by Tim Dorsey
“And you’re their anti-market.”
“I know, so I got the vibe something else was going on.”
“It’s like the Mafia without the murders,” said Serge. “Families around dinner tables in hushed tones: ‘Son, you’re old enough now to know the truth. Your cousin’s in the Amway.’ ”
The Cobra coasted down the exit ramp for Central Boulevard and stopped by a curb. Coleman stared up at a steep granite building with columns. “Another courthouse?”
“Another old courthouse,” said Serge. “It’s now the local history center.”
They headed down a hall, and Serge opened a door. “I think this is the right courtroom . . . Yep, it is. See that venerable wooden defense table with the triangle of Plexiglas protecting the corner?”
“Why is it only protecting the corner?” asked Coleman.
“Because of what’s under it.”
They marched up the aisle to the table and Coleman bent down. “Hey, someone carved his name. It says . . . Ted Bundy. That’s far out.”
“Here’s what’s really far out: What the hell is Ted Bundy doing in court with a knife?” Serge snapped photos. “I can possibly accept him smuggling it through security in those days before metal detectors. But what were they thinking when he pulled the damn thing out and started chopping up a table? ‘Well, I hear woodworking is one of his hobbies, and he’s not bothering anybody.’ ”
“What now?” asked Coleman.
“To the next courthouse! . . .”
. . . The clock-tower dome had faded to verdigris like the Statue of Liberty. Both the big and little hands were on eleven, which was correct. The cornerstone of the tan brick building read: 1912. A pair of Canary Island date palms grew symmetrically on each side of the entrance.
A Ford Cobra sat on the corner in the middle of Citrus County as a pair of men headed up marble steps. Coleman pointed at the clock. “This one goes to eleven.”
The courthouse stood on a centerpiece block of land platted diagonal to the rest of the street grid in the city of Inverness. Serge opened the front doors. In the middle of the floor was the seal of the state of Florida. Next to the seal stood a life-size cardboard cutout of a man wearing a gold tuxedo. Serge took a photo; Coleman took a swig. They climbed stairs to the second floor.
Serge opened another door. A gasp.
“You okay?” asked Coleman.
“I’ve only seen it in the movie.” Serge rushed toward the railing separating the gallery from the trial area. He swung open the wooden gate and ran toward the defense table. “Coleman, get over here and take my picture in the Elvis chair.”
“Elvis?”
“The 1962 box-office smash Follow That Dream, based on the novel Pioneer, Go Home! It’s one of the few Florida movies actually filmed in Florida.” Serge ran to the bench and spoke quietly to an invisible judge. “Also the only film where Elvis was a lawyer. Not a real one, but he represented himself as defendant in a homesteading eviction, which is a government form of foreclosure. And in the courtroom finale, Elvis whispers a gambit to the judge and wins the case for the Kwimper family.”
Coleman looked around as Serge’s voice bounced off the walls. “Where is everybody? I didn’t see anyone on the way up the stairs either.”
“It’s a museum now. One of the librarians in town told me some cool trivia about this place.” Serge rubbed his hands on wooden finials, scrollwork and other architectural flourishes. “Over the years, they tore out the courtroom’s interior and modernized it, except it was like that seventies modernism, with drop ceilings and all the tasteless bullshit that must follow drop ceilings. When calmer heads finally prevailed and the restoration committee was formed, they realized they had blueprints, but no record of the courtroom’s interior design and furniture. So they printed out screen shots from the Elvis movie and put it all back together. Like the cool balcony seating up there that conjures Atticus Finch.”
Serge sprinted by.
“Where are you going?” asked Coleman.
“To the balcony. I must sit in a seat.” Serge ran up the steps, sat down, stood up, ran down the steps. “Whew! That’s off the checklist. And here’s extra credit: One of Florida’s favorite sons, Tom Petty, got to see them film the movie, as a boy of course, because his uncle was on the film crew, and Elvis inspired him to hock his baseball cards for a guitar. ‘Runnin’ down a dream’ . . . Let’s rock! . . .”
One block over stood something more contemporary: an architecturally sterile brick box with an afterthought of shrubbery and a tiny gazebo that looked like it came from a bargain kit purchased by people who enjoy aboveground pools. The interior was furnished with durable, cost-saving materials that created all the drama of a cafeteria.
“The new county courthouse,” said Serge. “Let’s see what’s on the menu!” Serge stuck his head in a half-open door. “Nothing in there but small claims.” He ran for another courtroom.
Coleman caught up to him in the hallway. “What are you doing?”
“Searching for the best real-world legal education money can’t buy. Screw The Paper Chase.”
“Yeah,” said Coleman. “Fuck that shit.”
“Do you even know what it is?”
“No,” said Coleman. “I just wanted to be supportive.”
“It’s a movie that’s the ultimate representation of traditional legal learning. Remember when Hank Aaron broke Babe Ruth’s record with his seven-hundred-and-fifteenth home run? And those two guys jumped out of the stands and slapped him on his back between second and third base?” Serge stuck his head inside the next door. “A friend said they were refugees from The Paper Chase. That’s all you need to know about law school.”
