The Neon Lawyer

by Victor Methos

  “I do.”

  Once the officer was sworn in, the prosecutor went up to the podium and said, “State your name, please.”

  “Thomas J. Walbot.”

  “What do you do, Mr. Walbot?”

  “I’m an officer with the Salt Lake City Police Department.”

  “How long have you been with them?”

  “Ten years.”

  “And Officer, what were you doing on August fourth around ten in the morning?”

  “I was patrolling the area of Fourth South and about State Street here in Salt Lake City.”

  The prosecutor had her phone out and was texting as she was asking questions. Brigham guessed she had done this several hundred times to get that comfortable. “And did you cite someone at that time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “The defendant. Jacob Dolls.”

  “Tell us what happened.”

  The officer leaned back in his seat, keeping his eyes on the prosecutor rather than the defendant. “I noticed a silver Honda coming down Fourth South at a high speed. I clocked him on my front ladar at sixty-seven miles—”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Brigham said, his voice cracking a little. “The officer hasn’t laid proper foundation.”

  The judge rolled her eyes. “Ms. Rollins, please lay the proper foundation.”

  The prosecutor glared at Brigham and then turned to the officer. “Do you have ladar in your vehicle, Officer?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is ladar?”

  “The word is a combination of laser and radar. You aim it at a spot and it lights it up, so it can then can read the reflecting light. It’s completely replaced radar as a means of determining speed, because it’s nearly a hundred percent accurate.”

  “Was your ladar working properly?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was the last time you calibrated it?”

  “That morning.”

  “And it was working properly?”

  “Yes.”

  The prosecutor looked to Brigham as she said, “And you clocked the silver Honda at what speed with the ladar?”

  “Sixty-seven. The posted speed limit in the area is thirty miles an hour.”

  “Did you identify the driver?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you see him in the courtroom today?”

  The officer looked to Jake. “Yes. He’s the man there, in the shirt and tie, next to defense counsel.”

  “How did you identify him?”

  “His driver’s license.”

  “Thank you, Officer. Nothing further.”

  Brigham swallowed, and his mouth felt like sandpaper. The judge didn’t say anything, so he rose slowly and stepped over to the podium, waiting for someone to tell him it wasn’t his turn yet.

  “Officer,” he said meekly, “you clocked him on your front ladar as you were following him, correct?”

  “I saw that he was traveling at a high speed, so I followed him. I visually estimated his speed at sixty-five miles per hour.”

  “Visually estimated? That must have been some guess since you were only two miles per hour off.”

  “I received training on visual estimates at the academy. We’re required to be accurate to within two miles per hour on our tests in order to pass.”

  Brigham hadn’t known that and felt like everyone could see through him. He scribbled some nonsensical notes on his legal pad. “Um, how far away were you from his car?”

  “Close.”

  “How close? Twenty feet?”

  “Somewhere around there.”

  Brigham wanted to put a foot up on the lectern to seem more relaxed than he actually was, but he was shaking too much to manage it. No one would have seen it, anyway. “Were your lights on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your siren?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “And Mr. Dolls moved over to the side at first, right?”

  “Yes. He pulled from the number one lane into the number two.”

  “But he didn’t pull over and stop.”

  “Not right away.”

  Brigham glanced at the judge, who was on the computer. The screen was turned away so no one could see, but from her expression, it appeared she was watching something humorous—YouTube, maybe.

  “So you have flashing lights and a siren, and he speeds up, and then pulls into the number two lane.”

  “I don’t know if he sped up, but yeah, he pulled into the other lane.”

  “It’s reasonable to say that if a speeding cop car is coming in behind you, you might speed up too, right?”

  “I . . . I guess that’s reasonable.”

  “Thank you. Nothing further.”

  The judge snapped out of whatever trance the computer had put her in and looked up at them. “Great. Closing arguments.”

  The prosecutor rose and was about to speak when Brigham said, “I’d like to call Mr. Dolls to the stand.”

  The prosecutor sighed audibly and sat back down. Jake rose and walked to the stand, sat down, and was sworn in as the officer had been. Brigham stayed at the lectern. Jake looked so nervous that Brigham mouthed the words It’s fine at him.

  “Please state your name,” Brigham said.

  “Jacob Dolls.”

  “And Mr. Dolls, you heard the officer’s testimony relating to the events on August fourth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is his account accurate?”

  “Not really. What happened was I was coming down the hill, there’s this hill right there before Pioneer Park, and he comes up behind me. Like, right behind me. He said around twenty feet but I’d say more like ten. And his siren wasn’t blarin’ yet, so I thought he was tryin’ to pass me. So I sped up, ’cause if I woulda hit my brakes, he woulda rammed into me. Then when them sirens turned on, I changed lanes to give him a clear road.”

  Brigham nodded. “Would you have been speeding otherwise?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you, nothing further.” Brigham sat back down.

  The prosecutor was on her phone again. She rose, looked at Jake, and asked one question. “Were you speeding in Salt Lake on August fourth?”

  “Well, yeah, but I said why.”

  “Thank you. Nothing further.”

