THE UP AND COMER

by Howard Roughan

  Now it was my turn.

  "What's it going to be?!" I said. "This is what it's going to be, you piece of shit. First, if you call me Philly one more time, I'm going to lodge my heel into your nuts so hard you're going to piss out your asshole, pictures or no pictures. Second, if you so much as think of bothering me again about this, I promise you, you'll be wishing that razor blade of yours had actually done its job."

  I stood up, turned, and began to walk out of the restaurant, leaving Tyler alone at the table. I wanted to look back, to see his reaction. I wanted to see what, if anything, he was going to do. But I knew better. In a split second, I had made the decision to call his bluff. Risk Factor 7. It was a risky gambit, for sure, especially given that Tyler Mills seemed very much the guy with little or nothing to lose. Would this be the end of him?

  At the time, I could only hope so.

  Part II

  TWELVE

  Sally Devine showed up drunk for her DUI court appearance.

  At first I wasn't sure. Then she reached for my crotch in the hallway of the courthouse and asked me if I really had the balls for the job. Dead giveaway. Thankfully, there was so much commotion and so many people milling about that no one seemed to notice.

  "For Christ's sake, Sally, you're loaded!" I whispered at the top of my lungs, all the while imagining the spectacle of standing with her before a judge.

  "I am not. I just had a couple drinks to take the edge off," she slurred.

  Suddenly her telling me that she'd had only a couple of drinks the day of her accident was put into an entirely new perspective. I had to act fast. Sally had been late, of course. It was nine-fifty-five, five minutes before court was in session.

  "Come with me," I said, taking her hand and pulling her through the slalom of delinquents in the hallway.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Maxwell House," I told her.

  We headed up to the second floor and found a small coffee room, probably intended for administrative personnel. I immediately poured a cup for Sally.

  She protested, "I don't like coffee."

  "You do now," I said. I held the cup in front of her until she finally grabbed it from my hands. She took a sip and made a face.

  "Blech! This is horrible!"

  I had little sympathy for her. It was already officially a bad day and it wasn't even... I looked at my watch — shit! — two minutes past ten. Court was in session. I grabbed the cup back out of Sally's hands and put it down. "C'mon," I said.

  We rushed back downstairs, stopping momentarily before the doors to the courtroom so I could compose myself. Two deep breaths and I was ready. In we went.

  Westchester County Court was a far cry from your favorite TV law drama. First off, the attorneys were not all attractive. Some bordered on downright ugly, almost as ugly as the room itself, a four-sided homage to the banal. Drama? There was more drama in a ham sandwich. Here, the vast majority of cases called were petty crimes and misdemeanors that, one after the other, tended to become painfully monotonous. Perhaps the only true entertainment to be had stemmed from the tired old man in a robe who sat up on the bench and looked out with a hemorrhoid-induced grimace and spoke in a dyspeptic tone that let everyone know that above all else, this was his courtroom. Quite an act.

  Sally and I quickly found seats in one of the back rows. As we settled in, I looked over at her. Her normally alert eyes were glassy and distant. Her clothes were disheveled. I leaned over in her direction and silently sniffed. Eau de Tanqueray. This was not shaping up well at all.

  I had left my briefcase back at the office, opting, instead, for my litigation bag. Though the morning's proceedings hardly called for anything so oversized, I was the type who felt naked in a courtroom without it. Any courtroom. Lifting the bulky thing up to my lap, I opened it and pulled out Sally's file. Various forms, my notes, the police report…. Ah, the police report. True to form, it contained its share of discrepancies and procedural missteps. If it had been my intent to take this case to trial, we would've had more than a fighting chance. But that wasn't my intent. Rather, in the words of Jack Devine, I was there to make things as easy and painless as possible. And a trial, no matter how good your chances, was anything but. Sally's admittance into the alcohol education program. That's what we were there to get.

  I tapped Sally on the shoulder. "Listen, when we get called and go before the judge, here's the deal. You don't say anything. I do all the talking. If by chance, and it would be a slim chance at that, the judge asks you a question directly, don't get nervous. Simply answer him as concisely and directly as possible, and whatever you say, make sure you end it by calling him sir. Okay?"

