Lawyers in Hell

by Morris, Janet

  Monty stared at Pazuzu for a long time. “Do you really think that will work?” he finally asked.

  Pazuzu shrugged. “Why not? And, even if it doesn’t, so what? If nothing else, it will relieve the tedium of eternity. Think about it. Do you want to spend forever listening to the same bitching and griping, day in and day out? Eating the same tasteless food? Drinking the same rancid water? Wouldn’t it be nice to have the zing and zest of a secret mission to add a tang to your existence?”

  Monty paced while he considered Pazuzu’s words, unmindful of the breach of protocol. Finally, he turned to the being. “So, what do I have to do?”

  “Right now, nothing. Watch and wait. There will soon come a time when they pull you out of your current torment to have some fun with you. They will probably put you into some kind of no-win scenario. I don’t know what it will be, but I have faith that you will recognize it.

  “When they do, go along with it. Make them believe that you are trying your best, giving it your all. In the meantime, look for your opportunity to turn it in a way that they didn’t expect. They are bored bullies and they are not nearly as smart as they think they are.” Pazuzu chuckled to himself. “No, my friend, not nearly. When the time comes, pull your switch.”

  Monty shook his head, his doubts plain on his face. “How could that possibly help you?”

  “By itself, it won’t. But, if you do it here, and someone else does it over there, and something happens in this alley, then the actions accrue and the image that the demons might not be all-powerful begins to spread. As it spreads, their control weakens. The more they try to fight it, the worse it gets.”

  “So, what’s in it for me?”

  “In the short run, probably nothing. In the long run, maybe nothing still.” Pazuzu winked. “Then, again, maybe you’ll get another good cup of coffee.”

  Suddenly, Monty was sitting behind his desk. In his hand was an Infernal Action Request form. Opposite him Mrs. Johanssen was staring at him, her expression uncertain.

  “Well, I was hoping that you would take it up with whoever’s in charge of these things,” she finally said. “You look like such a nice man. They’re bound to listen to you.”

  Monty took a deep breath and instantly regretted it. The mixture of smells – rest home neglect coupled with the rotten egg stench of sulfur – was too much. He barely turned over the trash can in time as his stomach violently ejected everything he’d eaten and drunk. After several minutes of spasmodic upheaval, he was finally able to sit upright and wipe his lips with a coarse, brown tissue.

  Well, he thought, at least I have the memory.

  *

  The room was huge – enormous – far larger than any office he’d ever seen. The panels of the drop ceiling were at least fifteen feet above his head. The dark paneled walls formed a cube forty feet square. Looking around, Monty noticed that the only furniture was the receptionist’s desk, a massive highly-polished redwood structure. A computer monitor faced away from him at an angle. The keyboard, mouse, and mouse pad sat neatly in the center of the far side of the desk. A slender but well-endowed platinum-haired woman sat in a thickly-padded, oxblood leather chair while she typed, hunt and peck fashion, on an old IBM Selectric typewriter. The woman looked familiar, but Monty could not figure out why.

  Set inside recesses in the wall behind her desk on either side stood two massive oak doors. Between them, in thick gold letters, were the words:

  Asmoday, Amdusias, Amon, Marchosias,

  Marbas Zepar

  Attorneys At Law

  Monty relaxed. A law office! At last he was on familiar ground. A long, narrow carpet runner stretched from the elevator doors to the front of the desk. It was a garish, imitation Persian design. Twisted shapes in gold and crimson and black and orange turned and writhed like snakes or worms. He walked gingerly toward the desk expecting to feel the reptiles wriggling beneath his shoes. All he felt was solid floor.

  “Do you have an appointment?” The voice was sultry, Midwestern sexy, and full of feminine allure. The receptionist had turned from her typing and now faced him. Only now did he realize how petite she was. He didn’t need a hairdresser to know that her hair came from a peroxide bottle. Although she was very pretty – starlet beautiful, in fact – the retro thirties look with the too red lipstick and the rouge did nothing for him. Still, there was something familiar, something about those wide green eyes…

  “Jean, is my two o’clock appointment here, yet?” the intercom on her desk buzzed.

