A Gambler's Jury

by Victor Methos

  I turned the car around and headed for the police station.

  “Oh,” he said, holding the grab bar above his window. “Where we going?”

  I smiled at him. “Trust me. You’ll have fun.”

  13

  I pulled to a stop in front of the satellite police station—a small community center that only housed a handful of cops and was primarily used to test suspected DUIs—and parked.

  “Um, are we going to the police station?” he asked.

  “It’s a surprise. Come on.”

  We went inside. I saw Ryan leaning against a desk with a Styrofoam cup in his hand. He wore his jersey over his obese frame like a linebacker wearing a tight football uniform.

  “Rollins,” he said. “What the hell you doin’ here? I didn’t hear any ambulances for you to chase.”

  “I don’t chase ambulances. Well, not anymore. Hey, this is Chris. Chris, my buddy Ryan.”

  They said hello and Ryan tossed his cup in the trash and grabbed his jacket.

  “You heading out?” I said.

  “Yeah, I got patrol tonight.”

  “Mind if we tag along?”

  “Sure.”

  Chris looked from Ryan to me. “Um, tag along?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s called a ride along. I do it all the time. Don’t worry, you’ll have fun.”

  I got into the passenger seat of the patrol car outside, and let Chris sit in the back. Ryan got in and immediately turned on some hard-rock, ’80s hair-farmer metal station, and pulled out.

  “So you guys on a date?” Ryan said.

  “Sure are.”

  “You know how to show a gentleman a good time, Rollins. Shit. What, was the 7-Eleven out of nachos or something so you had to find something else to do?”

  “Hey, we had fun last time, didn’t we?”

  “You mean when you almost got me suspended? Yeah, that was fun.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a Debbie Downer. You had a blast.”

  We drove for only a few minutes before he got a call about a drunk driver. We found the car about a mile from the bar that the report had come in from, and Ryan pulled the driver over for not using her signal while turning.

  “Stay in the car this time,” Ryan said.

  He got out and went to the driver’s window. He asked her to step out of the car, and she had to lean against it to keep from falling over. She had the swaying motion of someone who couldn’t hold her liquor, and she looked barely over age.

  “So . . . um, do you do this a lot?” Chris asked.

  “Oh, yeah. Best form of free entertainment there is. You never been on a ride along?”

  “No. Um, listen, do you wanna maybe just go to dinner or something?”

  “Yeah, we can grab something. Trust me, food is not something cops go without for very long.”

  The woman was in handcuffs in about five minutes. Ryan opened the back door and stuck her in next to Chris. Chris looked like he wanted to get out and run.

  “Shit,” the girl said. “Hey, can’t you just let me go this one time? I can’t have my license suspended again.”

  She didn’t sound good. Her speech was slow and slurred, her eyes glazed, and she stank of powerful, cheap alcohol.

  “Now, what’s a nice girl like you doing driving around drunk?” I asked, turning around to face her.

  Chris said, “Danielle, maybe we should—”

  “Fuck, I don’t feel so hot.”

  “Danielle,” Chris said, “I think I’d like to—”

  The first motion was a dry heave: a shot fired declaring the war about to come. Nothing came out, but it may as well have. Chris was clawing at the door until he figured out that it couldn’t be opened from the inside.

  “Danielle, I’d like to get out, please.”

  “What? Why? We gotta take the little miss back to the station for testing.”

  “I’d like to go now. Right now. Please.”

  I sighed. “Fine. Let me get you out.”

  Another dry heave, and then the vomit burst out of her mouth and over the backseat, spattering droplets onto Chris’s face.

  “Danielle,” Chris yelled, vomit rolling down his cheeks. “Danielle, please get me out!”

  I stepped outside the car and lit a cigarette before opening the door. Chris jumped out like a caged animal. He backed away from me and said, “I just remembered I have somewhere to be. Thanks for the night out.”

  “What? That’s it? Let us drive you back, at least.”

  “No, no. I’m fine. I can call an Uber. Thanks again.”

  I grinned as I watched him walk away and take out his phone. He went into a convenience store and waited inside.

  “Hey,” I heard. “Hey, you. What’s your name?”