  "Yes, sir" she replied. She was mocking me, but I didn't care. Her delivery was perfect.

  What to do next? "Defending Your Inebriated Client at a DUI Hearing" wasn't exactly part of my core curriculum back in law school. Still, I felt the need to do something. So I reached into my pocket and pulled out some Tic Tacs. Technically that was something. Telling Sally to stick out one of those heavily bejeweled hands of hers, I shook a few of them into her palm.

  "Are these pills?" she asked me, a little too loudly.

  I pursed my lips and made a "shhh" face while raising my index finger to my mouth. Back home at the library, Mom would've been proud. "No. They're breath mints," I whispered.

  Sally whispered back, "Because if they're pills, I'm telling you right now that I'm not taking them."

  "Sally, they're breath mints, trust me."

  She cupped her other hand over her mouth and did a quick exhale. The universal breath-check maneuver. With a sheepish grin she turned back to me. "Better make it a double," she said.

  Shake, shake. I shook the box of Tic Tacs another time and a few more came tumbling out. Sally popped what was by then a handful of them into her mouth. Shake, shake. For good measure, I shook the box a couple more times and took some for myself.

  As we both chomped away on Tic Tacs, I checked Sally's file yet again. Nope, no document had decided to up and disappear in the past two minutes. Though given everything else going on in my life at the time, I wouldn't have been surprised. Three days and counting. That's how long it had been since my lunch with Tyler. So far, so good. Nonetheless, it was way too early to be claiming victory. As far as I understood, blackmail threats didn't really have any statute of limitations.

  Where were you, Tyler Mills? Admittedly, not knowing the answer had me feeling a little anxious. There were moments when I'd be out walking on the street and I'd quickly look over my shoulder expecting to see him — and each time I didn't see him was all the more reason for me to look the next time. It made me think of that crazy old man in the hospital gown that night when Jessica and I first got together. At the time, the old guy's world and mine couldn't have been further apart. How strange then to suddenly have a sense of his fear, be it real or imagined. Perhaps he wasn't so crazy after all.

  Almost immediately after walking out on Tyler at the Oyster Bar, I had begun playing our conversation over and over again in my mind. I was mainly trying to figure out if there was some other thing I could have said, some other action I could have taken… something besides what I did. One troubling revelation was that I hadn't really tried to talk Tyler out of it. I negotiated and plea-bargained for a living, yet it seemed that in the heat of the moment I had forced the issue. Jumped the gun, even. Maybe with the right words I could've gotten Tyler to realize what a terrible mistake he was making. Or maybe, deep down, he had never really intended to go through with it at all. Therein lay my fear. Because maybe, just maybe, in walking out on him as I had, I'd managed to give him no other choice. Now he had to go through with it.

  "Sally Devine!" came the voice of the court clerk from the front of the room.

  I turned to my summoned client. "Here we go," I said. We both stood up and sidestepped out to the aisle. That Sally tripped and nearly fell in the process wasn't what you would call a confidence builder.

  "Damn heel!"
she muttered while straightening herself out. I looked down, if only to play along. That's when I saw them. One black, the other blue. Sally Devine was wearing two different shoes.

  * * *

  Earlier that morning, I had paid a visit to the assistant district attorney's office. I had three objectives in mind. The first was perfunctory — to watch the videotape of Sally at the police station after her DUI arrest. I pretty much knew what I would see. Though the quality wasn't what you would call high-definition, it was clear that she'd been drinking. It wasn't falling-down drunk or anything, more like tipsy. Amid the time code, gray tones, and a faulty horizontal hold, she had what could best be described as a slightly out-of-step look to her. Happy hour with under a minute to go.

  The second objective was a sacrificial lamb — to ask that Sally's charges not be read aloud out of sensitivity to her standing within the community. I may as well have been asking for a Ferrari. But that was the point, really. That in the true legal tradition of give-and-take, having shut me down already on one request, the assistant D.A. would be slightly more inclined to give me what I really wanted, my third objective — to have the case called as early as possible in the session so as to not have to waste the entire goddamn day there. Naturally, I'd need to give him a reason why he should grant me, a guy he owed nothing to, such a favor. The fact that I didn't really have one wasn't about to get in my way.

