out on Monster last week when I found out. I have fifty seven resumes for you to look at.”

  He thought about growling about the fact that it had taken her three days to come talk to him, then he heard what she’d said to him. “Fifty seven? No shit?”

  “Four hundred and eighty eight applicants. I only chose the ones you might like.”

  His eyes wide. “Did you put the salary on the ad?”

  Because, shit. He could barely afford to pay himself and the rent, much less Anna. This whole life was a calling, more than anything else.

  “I did.” She shrugged. “Times are hard all over. Shit, there’s a couple of baby lawyers, one guy with experience, even.”

  “No shit?”

  Man, that would be helpful, someone who could litigate alongside him. Someone who’d passed the bar.

  “Yeah, I put them on the top of the pile.” She put the papers on his desk. “You decide which ones you want to interview, and I’ll call and make appointments.”

  “You’re sure you want to go?”

  Anna nodded. “This is no place to raise a baby, Justice. I’m sorry, but this goddamn place isn’t where my soul is. It’s humid and stinky and there aren’t any mountains reaching up over the desert. That’s what I need.”

  “I can understand that, I suppose.” There was a reason he was still in New Orleans, even after the Storm, even after everything.

  “I thought you might be able to.” She winked again and headed out. Justice just sighed and rubbed his forehead. Great.

  Just great.

  Damn it.

  This was the last thing he needed right now. He was working with the Innocence Project on a newly convicted case and he thought he might be able to get her appeal to actually work.

  Maybe.

  If he had luck and God on his side.

  At least he wasn’t trying it in Texas. That was just suicide.

  Justice answered a few emails, answered a couple of phone calls, then sucked it up and grabbed the pile of papers.

  The top name was a kid that he’d heard rumors about -- one of those climbers who’d do anything for a reference. It was doable, but the appeal could take time…

  The second name made him stop and stare, blink.

  Well, he’d be damned.

  Loic de Hiver.

  Applying to work for him.

  Shit fire and save matches.

  ***

  Loic pulled up into a space, looked at himself in the rearview and told himself he was not nervous.

  Not.

  If fucking Justice Hibbideux didn’t want to hire him as a paralegal, fuck him.

  God, he was scared.

  He grabbed his bag, his pad of paper. The lady he’d been emailing with -- Anna -- she said they understood about his unique condition. Loic sure hoped so; Hibbideux had been there when it happened, for Christ’s sake.

  The law office was in a tiny, bottom floor office in an older building that seemed to have been fairly well kept up. The second floor looked like an apartment or something. He looked at the list of businesses, but they were the standards -- one architect, a dentist, one podiatrist, and a pilates slash yoga studio.

  Normal.

  Reasonable.

  At least until you noticed that everything but Hibbideux and the architect were out of business.

  Mon Dieu.

  He headed in, stepping over a huge black Rottie that cocked one eye at him, curled one lip to show off huge, white teeth.

  “Samson. Stop. Let the man in.” The office door was open, Justice Hibbideux standing there. “Hey, Loic. Come on in. We’ve had break ins, so I bring him down from upstairs.”

  Loic nodded, held out one hand, silently. He needed this job, damn it.

  Needed it bad.

  “We’ll meet back in my office. Anna let me know that you aren’t speaking, so that’s fine. I do most of my business by email and I have an answering service, otherwise all I’d do is yammer on the phone. Weird, ain’t it? How life has changed? Shit, twenty years ago, none of us could imagine an office without a receptionist and now most folks don’t have a frigging phone. Sit.”

  The office was a wreck -- papers and computers and newspapers and photos everywhere. The desk was old, the chairs older, but the desktop looked up to date. He sat, tried not to wrinkle his nose, but he knew he was caught when Hibbideux brayed with laughter.

  “I know, man. It’s a mess. I know where all the files are, though, and usually Anna kept me up better. She’s just wasn’t all here her last week and then I’ve been on my own, with her doing some long-distance shit for me from Arizona. Hell, she’s my answering service. You… whoever gets the position will deal with her via email a lot.”

  He looked at Justice -- the little bulldog man looked nervous, almost, a hint of sweat on the forehead, the beginning of dark circles under his eyes.

  Loic grabbed his notebook and scratched out, “Don’t be nervous. I know it’s weird.”

  Hibbideux looked at the note, nodded. “That it is. They know what’s wrong yet?”

  Loic shook his head.

  “That sucks. I felt bad, when I heard.”

  Loic shrugged. What did a person say to that, assuming he could say anything worthwhile?

  “So, I don’t have to ask you if you know your shit.” Hibbideux met his eyes. “What I want to know is why here? Why me? I’m not your kind of lawyer.”

  Loic was ready for that question. Hell, he’d asked himself the question a thousand times. He grabbed his pad, scribbled, “I need a job. Big firms won’t hire me because of the ADA issues. You are a sucker for a hard case. I’m a hard case. I know how to do the job. I won’t screw you over and I’m good at what I do.”

  At least he had been.