Serge withdrew his head from the proceedings of a mutually agreeable divorce. “These are the genuine legal classrooms, and I’m looking to audit a course.” Another door. “Ahhh, here’s what we’re looking for!”
“You can just go right in?”
“And plenty of box seating.” He raced for the front of the gallery. “The best entertainment value in America.”
Coleman followed. “But why’d you pick this courtroom?”
“Because I saw a reporter with a notepad. That’s a blinking red arrow that something juicy is afoot.” Serge shuffled sideways down the first row and took the chair next to the journalist. “What’s up, scoop?”
“What? Huh?” The reporter looked over. “Who are you?”
“The fixer.”
The young man stared a moment. “Oh, you mean you do fieldwork for a law firm. Which one?”
Serge gazed off coyly. “Rather not say. Very sensitive case. High-profile stuff.”
The reporter put pen to paper. “Anything I’d want to know about?”
Serge angled his head closer so he wouldn’t be overheard. “Cool Hand Luke. That’s all I can say. What’s your name?”
“Reevis.”
MEANWHILE IN KEY WEST . . .
“All rise,” said the bailiff.
Judge Boone took his seat.
Brook turned around. “Who’s that guy? Looks like he’s ready to strangle ten people.”
Shelby glanced back. “It’s Red Moss, one of the Riley partners.”
“Think he didn’t like how yesterday went?”
The judge banged his gavel. “Your opening statement?”
Shelby set down the cram notes he was still reviewing at the last second. “Here goes nothing.”
Brook held her breath as Shelby approached the jury box.
“Good morning, and I first want to thank you for your civic service here today. You’re about to hear a very complex foreclosure case that will take a lot of time to explain and test your patience. I didn’t even understand it myself for weeks. There will be many financial statements and confusing foreign terms used by the industry. But for all that, it boils down
to a very simple case. Now, the defense will get up here in a moment and say that this case is a matter of responsibility, and they will be absolutely right. It’s how we were all raised. Our parents taught us to treat others with honor, and when you give your word, you take responsibility for it and you honor it . . .”
Brook noticed some of the jurors begin to faintly nod in assent.
“ . . . So when you take out a loan for a house, you agree to pay. And the mortgage company agrees to let you have the house based upon a fair deal. That’s honor. However, I will do my best to present evidence that the original deal, as well as foreclosure action, was based upon collusion and dishonest financial procedures. And the defense will argue that I’m mistaken in my interpretation. Then you will use your judgment from your life experience and evaluate who is correct. I could be wrong about my case. I don’t think I am, but that’s not my decision. It is yours. That’s our system. It is fair, and it is honorable. Not because it’s the law, but because it’s based upon American citizens such as you, who are fair and honorable, or you would have tried to get out of jury duty . . .”
A smattering of light laughter among the panel.
“ . . . As you hear the evidence, keep in mind the defense counsel’s upcoming words: ‘It is a case of shared responsibility.’ But that means on both sides. As each fact is introduced, please ask yourselves this: Did their client behave with honor? If they just get up here and try to distract you by only talking about the failed responsibility of the homeowners, then I submit that they, like their client, are not acting in honor. Thank you.”
An attorney from the defense walked toward the jury box as Shelby sat down.
“Good morning . . .”
Shelby and Brook took notes as the opposing lawyer wound through his opening spiel for over an hour.
“ . . . But in the end, this all comes down to a case of these homeowners not living up to their responsibility. Thank you.”
Chapter TWENTY-SIX
CITRUS COUNTY
The judge called a recess and Serge tapped Reevis’s shoulder. “I always wanted to be a reporter. It’s true! As a small child, I’d cut up the Palm Beach Post with safety scissors and glue my own newspaper back together on construction paper. Then I learned more about the industry and started my own paper when I was five. Knocked on all the doors on my street, but the only person who would buy a subscription was this sweet old lady who lived alone, and I’d deliver one handwritten paper each week for a dime. Of course all I could write was my family life: all our secrets, money problems, fights, weird habits and other dirty laundry. I thought she just wanted to be cheered up by little kids coming around, when she actually turned out to be the biggest gossip on the block and everyone started staring at our house. Then I gave up the journalism bug when I was six. Didn’t know at the time that it would be the last edition of my paper, but I felt circulation needed a boost, so I went around the side of the house and loosened all the fuses in the electrical box, but just a little so it wouldn’t be noticed. It was July and hotter than hell, the air-conditioning is out, food spoiling in the fridge, and my folks are on the phone screaming at the power company and calling neighbors, but everyone else had power, and they’re scratching their heads, asking what could possibly be wrong. Then I came running out of my bedroom yelling, ‘Read all about it!’ And I hand them a paper with a giant outbreak-of-war headline: ‘Massive Power Outage Strikes 431 West Thirty-second Street.’ And they both smacked themselves in the forehead: ‘Of course, little Serge again!’ Apparently my folks weren’t fond of journalists because that’s one spanking I’ll never forget. And that’s why I’m not a reporter.” Serge grinned.
Reevis apprehensively stared back, then looked down at his pad.
Serge scooted closer. “So what’s the current state of print journalism?”