  Jake walked through the well back to his seat. Speeding was a strict liability offense, meaning there was no element of intent. It didn’t matter if your house was on fire or your pregnant wife was delivering in the backseat. If you were speeding, you were guilty. And Jake had just admitted that he had been speeding.

  “Your Honor, I’d like to call Sandra Dolls to the stand,” Brigham said.

  Jake’s wife was wearing a strapless dress. Her figure was slim and muscular, and Brigham wished he’d known she would be wearing that. He would have told her to wear a sweatshirt and glasses instead. Something that didn’t scream partier to the judge.

  He went through the same questions with Sandra as he had with Jake and she testified identically. They had not been speeding until the officer got behind them. The prosecutor had no questions for her, and Brigham rested.

  “Closing arguments,” the judge said.

  The prosecutor said, “Waive closing.”

  Brigham rose again. “Your Honor, Mr. Dolls was entrapped. He was traveling at a normal speed until this officer got behind him. Mr. Dolls and his wife both testified that they were traveling at a normal speed, the officer got behind them, and they sped up to avoid a collision. For entrapment, we have to show that the defendant was enticed or encouraged into doing something the defendant would not have otherwise done. Mr. Dolls would not have sped except for the officer’s actions.”

  The prosecutor rose, anger flashing across her face. “Your Ho
nor, entrapment requires providing the City with notice of an affirmative defense ten days prior to trial.”

  “There’s an exception for infractions,” Brigham said, thumbing through the court’s copy of the Utah Code Annotated that sat on the defense table. He found the entrapment statute. “Um, may I approach?”

  “Yes,” the judge said.

  Brigham crossed the well with the prosecutor right behind him. He set the thick book before the judge and pointed to a section at the bottom of the page. “It states that notice is only required when incarceration is possible. No incarceration is possible on an infraction.”

  The judge read it and looked at the prosecutor. “Ms. Rollins, any response?”

  “Entrapment is when an officer puts someone in a situation where they are coerced into committing a crime. The defendant didn’t have to speed. He could’ve kept his pace.”

  “And the officer might’ve rear-ended him.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  The judge held up a hand. “All right, everybody calm down. It’s a traffic ticket. Get on back and I’ll make my ruling.”

  Brigham glanced to the bailiff as he sat down. A few lawyers were still in the courtroom behind him, and one gave him a thumbs-up. The officer glared at Brigham. Jake leaned over and whispered, “Did we win?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m prepared to make my ruling,” the judge said, writing something down on the court’s file. “It was a nice shot, Mr. Theodore, but I don’t see entrapment here. The officer has to have the intent to encourage the defendant to commit the crime. I didn’t hear any evidence that indicated to me that he had that intent. When defense counsel makes a motion for entrapment, the burden then shifts to them to prove by a preponderance of the evidence that entrapment did in fact occur. We don’t have that here. So I do find the defendant guilty of the offense of speeding. But I’ll give you this—it was original. I’ve never heard that defense applied to speeding before.” She turned to Jake. “Mr. Dolls, you have up to forty days to come back and receive sentence, or you may waive the forty days and be sentenced today. Which do you prefer?”

  “Today, please.”

  “All right. I am imposing a fine of two hundred sixty-three dollars, and an order of six months’ good behavior probation—that means no new traffic tickets. You get a new one within six months, and you’ll have to come back here and explain to me why, Mr. Dolls.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Brigham was staring straight ahead. He couldn’t look at Jake. Instead, he gathered his things and hurried out. Jake followed him and Brigham realized he wasn’t going to be able to sneak away, so he turned to face him.

  “Thanks,” Jake said, brushing past him. “Asshole,” Jake muttered when he was a few steps away.

  Eight

  Night fell quickly, and Brigham sat at home on his couch and stared at the television screen. He hadn’t gone back to the office after his loss that morning. He couldn’t face Tommy. The man had trusted him, and Brigham had failed him on his first try. Tomorrow, he would go back to the school and beg for his old job back.

  As he put a beer to his lips, the doorbell rang. Brigham answered, and Scotty and Tommy stood there.

  Tommy glanced past him inside. “We gotta get you a better pad, Brigham.”

  “Oh, um, you guys want to come in?”

  “No,” Tommy said, wiping his nose with the back of his index finger. “Let’s go out.”

  Brigham grabbed his jacket and wordlessly followed the two men out of his building. They were discussing a personal injury case, something about a woman who had been hit in a crosswalk. Scotty wanted to settle for a hundred thousand, but Tommy thought they could get double that if they held out.

  A black Mercedes was parked out front, and Tommy drove. Brigham sat in the back and tried to think of what to tell him about why he’d lost. All he could think to do was apologize and let Tommy know he’d be quitting.

  “I’m sorry about today,” Brigham said.

  “Sorry?” Tommy asked without looking back. “About what?”

  “Losing.”

  Tommy laughed and Scotty snorted.

  “Brigham, I talked to one of the lawyers who was there. He said you argued entrapment. I’ve never heard an entrapment defense on a speeding ticket. That’s creative thinking right there.”

  “Yeah, but I lost.”

  “What do you think the national average is for not-guilty verdicts?”

  “I don’t know. Fifty percent.”

