Lawyers in Hell

by Morris, Janet

  “To retain what you are given, great sacrifice comes with great reward,” Rasputin intoned from the dining table. “Without sacrifice, nothing comes.”

  “Shut it, you,” Marie ordered, glaring at the shrunken head. “No more prophecies. Henrietta, call your friend.”

  “I dislike John Pym very much,” Henrietta muttered as she went back to her bedroom, searching for her hellphone. “He was always so rude to my little King Charlie. Pym and that ghastly ‘Lord Protector’ Cromwell…”

  Marie picked up the head from the table and set it back on its perch. She looked around the cluttered apartment before she found a box the right size to hold the shrunken head. She brought it to the dining table and looked down at Rasputin. “And as for you, I’m returning you to sender.” Marie grabbed Rasputin by his disheveled hair, hoisting him into the air.

  “Oh no, not ‘return to sender,’” Rasputin mocked and rolled his eyes. “Well, could be worse. At least this time I won’t be the one blamed for a screw up….”

  “Shut up.” Marie shoved the head back into the box. Rasputin glared up at her as she closed the box flaps. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one at fault – better, you’re the faulty one.”

  “That argument might hold up in court,” the seer’s muffled voice called out from inside the box. “Assuming, of course, I could be proved faulty, that is.”

  “Henrietta? Can this lawyer meet us?” Marie called out, ignoring the miniature head. Henrietta poked her head out of her bedroom, frowning. “He said yes, but he said there would be certain ‘stipulations’ if he took the case,” Henrietta warned, a very royal pout on her face.

  Marie, doubtful, pursed her lips. “What are they, these ‘stipulations’?” She smacked the box. A muffled “Hey!” angrily sounded from inside it. Ignoring Rasputin’s protests, Marie carried the box to the doorway and tossed it into the hallway. Someone would be along eventually to collect the trash, she hoped. Or not. She was done with Rasputin.

  “About the stipulations … I don’t want to tell you what he’s demanding from me, but I’ve agreed,” Henrietta admitted after Marie returned. “He’s asked us to come by now, since he is between appointments at the moment. At least, that’s what I think he said.”

  “Well, let’s go then.” Marie led the way out the door, through the apartment building’s halls, and into the street.

  The air outside their building was scorching hot and filled with soot – another constant reminder they lived in hell. Hell was far hotter than her beloved Austria (what she was able to remember of it). Events before she arrived in hell were blurred memories.

  Marie avoided the random couples and groups groping each other out in the open as she led Henrietta toward Gremlins Chinese Theater, crossing the Hellywood Walk of Shame. She ignored the screams of horror and pain which emanated from Gremlins and turned toward the rundown building which stood in the shadows of the massive theater. Covered in grime and encircled with broken pavement, the dilapidated building fit perfectly with the underbelly of Hellywood.

  She ignored the pitying looks from the souls who were succeeding in hell; women with disdainful faces and elaborate furs adorning slender shoulders; men, fattened and well-fed, smirking at Marie and Henrietta as they passed. Marie bit her tongue and refused to acknowledge any of them, holding tight to her temper. Henrietta kept silent as well.

  “This, all this humiliation,” Marie said: “This is what the prophecy doll was supposed to prevent.” Being snubbed by passersby enjoying a more luxurious existence further enflamed her. After all, she was the former Queen of France.

  With Henrietta hot on her heels, Marie pushed open the front door of the small building and stepped into the lobby. The hellevator bore a crudely drawn sign informing all that it was out of order.

  “Typical,” Marie growled angrily as she looked for the stairwell. She turned her basilisk stare on Henrietta, who cringed. “Your friend is on the top floor.”

  “You should not have worn heels, then,” Henrietta murmured, her gaze averted. Marie scowled for a moment longer before she turned and marched to the stairs.

  “Is he a good lawyer, at least?” Marie huffed as they ascended the stairs, their worn and faded skirts snagging on the angular edges of the steps.

  “He was a fairly good one, from what I recall,” Henrietta admitted reluctantly as she struggled to keep pace with the faster and younger Marie. Her ample waistline hindered her much more than the dress she wore. “But still, a disgusting traitor and a rat.”