  “I think he just arrived, Mister M.” The woman replied, leaning forward to speak into the machine and giving Monty a generous view of her ample cleavage. She looked up at Monty questioningly.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I am. A moment ago I was sitting at my desk giving estate planning advice, and the next; I’m standing here talking to you.”

  “It’s him, Mister M.”

  “Very good, Jean. Would you bring him to Conference Room B, please? And, see what he would like to drink and get it for him.”

  Monty glanced at a black nameplate framed in brass. The engraved white read: J. Harlow. Of course! The original blonde bombshell of the 1930’s.

  “Right away, Mister M.” The woman stood and turned toward the door on the left. “Would you follow me, please, Mister…”

  “Montgomery,” he replied as he tried to race her to the door. “Aaron Montgomery. You can call me Monty.”

  She beat him and held it open with her left hand as she slipped through the portal ahead of him. He trailed behind while his eyes followed the figure eight movement of her almost perfect ass even though he knew it was pointless. After two twists, they reached a conference room. The room was large – forty feet long and twenty-five wide. In the center stood a massive conference table. The highly polished and oiled mahogany surface reflected the overhead fluorescent lights like a mirror. The top was three feet wide at either end but widened at the middle to four feet. A luxurious leather captain’s chair sat at either end. Five leather armchairs graced each side. One end of the room sported a huge whiteboard with markers in the metal tray along the bottom edge. The wall opposite was plain with a low mahogany credenza between it and the end of the table. Both long walls were wood framed glass panels looking out over rows of cubicles.

  The receptionist indicated the nearest chair. “Please have a seat. Mister M will be with you shortly. Would you like something to drink?”

  What the hell, he thought.

  “Would it be possible to get a small Scotch?”

  “Certainly,” she smiled. “Would you like that with cola, on the rocks, or neat?”

  “On the rocks, please,” he replied barely concealing his surprise.

  “I’ll just be a moment.”

  He watched as she turned and gyrated through the door.

  Five minutes later she returned, placed a napkin on the smooth surface, and set a heavy glass tumbler in front of him. Ice cubes tinkled against the sides as Monty picked it up and took a sip.

  He almost spit it out, but managed to gag it down. It tasted like industrial sludge. He wiped his mouth with the napkin and sat back.

  He waited.

  And, waited.

  Thirty minutes passed. Suddenly, he looked up as the conference room door slammed open. The being striding toward him put him in mind of horror stories. It stood a little over six feet tall and had a man’s torso, but that was where any species kinship ended. Rising from the neck of the tailored suit was the head of a wolf. A serpent’s tail exited the seat of the trousers and writhed behind the creature. Griffin’s wings rose from between its shoulders. It pulled a chair away from the table and sat next to Monty.

  “I am the Marquis Marchosias,” said the demon as he extended his hand. “I am one of the senior partners in this firm.”

  Reflexively he reached for the creature’s paw. As they made contact he felt its flesh squirm and shift. Before he could pull back, however, the paw had changed to a hand and the win
ged werewolf to a well-dressed older – and human – male with silver hair and glowing, red-flecked gray eyes. The man was fit, too, judging from his grip. His olive complexion spoke to a Mediterranean or even Middle Eastern heritage.

  Although disconcerted by the shape change, Monty started to rise.

  Marchosias shook his head as he released Monty’s hand and made an off-hand gesture for him to stay seated.

  “My legal team – of which you are now the most junior – has been given an interesting case. Since you were a defense attorney when you were alive, this should be right up your alley.”

  Monty tried not to fidget. This was a demon, after all, and according to all he’d ever read or seen in movies or experienced here, their acquaintance with the truth was distant at best.