  Now he was diminished, but that was okay. He was learning to deal with that. He could do this.

  Justice took the pad from him, read the note, tilted his head, then nodded. “Okay. Yeah. That’s fair and honest. Job’s yours, if you want it.”

  He blinked, honestly surprised. He’d expected to get through the interview and then get a politely worded letter of refusal, not an offer after a couple of notes.

  Justice shrugged. “You’re right. You know the job, and I’m a softie. Not only that, but I like to listen to myself yammer. You’re no competition.”

  The words stung, and he looked up to snarl, then saw the laughter in Hibbideux’s eyes. Fucker.

  He slowly flipped the man off, and happy laughter filled the office. “See? There you go! We can work together. I like it.”

  Loic nodded. They could. He could do this.

  “I have one more question.”

  Loic nodded.

  “Can you start tonight? We have a death row case that I’m just beginning the ground work on. If we leave now, we can have a meeting with Modette -- she’s the accused -- and get some stuff accomplished over supper.”

  Hibbideux started rustling papers, moving shit around. “She was accused of killing four men in a drug store robbery -- she’s got a hard core habit, but her common law husband, Rydel, there’s evidence she w
as coerced and that he, in fact, committed the crimes. I know she deserves to serve time, but she doesn’t deserve to die… Where the fuck is her file? I have a condensed file with all the pertinent info in a Tulane folder over here. I just had it in my hot little hands.”

  Loic shrugged his jacket off, then reached out, yanked the folder off the top of a huge pile of research, and waved it.

  Justice grinned, nodded. “That’s it. Start reading. I’ll call down to the prison and get us in. You a coffee drinker?”

  Loic nodded.

  “Sugar and cream?”

  He nodded again.

  “Good, me too. I’ll grab us each a cup and set you up an email account. Welcome aboard, man.” Hibbideux headed off, cell phone on one ear, jabbering away.

  Loic sat for half a second, blinked a little, then grabbed his laptop so he could make notes, send Dad an email, that sort of thing.

  Looked like he had a job.

  Go him.

  ***

  “Loic, man? Where the fuck are the dissertations from Debbie Mitchell and Rich Hardison? I need to read them again.”

  Justice pushed the folders around his desk, hunting.

  His phone beeped, the text coming in from the front. “I have the Mitchell file. The Hardison file was in your briefcase.”

  “Why the fuck is it in my briefcase?”

  Ding.

  “Because you wanted to take it to a transcriptionist so you could search via word.”

  Oh, right.

  “Thanks!” He bent over, grabbed the folder and started flipping. He knew that Rich had said something weird about Rydel making Modette take something before the robbery. He knew it.

  If it hadn’t been Rich, he’d have to hunt deeper.

  Damn it.

  He muttered under his breath, searching through page after page, trying to build something out of this case. Anything.

  One hand landed on his shoulder, startling him, and he jumped, looked up into the eyes of the man who had become the single most important man in his practice in a very short five weeks. It had taken them one road trip to figure out that Loic was the Felix to his Oscar. Honestly, Justice would have bet that Loic would never have come back for day two -- which, in truth, was defending a group of prostitutes that had castrated a brutal pimp and was some of the most fun he’d had in court in years. Those girls were fierce.

  Justice grinned. “Dude, what’s up?”

  Loic pulled out a set of cards that he kept in his pocket for simple things. “Lunch.”

  “Yeah? You want to go together or do you have a date?”

  Loic flipped him off, slow and lazy.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s hell, being a queer pro-bono lawyer that can’t talk.”

  Loic’s eyebrow lifted, lips twisting, then the phone came out, fingers flying fast and furious. When he didn’t look down at the beep, Loic stared at him and he stared back. “What?”

  Loic pointed. Firmly.

  He looked down, grinned at the message.

  “What’s your excuse, asshole?”

  “Asshole? Listen to you! I remember when you wouldn’t stoop to calling me anything but Hibbideux. Now you’re texting perversities at me.”

  Loic stared him down.

  “I bet that’s like... sexual harassment or something.”

  More staring.

  “Lunch. Shrimp at Duvet’s?” They both liked it there, it was quiet, quick, good, and had free wi-fi, so Loic could text away and they could chat.

  Loic nodded, handed him the Mitchell file, the papers marked with dozens of pink and orange sticky notes, all scribbled on in Loic’s blocky handwriting.

  “You still need this or is it mine?”

  Loic tapped the post-it note on the front cover. “Don’t fuck with my tabs, Justice.”

  “Right. You still need it.”

  He grabbed his wallet, his phone, his iPad. “Come on, fearless wonder, let’s eat. Maybe you can move your lips and pretend to talk this time.”

  The sound of Loic’s hand swatting his ass made him cackle as they headed out.

  ***

  Loic was searching through miles of electronic documents, hunting something -- anything that would help them get Modette off death row. Weird, wasn’t it? He’d never seen himself doing this, but he’d talked to that poor woman -- well, okay, she’d talked, but he was learning about that, about listening.