  After a few pauses to rest, the two women climbed to the very top floor of the building. There the stairway ended in a long hallway with a single door. A cracked window and a broken doorknob were the door’s only features. A pale blue carpet, stained and threadbare, covered the floor. The plaster walls were ancient and cracking. A single, flickering fluorescent illuminated the hallway.

  Marie and Henrietta cautiously made their way to the lone door with the cracked glass pane; aside from their muffled footsteps, they heard no other sound.

  Just outside the lawyer’s door, Marie and Henrietta stopped. Marie raised her hand to knock on the glass pane but before she could do so, the door swung open.

  Just within the doorway a stooped, elderly man awaited them.

  Marie blinked and stepped back, startled.

  His face was twisted in an unpleasant frown, and unevenly shaven. A thin scar ran along the side of one cheek; his hair was in complete disarray; his eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles beneath them.

  “Counselor John Pym,” said Henrietta. “This is my friend, former Queen of France and of Navarre, Marie Antoinette. Marie, Counselor Pym was leader of England’s Long Parliament.”

  Nothing she’d seen in New Hell had prepared Marie for the hooks that now replaced John Pym’s hands. A menacing hook ended in a sharp point below each wrist. Barbs angled from the bases of each rusted and ancient-looking prosthesis.

  Unable to help herself, Marie stared.

  “Go ahead. Take a good look. Get it out of your system,” Pym said bluntly.

  Still mesmerized, Marie blushed.

  Pym grunted. “Don’t worry. You’re safe with me. They frown on regicide here. Yet despite my minor part in Cromwell’s execution of England’s King Charles the First, I’ve fared better in hell than Henri Sanson, the man who guillotined you. My apartment even has a bidet. Granted, the water is usually either icy cold or scalding hot but it’s hell, is it not?”

  “I s-s-s-see,” Marie stammered, confused. She dimly recalled the name Sanson, though not from where. She looked past Pym and into the attorney’s office. “May we enter?”

  “Certainly,” he said and waved them inside with one rusty hook. He raised an eyebrow and leered at Henrietta: “Charlie the Martyr was always the fool in the old days, wasn’t he, my dear queen? Letting a handsome piece like you near the likes of me.”

  “You traitorous rat!” Henrietta hissed through clenched teeth, squinting in the dim light as she shoved her way past the lawyer. “You were lucky to avoid arrest when Charlie’s guard came calling for you.”

  “That was a long time ago, Henrietta Maria,” Pym reminded her calmly, his leer disappearing. “Anyway, what is the old martyr up to these days?”

  “I don’t know,” Henrietta replied primly. She folded her arms across her chest and looked down her nose at him. “The king’s affairs are none of your business.”

  “Oh, so that’s how it is!” Pym exclaimed, slapping Henrietta on the backside with the curved side of one hook. “Love beyond the grave? Or did he get his fill of little Catholic French princesses while he yet lived? You were always good for a laugh, Henrietta.”

  “We are not here to reminisce, Mr. Pym,” Marie interrupted. “Henrietta told me you could help us.”

  “Yes,” Pym nodded, closing his office door with his shoulder. He kicked aside one of many stray manila folders scattered on the floor, motioning the two ladies to seat themselves on his couch before he pulle
d a chair out from behind his desk and sat heavily. “So you want to sue Prophecy Dolls, eh?”

  “They lied in their advertisement on PBS – you know, we should be able to trust Perdition Broadcasting System … PBS, funded by us, the damned….” Henrietta played nervously with a loose strand of hair. “The broadcast said the prophecy doll would help improve our fortunes. So far, it has led to misery.”

  “I bought one of those dolls myself, actually,” Pym nodded, smiling at the memory. “I picked up the Nostradamus one. Swell gag gift, if you ask me. He predicted that the two ‘dames of air’ shall head into my office. Classic prophecy…”

  “Your Nostradamus doll dared to call me an airhead? Oh, never mind, I’m not asking about your doll,” Marie reminded him sternly. “The Prophecy Dolls company is in breach of contract for saying that their dolls work. Maybe PBS is, too, for offering the dolls to contributors. Henrietta said that you could possibly sue them … Prophecy Dolls, I mean, not PBS.” Her voice trailed off.