“Doomed.” Reevis flipped his notebook closed. “TV only wants stuff blowing up or on fire or interviews of local sports fans who are drunk. Newspapers were the last resort for in-depth perspective and details. You’d catch a few seconds of something on television, then read the paper for the full verified facts. It was dry but it was important.”
“And now?”
“Mainly rewrite press releases, and then we have to tweet.”
“You’re kidding?” Serge offered a swig from his hydration vest.
“What’s that?”
“Coffee.”
“Got mine right here.” Reevis raised a giant travel mug from the floor. “You’re not supposed to have beverages in court, but nobody cares.”
They paused to chug in unison.
“We also have to blog, and then readers post comments that we must respond to.”
“What do they say?”
“Primarily that we blow, but there are variations on the theme.”
“Why?” said Serge. “Because of the decline of the profession?”
“No, because we’re the biased lame-stream media. And that’s the response when we’re just covering celebrity golf tournaments. Then, regardless of the story, the thread of reader comments invariably veers off into a food fight over health care and homosexuals.” Reevis gulped from his mug again. “The downward spiral began when conglomerates started buying up outlets and fusing various media together—TV, print, Internet, radio, all in one building—until you’ve got an information plantation. I’m having nightmares about cockroaches, thermometers and Power Rangers . . .”
Serge put a hand over the top of the reporter’s coffee mug. “You might want to go easy on the stuff. And that’s a lot, coming from me.”
Reevis shook his head and chugged it dry. “Slit any journalist’s wrist and coffee will come out.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Photographers now have to write stories, and reporters take photographs, which none of us can do because we’re always attending meetings reminding us of all the work we’re not doing because we’re at meetings. We’ve stopped running corrections because they eat up ad space, and I’m just waiting for the day they strap a battery belt on me for satellite reports.”
“How on earth do you keep your chin up?”
“Whenever I have to take a photo of anything, I never get out of the car.”
“Why?”
“To prove that quality in the newspaper business is now like tits on a bull,” said Reevis. “I’ve been waiting for someone to say something, but so far just crickets.”
“What if you have to shoot a mug shot of a public official?” asked Serge.
“I make some excuse for them to meet me in the parking lot,” said Reevis. “All my mug shots are of people squinting down at sharp angles, and they all go right in the paper without a word. So I’ve started leaving the window up and shooting through the glass. It’s a small protest, but it gets me by.”
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” said Serge. “You mentioned media conglomerates, yet this is such a small market.”
“I don’t work here,” said Reevis. “Drove over from the coast.”
“Must be an important case.”
“Just the opposite,” said Reevis. “I told them I had several breaking stories that were much more important than this superficial nonsense, but they wanted me to write about one of the latest cultural crazes, Florida Man.”
“What’s that?”
“A fad like ‘jump the shark’ or the Kevin Bacon game,” said Reevis. “Florida Man is a mythical superhero who represents how weird everyone knows Florida has become. So they Google the term ‘Florida Man’ and it keeps bringing up a list of fresh headlines: ‘Florida Man Calls 911 Eighty Times for Kool-Aid and Weed.’ ‘Florida Man Impersonates Cop to Get Discount Waffles.’ ‘Florida Man Drops Acid and Asks Police to Cut Off His Penis.’ ‘Florida Man Breaks into House, Plays with Toy Helicopter, Masturbates.’ ”
“You’re making this up,” said Serge.<
br />
“Do the searches,” said Reevis. “Every word is true.”
“So tell me.” Serge pointed at the judge’s empty bench. “What’s the legal system really like? Are the preconceptions accurate?”
Reevis shook his head. “A while back they polled a bunch of cops about the most realistic police show on TV, and they said Barney Miller. Same thing here: It ain’t Law & Order.”
“Then what is it?”
“Madness,” said Reevis. “That’s why I’m for the death penalty in theory and against it in practice. If you saw the day-in-day-out shit that goes on, your head would spin.”
“Examples?”
“Two young prosecutors were chronically overloaded with cases and wanted to plead some out, which their boss rejected, so they pleaded them anyway, and six months after the guys left, the staff discovered all these case folders they had dropped behind every filing cabinet in the office. One judge’s secretary always worked late so she could raid the judge’s evidence safe for marijuana, because what’s the defense going to say: ‘My client had more pot than that’? After another trial, the stenographer showed me a legal pad from the judge’s bench with so much religious doodling that he couldn’t have heard a word of testimony. Another time, the police department didn’t like how a cop was prosecuted for brutality, so when the D.A. was out of town, they went in his house without a warrant and took apart the bathroom plumbing looking for cocaine residue, which is why the D.A. only did cocaine out of town. It’s all common knowledge in the courthouse halls, but the public never hears. And outside the building is Lady Justice with the scales.”
The judge returned from recess. Testimony resumed and Reevis lowered his voice to a whisper. “Someone even created a Twitter account for Florida Man. Others have started their own twists, adding search terms. The most popular subthread is ‘Florida Man Defecates’: in department store, backseat of police car, motel pool.”
“Taking a dump is like buying real estate,” said Serge. “It’s all location, location, location.”
“I shouldn’t even be here.”
“What’s this case about?” asked Serge.