  ME: May I ask out of respect for Ms. Devine's privacy and her good standing within the community that her charges not be read aloud?

  A.D.A.: Perhaps your client should have thought about that before getting loaded and getting behind the wheel of a car.

  ME: Fair enough. Oh, one other thing. Before giving blood later this afternoon, I need to visit the homeless shelter where I volunteer in order to meet the man I'm donating a kidney to, so I was wondering if maybe you could have our case called as early on as possible.

  A.D.A.: (amused) I'll see what I can do.

  It's an often-heard expression. "Be careful what you ask for…." Sure enough, Sally's was the third case called. Favor granted. Only it was no longer such a favor. In fact, given her condition, I would've begged to have been called last.

  * * *

  Judge Harold Bainwright didn't bother to look up. As Sally and I walked down to the front of the courtroom and took our places before him, he remained focused on whatever it was he was writing. From my angle I could see only the very top of his ballpoint pen and I watched as it moved from left to right, bobbing and seesawing in a hurried, jerky fashion. Even as the assistant D.A. began to read Sally's charges aloud to him, Judge Bainwright continued to look down. I figured as long as that pen of his was moving, we were in good shape. Go, pen, go.

  Then it happened. Sally laughed.

  Not any demure, fleeting moment of a giggle was this, but a true salt-of-the-earth, uproarious guffaw. It stopped everything in the room, including a particular ballpoint pen. Judge Bainwright looked up with his hemorrhoid-induced grimace to cast a wary eye on Sally Devine.

  "Sorry," she announced, cowering at her sudden limelight status. There remained a part of her, though, that found something to be very funny. God knows what it was, but she could barely suppress her smile.

  Not as easily amused, Judge Bainwright swung his arm out into the air. The assistant D.A. obliged and handed him Sally's file. He pored over its contents for what was maybe a half minute, although it seemed like an eternity. Slowly, he looked up again and resumed that wary-eye thing on Sally. I was about to speak when he beat me to it.

  "Good morning, Ms. Devine, how are you today?" he said, a little too pleasantly to be sincere.

  I quickly tried to intervene. "Your Honor, I—"

  He interrupted me. "I'm not talking to you, Mr…." He glanced down at the file to learn my surname. "…Mr. Randall."

  I looked at Sally. Sally looked at me. With a nod I let her know that it was okay to go ahead and answer him.

  "I'm fine," she said. She immediately remembered my earlier instructions. "I mean, I'm fine, sir."

  "You do understand why you're here today, don't you?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir, I do."

  "And you do understand that this is a very serious thing that you're charged with, do you not?"

  "Oh, by all means, yes, sir."

  As she answered his questions, I placed my litigation bag down on the floor and stood there a picture of helplessness. What Sally was saying was fine. The way she was saying it, however, was a little suspect. Something was amiss.

  Judge Bainwright leaned forward in his chair and looked Sally over from head to toe. I watched him, waiting for the inevitable. When I saw the double take I knew he had reached her two different shoes. What were the odds that he'd think it was a hip new fashion trend? Not very good, I concluded.

  "Ms. Devine, I see your home address in Bedford listed here in your file. What I don't see is your home telephone number. Would you mind telling me what it is?"

  Sally seemed momentarily stumped by the question. I looked at her as she began rubbing her forehead. For crying out loud, Sally, he asked for your telephone number, not the square root of pi!

  Finally, she spoke up. "One… zero… five… [very long pause]… zero… six." Like an unsure contestant on a quiz show, she proceeded to look up at Bainwright.

  "Actually, Ms. Devine, that's your zip code," he said.

  Again, I tried to intervene. "Your Honor, I—"

  Again, I was shut down. "Still not talking to you, Mr. Randall."

  Bainwright folded his arms in front of him. "Ms. Devine, I can't believe I'm about to ask you what I'm about to ask you," he said deliberately. "Nonetheless, have you been drinking this morning?"