  Pym was leaning back in his chair, his eyes half closed. “We could, possibly,” he allowed after a moment of silent contemplation. “Someone else brought something like this up a few weeks ago and has a court date scheduled. We could piggyback on it and join them for a classless action lawsuit, though the defense may scream for a continuance while going over the new evidence. If memory serves, the burden of proof is on the defendant to demonstrate lack of culpability in these cases. Hell is strange with rules and laws. Contracts are especially important.”

  “How fast can this lawsuit happen?” Henrietta asked. “Do you think we could win?”

  Pym leaned forward in his chair and frowned. “Usually something like this can take an eternity.” Ignoring cries of outrage from both women, he pressed on: “However, someone over at the Lost Angeles Circuit Court owes me a blood favor. I think we can be in there next week, at the latest.”

  “That soon? Really?” Marie gasped.

  Pym nodded. “Despite my appearance, I’m still at the top of my game,” he reminded them self-deprecatingly. “Uncouth I may be, and just a relic of hell now, but I practice law as badly as possible and try not to end up in the Mortuary. I am forever damned to suffer for using my religion to usurp and overthrow your Charlie.”

  “As well you should be!” Henrietta’s voice shrilled. Her pale cheeks flushed an angry pink. “May you suffer more!”

  “I assure you, I will. Is there anything else I can do for you ladies today?” Pym asked Marie, ignoring Henrietta’s outburst.

  “Guarantee us a victory,” Marie sniffed as she stood; Henrietta followed her example.

  Pym said nothing more. He stood and ushered the two former queens from his office. In the doorway, he paused.

  “Henrietta?” His eyes caught those of Charles the First’s queen.

  “Yes?” Henrietta replied carefully.

  “My stipulations?” he reminded her.

  Henrietta sighed. “Does it have to be now?” she asked.

  Pym shrugged his shoulder and idly scratched the top of his head with a hook.

  Henrietta gave Marie a resigned look. “I’ll be home later,” she muttered, her voice low. “Don’t wait up.”

  “Wait up? What?” asked Marie, confusion in her voice. “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s going with me to the Gremlins Chinese Theater this afternoon,” Pym said, tapping the door with a rusted hook. He grinned wolfishly. “I’ve got us prime tickets to Bad William Slaying. I’ve heard the seats are simply torturous!”

  “Torturous, yes,” Henrietta acknowledged miserably. Marie suddenly realized what Pym’s ‘stipulations’ had been and felt a momentary pang of pity for her roommate.

  “Merde. I’ll see you later tonight,” Marie said and, deserting Henrietta, left the attorney’s office with a jaunty bounce in her step.

  Nothing in hell could stop Marie now.

  *

  For their court appearance, Marie wore the best dress she could find in Beasterly Hells. Madame Toadstool’s Finery had a gown she was able to buy for only a pittance in blood; the blood-letting itself was something Marie no longer minded. And the blood-red dress was reminiscent of the coronation gown she had worn in life, but with tiny demonic symbols embroidered at the folds of the material. She’d pulled up her hair in a french twist; for once, it was not frizzy from the oppressive heat.

  Beside her, her fellow plaintiff, Henrietta, wore a demure black dress, her hair swept back from her face. Marie shifted to see the lawyer across the aisle, representing their opponents.

  A nondescript man in a brown suit stood alone at a large table, a small folder before him on the polished wood. His expression was noncommittal. In fact, everything about him was innocuous. His hair, face and features were forgettable. His suit was neither fashionable nor out of date.

  Marie studied the opposing counsel carefully, then shook her head. The other lawyer was wearing black shoes.

  “Incroyable,” she whispered to Henrietta. “Black shoes and a brown belt? Mode erreur!” Henrietta tittered nervously.

  Marie turned and leaned closer to Pym, waiting impatiently on her left. “Who is he?” Marie asked, jerking a thumb in the direction of the opposing counsel.

  “Someone named Smith,” Pym said with a shrug. “Nobody of great consequence, really. I was afraid we’d be up against a bloody genius like Stephen Douglas. That man can orate, I’ll tell you. Arguing against him would be a nightmare.”

  “So if Prophecy Dolls only sent a single lawyer who is a nobody…” Marie’s voice trailed off hopefully. Pym was already nodding, a slight smile on his stubbled face.