  I leaned into the car. The stench of booze and puke burned my nostrils. “Young miss, do you need a barf bag?”

  “No, no, listen to me. I can’t have my license suspended again. Can you guys just let me go?”

  I took out one of my cards and put it on her lap. “Tell the cops I’m your lawyer and that I told you not to talk. You gotta take the breath test because they’ll suspend your license longer if you don’t, but don’t say anything to them and I’ll take care of this. I charge thirty-five hundo, though.”

  “Fine. No problem. Just as long as you can save my license.”

  I went over to Ryan, who was inventorying her car—a nice way of saying he was searching it without a warrant before it got impounded.

  “You slip her a card?”

  “Yup,” I said. “I appreciate you letting me come on these.”

  “Hey, you got my son off on one to fifteen for that bullshit check-fraud charge—don’t think I’ll ever forget that.”

  He got out of the car and leaned against it. Though it didn’t seem like much effort, he had a sheen of sweat and he was breathing heavily. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a package of mini-donuts.

  “Wow,” I said. “I can’t believe that stereotype is true. That shit’ll kill ya.”

  He shrugged as he shoved the first powdered donut into his mouth, getting sugar on his lips and chin. “Gotta die of somethin’.” He pointed to the convenience store. “Who’s the bro?”

  “Blind date.”

  He shook his head. “This wouldn’t be my idea of a good date.”

  “Mine either.” I leaned against the car and tilted my head back, staring at the stars. “How’s the wife?”

  “I tell you somethin’, you promise it stays between us?”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  “I think we might be divorcing.”

  “Now? After twenty years?”

  “It’s just getting to the point where neither one of us can stand to see the other one anymore. I hear her come home, and I just get anxiety in my stomach, you know? It’s the same for her. We barely talk.”

  “Well, take it from someone who’s been down that road: divorce won’t make you happier. It just makes you lonelier.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You love the shit out of your ex. You’re the one who screwed it up.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  He chewed for a moment. “You wanna go bust up a frat party or something? Those are always fun.”

  I shook my head. “Not really feeling up to it tonight. You mind dropping me off at the station?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He tossed the empty donut wrapper into the passenger seat of the car and shoved the last two in his mouth. “I gotta process your client anyway,” he said through a mouthful of donut.

  14

  After being dropped off at my car, I drove around for a while. I passed the main homeless shelter for Salt Lake, and I watched the crowds gathered around outside. The beds would already have been assigned, so everyone not yet inside would be sleeping on the pavement, if they had sleeping bags, or in the park if they didn’t.

  I drove by that twice a day, every day, and I’d grown immune to it and all the utter suffering, the predation
on the weak, the rape and murder and exploitation that happened right in front of me. It was a brutal, bloody jungle contained within a half-block radius, and I saw it now as nothing more than scenery. I used to drop off food and clothes every month when I first got my office. Then it gradually became every other month as I got busier with work, then once every few months, then once a year, and now I couldn’t remember the last time I had donated anything. Maybe there was some evolutionary mechanism within people to numb ourselves to suffering so we could still function.

  The thought of going home or to the office filled me with dread, so I drove up to the University of Utah, where crowds of people filled the sidewalks after a football game, and made my way slowly over to Federal Heights. I texted Stefan.

  Is Peyton home?

  Why?

  Because I’m outside your house.

  No reply. I parked for a minute and then decided my initial plan of getting trashed was the best option. I was about to pull away when the front door of the house opened and Stefan stepped out. He wore a red shirt, jeans, and a scarf, though it wasn’t cold. I got out of the car, leaned against the hood, and lit a cigarette. He stood next to me and looked over the neighborhood. He grabbed the cigarette out of my hand and took a puff before handing it back.

  “I thought you quit,” I said.

  “I did.” He paused for a moment. “You know you can’t keep showing up. I’m going to be a married man soon, and Peyton isn’t going to like it.”

  “I don’t think I care much what Peyton the Deer Molester thinks.”

  “Deer molester?” He grinned.

  “Come on. You’ve seen the basement. Tell me she doesn’t have a hard-on for those poor animals. What else would explain her fascination with killing them other than she’s attracted to them? It’s like how the most homophobic person in a crowd is scared they’re really gay.”