  “It’s a simple case. A defamation of character suit.” Marchosias smiled, showing a full set of lupine teeth bristling within his human mouth. “The defendant, our client, is a writer named Bram Stoker.”

  Monty groaned. He could see where this was going and he did not like it.

  “You’ve heard of him, then. Good. That makes it so much better.”

  “Who filed the suit?” Monty croaked through his constricted throat.

  Marchosias glanced at a document lying on the far end of the table. “Let me get this right. It says here Prince Vlad III Drakulya aka Vlad Tepes aka Drakulja, Prince of Wallachia and Transylvania. I believe that is part of Rumania.”

  Of course. Who else could it be? Monty slumped in his seat. “Not that I think it will matter, but who is the opposing counsel?”

  The demon sat on the end of the table. “It’s a team. Two men – Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton. From what I understand they are quite good, despite their differences.”

  Monty looked up. “Differences?”

  “They’ve hated each other for over two centuries.”

  “Maybe I can use that,” Monty mused. He didn’t really believe it, but the thinnest of slivers looked like a raft to a drowning man.

  “I doubt it. They usually put aside their differences inside the courtroom.”

  “This could be difficult,” Monty said, shaking his head. “The historical – the real – Vlad Tepes was many things. He was never a vampire. There’s no such thing except in horror stories.”

  Marchosias leaned down until he was nose-to-nose with Monty. “You’re a lawyer. What does reality have to do with anything? Besides, you misunderstand me. I don’t want you to win this case. I want you to lose it.”

  Monty’s head snapped up from looking at the papers. “Lose it?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But, he’s our client.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re supposed to defend him.”

  “And, we will.”

  “But, you just said…”

  “I told you that you must lose the case.” Marchosias smiled. “I fail to see your dilemma. Defend him. Just don’t win.”

  “But, he’s our client.”

  “So is the prince.”

  Monty looked down at the paper. This made no sense. It was a clear conflict of interest.

  Marchosias leaned close to Monty’s downturned face. “Do not even consider recusing yourself or this firm. That is not an option.”

  Monty didn’t trust his voice so he nodded instead. His nose wrinkled in disgust. Didn’t anyone use breath mints in hell?

  “I will leave you to your thoughts,” the demon said as he left the room. “Just remember. You must not win.”

  Monty remained in the leather chair. He stared at the white board while he collected his thoughts and tried to map a strategy. Obviously, he could not prove the prince was a real vampire. They did not exist.

  He shook his head. He couldn’t use that, anyway. It would be a win.

  How common was the name Dracula in Rumania? Were the names spelled the same?

  Stop it, his mind screamed. That’s a winning strategy.

  In the book, Stoker referred to him as Count Dracula. The man suing Stoker was Prince Drakulya. Obviously a count was lower on the food chain than a prince, so that was another difference. How many more discrepancies could he find? Monty glanced at the end of the conference table. The legal paper was still there. He leaned forward and pulled it toward him. He scanned until he found the name. Drakulya. Prince Drakulya, not Count Dracula. He felt his hopes lifting. Was it enough?

  Quit thinking like that!

  He needed to do more research. Perhaps the library was open. Although he’d seen tens of thousands of shelves filled with books and scrolls, and clay tablets and stone, he’d also seen computers. If the database was up to date – a big if in this place – then it might not be such a daunting task. He picked up the legal documents and quickly scanned the first page.

  Monty sat in the chair for a long time, afraid to move, terrified to breathe. He had time to understand one thing.

  It was possible to be frightened enough to wet your pants, even in hell.

  *

  Monty sat at the defendant’s table with his elbows on the hard, wooden surface and his hands over his eyes. So far this “cakewalk” case had been anything but. With flowery, eighteenth century oratory, Aaron Burr had stipulated all of the damning history of Prince Vlad with indifferent aplomb.

  Did he kill tens of thousands of Turks? So stipulated.

  Did he nail the turbans onto the heads of three of Sultan Mehmed II’s emissaries for refusing to remove them in his court? So stipulated.