  “Then that means they really don’t have much faith in their defense argument and are conceding,” Pym finished for her. He waved a hook nonchalantly toward the judicial bench. “Depending upon our judge, we could be looking at a very hefty prize for our victory.”

  “Yes,” Marie breathed, her eyes bright and shining. Hope filled her heart. “I’m finally going to get what I deserve.”

  The bailiff, who had been sitting quietly near the judicial bench, stood up and looked at both tables. He cleared his throat noisily.

  “All rise,” he intoned, his eyes flickering to his right. Marie turned her head and watched as a tall, statuesque figure strode purposefully into the courtroom. His robes were blood red, matching Marie’s gown perfectly. Two large horns protruded from his forehead. His pale skin shone in the dim light of the courtroom. His black hair was slicked back from his face and swirled around his majestic horns. His face was clean-shaven, and his lips betrayed a soft smile. The bailiff continued: “The court is now in session; the Dishonorable Raum, Great Earl of Hell and Demonic Lord of the Lost Angeles Uncivil Circuit Court of the Hall of Injustice, presiding.”

  “Oh, shit,” Pym hissed through clenched teeth, eyes wide and terrified.

  Marie stared fearfully at the lawyer. Pym was visibly shaking where he stood before the demon judge. Marie felt her hopes jump into her throat and violently escape, leaving her soul bereft. Her knees felt weak.

  “Be seated,” Raum muttered, reaching into his robes to pull out a small pair of reading glasses. Once the glasses were settled upon his nose, the judge glanced over at the bailiff. “Barney, what’s on the docket for today?”

  “First case, Your Demonic Lordship, is case number Two Eight Four Three,” the bailiff recited from memory, adjusting an obscenely large revolver against his bony frame. “Marie Antoinette and Henrietta Maria versus Prophecy Dolls, Limited Liability Corporation.”

  “I love those little heads,” Raum murmured as he flipped documents, eyes quickly scanning the pages.

  Marie watched him, sweat forming over every inch of her as she realized just how far up a creek they might be. She’d been expecting a judge who was a damned soul, not a demon.

  “I’ve got two of those little Rasputins and a Madame Blavatsky at my house,” said Raum. “Hilarious to hear them argue with one another about a prophecy. Better than advert
ised. Do the plaintiffs have their argument prepared for the issue at hand?”

  “Uh, yes Your Demonic Lordship,” Pym said, nearly choking on his tongue at Raum’s admission. “Um, would Your Dishonor like to recuse himself from this case, per the potential conflict of interest resulting from your ownership of said Prophecy Dolls?”

  Raum looked at Pym. The lawyer squirmed as the demon judge regarded him with barely-controlled rage.

  Seconds dragged by. Marie waited anxiously. Just how much power could an enraged demon wield?

  “Uh, very well then: plaintiffs withdraw the request for recusal. We’re happy to have Your Demonic Lordship hear our plea for injustice,” Pym stammered.

  “You may begin when ready, counselors,” the judge rumbled. Leaning back in his chair, he nodded at Pym to begin.

  “My clients claim they are victims of breach of contract and were led astray by Prophecy Dolls, LLC’s, false advertising campaign,” Pym began, his voice tight and constrained. “My clients followed the instructions advertised on the Perdition Broadcasting System exactly. After purchasing their Rasputin-model prophecy doll, my clients asked their Rasputin doll how they could obtain a better existence.

  “Wrongly advised by the Rasputin model, my clients proceeded into misfortune, time and again. Prophecy Dolls, LLC, therefore breached their contract to deliver viable prophecies and profited from the suffering of my unfortunate clients. My clients believe that Prophecy Dolls, LLC, made false claims of performance to entice them to purchase a doll. We seek only restitution and injustice, Your Dishonor.”

  “Defendant? You may now answer these charges,” said the demon judge.

  Marie felt a tiny flicker of hope as the judge’s eyes bored into the defense attorney.

  “May we approach the bench, Your Lordship?” asked Smith, the opposing counsel, suddenly, surprising everyone at the plaintiff’s table.

  Raum grunted and motioned for both attorneys to step forward.

  With only one sheet of paper in hand, the defense attorney walked calmly to the bench and was met there by Pym. Smith handed the piece of paper to the judge, who read it.