  I turned and practically slapped my hand over Sally's mouth before she could respond. "Don't answer that!" I shouted at her. I swiveled on my heels to face the judge. "Your Honor, I know you're not talking to me, however, as I've instructed my client not to respond to your question and she's well within her rights not to do so, I respectfully request permission to approach."

  Bainwright thought about it for a second and waved me forward. Why not? He had to be wondering what lame excuse I was about to cook up on behalf of Ms. Devine. For sure, I certainly was.

  I began my walk up to the bench. It felt like walking the plank. After my first step, I could feel a few beads of sweat forming along my hairline.

  At the third step, I could feel eyes — the eyes of everyone in the courtroom watching me. So much for no drama. With two steps to go, a Philip Randall first: trembling hands. Quickly, I dug them into my pockets. With no steps to go, the harsh reality set in. I desperately needed a miracle.

  Shake, shake.

  There it was. Right there within my grasp. The box of Tic Tacs at the bottom of my left pocket. The same one-and-a-half-calorie breath mints that Sally had first thought were pills. That was it... pills! It made perfect sense. Hallelujah! You're a genius, Sally Devine.

  "Mr. Randall, do you plan on saying something, or is it your intention to simply stand there and waste my time?"

  I looked up at Judge Bainwright, who with that last comment was single-handedly raising crotchety to an art form. This guy was old. I mean really old. Picture a linen suit after it's been through the Maytag a couple of times. That's how many wrinkles this guy had. And as he spoke, I looked at his mouth, a mouth that was surely the "before" picture for every tooth-whitening ad I'd ever seen.

  "Earth to Mr. Randall," said Bainwright.

  "I read you loud and clear, Your Honor," I said. I dropped to a hushed tone and began. "Sir, I realize it may appear that Ms. Devine has been drinking, but there's really a simple, albeit unfortunate, explanation. What's more, I'm afraid that I'm somewhat to blame."

  I got a blank stare from Bainwright. The assistant D.A. had joined us and he too simply waited for me to continue. I did.

  "When Ms. Devine met me here at the courthouse this morning she was, to put it mildly, a nervous wreck. As you can imagine, she
's not what you would call a regular at these proceedings. She had no idea what to expect and despite my reassurances, was letting her imagination get the best of her. It was quite the scene. Anyway, she eventually asked me if it would be all right if she took a Valium to calm herself down. Naturally, I asked if the medication had been prescribed for her, and she was quick to produce the container to show me that it had.

  "Still, I was not entirely comfortable with the idea. In fact, I was about to advise her against it when I noticed that she was on the verge of tears. Her eyes had swelled up and she was visibly shaking. Not knowing exactly what to do at that point, I used what I thought was my best judgment. I told her to take half of a Valium. I even watched as she broke it in two. That way, I figured, she could relax somewhat while remaining lucid for when her case was called.

  "Except, gentlemen, I'm afraid I was had a bit. After Ms. Devine split the pill she told me that she was getting some water at the fountain to wash it down. That's when, as the saying goes, I let her out of my sight. If I had to bet, she ended up taking the entire Valium. If not more, god forbid."

  I paused again and turned back to look at Sally. Judge Bainwright and the assistant D.A. did the same. As if taking her cue, she appeared to be swaying back and forth a little. Her deer-in-the-headlights gaze added nicely to the effect. Time for my summation.

  "Yes, if I had to bet, that's what happened," I said with a contemplative nod. "I apologize, Your Honor. The compromise with half a Valium seemed like a good idea at the time, her nerves being so frazzled and all. Who knows, maybe if that's all she had taken she would've been fine. The only thing I can tell you for sure is that she's not acting like that because of any alcohol." Thus concluded the Valium Defense. To look at the assistant D.A. was to look at a man who believed. Hook, line, and sinker. To look at Judge Bainwright, however, was to see a man not as readily convinced. He would not be so quick with his verdict on my excuse, nor was his expression about to reveal which way he was leaning. What seemed like a minute passed.