  Was that really him depicted in the woodcutting eating his dinner while Turkish soldiers hung around him in a forest of poles, impaled and dying? Again, so stipulated.

  And, in the end, irrelevant. Yes, he was a monster. Yes, a tyrant. And, yes, sadistic, even for his times.

  But, was he a vampire as depicted by Bram Stoker’s infamous novel, the same book as the one lying on the evidence table and marked as Plaintiff’s Exhibit C?

  Defense had yet to make its case. Monty shied away from the discrepancies, although it went against every part of his nature. His fiery, competitive nature screamed at him to go for the jugular. The knockout punch was easily within his reach, but he dared not swing. It looked like Marchosias was going to get his loss.

  Monty glanced at his client. Stoker was a well-dressed heavy set man in his mid-sixties. He had a full head of dark hair along with a reddish brown beard and moustache. He also stank. His face bore swellings and nodules characteristic of tertiary syphilis, the disease that had claimed his life – or at least had contributed to his demise. In life, these would have been unremarkable bumps and swellings. In Hell, however, nothing was ever that simple or easy. The bumps turned into pustules that burst and ruptured, oozing a noxious thick shiny liquid that made Monty wish he could smell the brimstone once more.

  He stood and walked slowly toward the evidence table, more to clear his nasal passages of the stench of his client’s disease than because he had any clear strategy. Without thinking, he picked up the book.

  “This book,” he intoned as he absently opened the cover and slowly turned the first two pages. “This novel is the crux of this case.”

  He paused. A paragraph caught his eye. He read it twice, keeping his emotions in check. Was the solution really this simple?

  He looked to the rear of the courtroom, to the back row of seats in the gallery. Marchosias sat in the far left corner. How much loyalty did he owe to the demon’s cause?

  Suddenly, Pazuzu’s words echoed in his mind: There will soon come a time when they pull you out of your current torment to have some fun with you. They will probably put you into some kind of no-win scenario. I don’t know what it will be, but I have faith that you will recognize it.

  Marchosias stood for everything he’d endured since his arrival. The Welcome Woman, the belittling, the lowly posting in the rest home – all of it. What had Pazuzu done to him? Besides yank him from that demeaning task, treat him like a human being, and give him a chance to at least feel like he had value?


  A snatch of song – Won’t Get Fooled Again, by a group called the Who – ran through his mind:

  Meet the new boss

  Same as the old boss

  Both regimes might be the same in the end but he knew one thing for sure. The current regime was full of crap.

  “Your Dishonor,” he began. “Plaintiff has stated – and read into evidence – this book as proof that my client defamed and impugned the character of his client, Prince Vlad III Drakulya, is that not correct?”

  “It is.”

  “I beg the court’s indulgence while I read a passage printed in the front of this book, and I quote:

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  “If it pleases the court, I move that this case be dismissed.”

  *

  Aaron “Monty” Montgomery awoke face down on a hard laminate surface. A deep rumbling vibration thrummed throughout his body. He heard a metallic rattling from somewhere above and behind him. He smiled. It would be interesting to see how long before the insurrection would take hold. He certainly had time to find out. And, maybe, just maybe, he’d get a decent cup of coffee.

  Orientation Day

  by

  Sarah Hulcy

  The Chief Librarian of Hell’s Law Library was spending a tremendous amount of time and energy trying to track down every tiny crack in the Library’s rock walls. Ever since Erra and the Seven sent a massive flood down the road that ran straight into New Hell, Demetrius of Phalerum had been chasing trickles of nasty, muddy, foul-smelling water (and who knew what else) to find the leaks and plug them until repairs could be made. The moisture threatened the most delicate contents of the Library – the ancient scrolls, parchment and papyrus recording laws from antiquity. Stone and clay tablets weren’t as difficult to protect as papyri, but the modern books were almost as sensitive to dampness as the oldest materials.