  “It’s twenty-five percent. That means we lose three in every four trials. The prosecutor’s got all the evidence before we do, so they only bring the cases they think they can win, which keeps their success rate up. Then you got cops willing to lie on the stand, and the ones that aren’t willing to lie are willing to embellish the truth. On the other side, you got our clients, most of whom have criminal records and no juries or judges believe anything they say. The system is stacked against us from the get-go. You gotta get used to losing, or else you ain’t gonna make it. Besides, Jake’s probably going to appeal the loss. Another thousand bucks for us.”

  Brigham had had a knot in his stomach since that morning, but it slowly faded away. He relaxed into the leather seats and stared out the windows.

  “So I’m not fired?”

  The two men laughed again. “Fired? Hell, I’m promoting you.”

  Brigham looked to him. “Promoting me to what?”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow. Tonight, let’s just have fun.”

  They went to a downtown bar that had a pig painted on the wall. Tommy parked the Mercedes on the street and they walked in. The bouncer nodded at Tommy, and Tommy nodded back. Once they were inside, he said, “Former client. Got him a great deal on a drug charge.”

  They sauntered up to the bar and Tommy ordered three shots of whiskey. The bartender was a shapely woman with big, fake breasts, and Scotty was staring at them like they were the Pyramids of Giza.

  Tommy held up his shot glass and Scotty did the same. Brigham had already drunk his but he held it up and tried to cover it with his hand so they couldn’t see that it was empty.

  “To hopefully.”

  They shot the booze and Tommy motioned for refills. A man sat in the corner with his arms folded, and the two of them exchanged glances.

  “Be right back,” Tommy said.

  When he was gone, Scotty and Brigham shot the refills, with Scotty, who seemed to be relaxing, taking two. His awkward manner had softened and he even smiled at the bartender and commented on her hair.

  “What does that mean?” Brigham said. “ ‘To hopefully?’ ”

  Scotty ordered two beers. “Don’t totally know. Tommy’s been saying it forever.”

  “Who’s that guy he went back there with?” Brigham asked.

  “Client. This place is owned by the Russian mob, and some of them are our clients.”

  “Really?”

  Scotty nodded, his shoulder twitching as he took a sip of his beer. “Bought and paid. Bars are good places to launder money ’cause no one keeps track of tips. On paper, half a dozen bigwigs in the Russian mob work here as bartenders and waiters. You give each bartender five or six hundred bucks a night in tips, each waiter a few hundred, and before you know it you got fifty or sixty grand a month in clean money. They claim it on their taxes so you gotta pay that, but so what? What else you gonna do with it? Works out nice.”

  Tommy was gone for a long while, and when he came back out he laid three hundred-dollar bills on the bar. “You boys have fun,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Brigham. And we’ll talk about that promotion.”

  Brigham watched him leave. It seemed like everyone, from the cocktail waitresses to the managers, respected Tommy. He wondered what someone would have to do to get people already in the Russian mob to respect you.
>
  “You liked Molly, didn’t you?”

  Brigham looked to Scotty, who had a mischievous grin on his face. “Was I that obvious?”

  He shrugged. “She’s a man-eater, though. I’ve never seen her with a guy. I think she scares people.”

  “She seemed nice enough.”

  “You haven’t seen her pissed off yet. I saw her tear a cop apart on the stand once—it was so bad he started crying right there in the courtroom.”

  Brigham sipped his beer. A young woman smiled at him from across the bar. He smiled back, but knew he wasn’t interested.

  “What’s the promotion he was talking about?” Brigham asked.

  Scotty sipped his beer, his eyes twinkling as he smiled. “You’re gonna love it.”

  Nine

  Brigham rose early and went for a run through the Avenues. Though the Avenues themselves were congested, if he headed north up the mountain he came to a trail around to the other side with an open view of the valley below.

  A solid forty minutes got him to the pinnacle of the first mountain, overlooking Davis and Weber counties, two counties dominated by industry. Several factories and oil refineries were spewing thick, gray exhaust into the sky. The acidic clouds whirled and danced in the wind, hovering above the cities and leaving a sour taste in the air before eventually dissipating.

  Brigham jogged back home and changed. He would need to buy another suit as soon as he had some money. Checking his bank balance on his phone, he saw he had exactly nine hundred and fifty-two dollars left. His rent was three fifty, so as long as he ate corn dogs and Top Ramen, he had enough to live on for two months.

  At work, he was passing Tommy’s office when Tommy shouted, “Brigham, come here.”

  He went in and sat down across from him. Tommy removed a check from the printer and gave it to him. It was for two hundred fifty dollars.

  “Twenty-five percent of the speeding case,” Tommy said.

  It was more money than he earned in a week cleaning the school, and it had only taken him a few hours to make. There was a warm sensation in his gut that he didn’t recognize—maybe something between satisfaction and the beginnings of greed, for someone who had never felt greedy. He pushed it away with the thought that ten percent of it would have to go immediately to charity: a lesson his mother had taught him. If people gave as soon as they earned, it would keep them humble, as his mother had told him at least once a week. Brigham had stuck to it his entire life.