  About hearing.

  And she’d had things to say. Jesus. How Modette had been so high that she’d thought they were on a carnival ride, medical reports from beatings, vaginal tears, burns. It hurt his feelings, hurt his soul, but that woman had a joke for them every time they came in, had a smile for him, a hug for Justice.

  “I’m not scairt.” She told them. “I ain’t scairt to meet Jesus, but it ain’t right, them telling me when I got to die. ‘Sides, I can help women in here, help them find goodness and real life.”

  She had been helping, too. Teaching classes, taking classes, speaking about the dangers of heroin. It was honorable.

  Loic couldn’t believe someone with a soul like hers could be a cold-blooded murderer.

  A cup of coffee and a paper-wrapped sandwich appeared at his elbow, Justice dropping it off on the way across the office.

  He watched the stocky little banty rooster man move. Every day was a long day, every case got Justice’s attention, and every morning when Loic got in, Justice was here already, pitch black coffee in one hand, cigarette in another, stubby fingers clacking on the keyboard, answering the last few hours emails, sending editorials to some poor newspaper, writing another senator.

  They’d discovered that they worked together like a dream, too. Justice was a bulldog -- refusing to stay down, no matter how many times the law or the conservatives or the big money knocked him down. Justice believed in his clients -- each and every one of them -- and was willing to bleed for them. Loic had never known a man like that before, and he was fairly sure he never would again. When he added in his own skills -- research, organization, and a not-altogether surprising skill for spying, they were an amazing team.

  Loic was more than a little bit in love -- if not with the man’s body, then with the man’s drive.

  He knew Justice was like him -- the man was the go-to guy for the Alliance here -- and he thought Justice would be interested, if he made the offer, but the fact was, Loic wanted this job, needed the work way worse than he needed a piece of ass.

  Justice turned, looked back at him, saddlebags under the man’s eyes. “You good, cher?”

  He nodded, that little endearment making his mouth dry. He was. Justice needed a nap, though. He could tell.

  “Excellent. It’s catfish. I’m going to get my shit ready for court in the morning.”

  He lifted his hand, made the A-Okay sign. He’d be here.

  Watching.

  Working.

  Wishing.

  ***

  Justice sat on the balcony of his apartment, staring out at the lights, the Friday night folks coming home from work, going out to supper. The heat was weighing on him, the humidity in the air so thick that showering just made it worse. On a normal night, he could smell the spice from Zyedco’s on the corner, smell the river like a low-level, weirdly comforting funk that permeated everything. Smell the flowers from a foot away from his head, their perfume heady and perfect and belonging nowhere on earth but right here.

  He took another shot of his bourbon.

  It wasn’t a normal night, though.

  It wasn’t at all.

  He hadn’t even bothered to take off his slacks, his button-down, even his shoes when he’d locked up for the weekend, stumbled upstairs with a pounding head and tear-blurred eyes and grabbed a bottle and a low ball glass. His tie was off, but it had been off downstairs, before he ever got the c
all.

  Jesus, life wasn’t fair.

  He heard the knock like it was from a million miles away, then he heard the scrape of the deadbolt scratching along. He didn’t look.

  He didn’t have to.

  There was one man in this city with a key to his place; one man who’d have seen the locked office and thought to worry.

  Loic’s worried, pinched face appeared in the door. “Justice?”

  “You ever find it ironic that the only word you can say is my name, cher?”

  Loic scribbled. “You ever find it ironic that your name is the only legal term that makes sense? What the fuck is wrong?”

  “Modette.”

  Loic’s head tilted, eyebrows lowering, and one of those long hands made a curious motion.

  “Heart attack. This morning. Massive. She didn’t even make it to the infirmary.”

  Loic stumbled forward. “Justice!”

  Justice was fairly sure Loic meant ‘shit’ or ‘fuck’, maybe ‘goddamn’, since that was the right amount of syllables.

  He nodded, the tears coming close again. “She just died, cher. I was there with her, not twelve hours earlier, and she was singing to me, telling me some of her bullshit stories.” And he wasn’t ever going to be able to help her.

  Loic sat next to him, one hand on his thigh, and Justice reached down, needing to hold onto something. Loic was solid, warm, just what he needed.

  “God damn it, ain’t I ever going to make a difference? To anyone? We keep fighting and fighting and, if some asshole with money and delusions of grandeur don’t get in our way, then the good Lord does.”

  It wasn’t fair.

  It wasn’t. Modette had deserved her story to be out there, to teach her classes.

  Loic didn’t say a word -- like Loic could, for fuck’s sake -- but that hand stayed on him, holding on. Touching him. Like a rock.

  “I mean it.” He poured another couple of fingers, offered Loic the glass, pleased when the man took it. “We fight and fight, and shit still happens. I just... fuck, I’m mad. I can’t believe we’re not going to run up to the prison and go see her Monday.”

  That hand shifted, rubbing his thigh, and Justice took it as a sign to keep going, keep talking.