  He chuckled. “You’re such an ass. It’s not like that at all. She’s just tough and likes tough things.”

  “Yeah, nothing tougher than shooting Bambi from a hundred yards away dressed in camo. She might as well be playing a video game on her couch. Now, if she hunted with her bare hands like our furry ancestors—that shit I could respect. I don’t think she’d want to get her heels dirty, though.”

  I watched him. The way the moonlight struck his face, he looked like a ghost. A thread of fear slithered through me: one day, he would be a ghost to me.

  “You can’t love that chick.”

  “Of course I love her.”

  “How? You almost have a PhD in history, for shit’s sake. How the hell do you love a Neanderthal like her? Are you doing it just to torture me?”

  He took my cigarette and had another puff. “Believe it or not, what happens in my life doesn’t revolve around you, Dani.”

  “Sure it does. I’m like that with men. I stick around like the clap.”

  He chuckled again, and I could tell he hadn’t wanted to. He turned to me, and the sight of him sent a jolt of nervous energy through me, much like the first time I saw him in the hallways at college. “What about you?” he said.

  “What about me?”

  “Any special man in your life? What happened to the doctor?”

  “Is that a hint of jealousy?”

  “No,” he said, mocking me. “I just care about who you’re bringing around our son.”

  I blew out some smoke. “Doctor didn’t work out.”

  “Why? Wait, let me guess: he wanted to be in a relationship, and the second he talked about it, you lost interest.”

  “See, that’s why we belong together. No one knows me like you do.”

  He laughed. “You’re just a cliché. It’s not hard to tell what happened.” He looked up to the sky a second before saying, “Danielle, you need to move on. You have a lot to offer someone, and you need to find that person. You’re not the type who can be happy alone.”

  “What if this is it, Stefan? What if I had my shot at the perfect life with you, and now I’m condemned to walk the earth by myself, like that show Kung Fu?”

  “Then that’s heartbreaking. But I think life is what we make of it.”

  I exhaled and then took another drag off the cigarette. “I wonder if that whole mother-dropping-me-off-at-a-girls-home thing has anything to do with my distrust of people.”

  He looked at me with a serious expression and said, “I know you joke about it, but . . . have you ever thought of reaching out to her?”

  “Who, my mother? What the hell would I possibly want to do that for?”

  “It might bring you some closure.”

  “There’s no such thing as closure.” I paused. “You know what she told me to get me into the car that day? She said she was taking me to Disneyland.”

  “I know,” he said softly.

  “I’ve never been to Disneyland, and I can never go. I don’t think I could handle it. I was so . . . excited. I thought it was the best day of my life. When we pulled up to the girls’ home, I knew what it was. I don’t know how, but I knew. I just kept crying and telling her that I would do better. That I would listen more, and I’d be a better daughter. She was crying, too. She gave me a kiss and then put me into the hands of two men who worked at the home. I remember running to the window after they’d dragged me inside and pressing my face against it as I watched her drive away, how cold the glass was against my skin, the noise . . . it was so noisy there.”

  Stefan placed his hand over mine. “You’re not that girl anymore.”

  “Yeah.”

  He took my face in his hands and looked into my eyes. “You’re not that girl anymore.”

  My heart sank, and I lifted my face to kiss him. He turned away, and I thought I sensed the pull in him, the tearing in his soul. My coming here had hurt him, and I felt awful for it.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I better go. Peyton’ll be home soon.”

  He walked away toward the house, but I saw the tears on his cheeks glistening in the moonlight. I watched him walk inside the home of another woman, another woman who would grow older with him, who would be there for him during his dark moments, who would share Christmases and Fourth of Julys and calamities and upheavals and joy so powerful it would make the soul hurt. And I felt like that kid again, with her face pressed against the cold glass, watching someone I love leave me.

  15

  Teddy’s first court date came quickly. Nothing really happened at the initial appearance, but judges loved their formalities and forced everyone to appear. I arrived early and stepped out of my car into the heat.

  Richardson looked as dirty as ever. It seemed like the oil refineries that spewed out black air from their cylindrical monstrosities had painted the sky today. The air always tasted of exhaust. The courthouse was set up as a cylinder, too, almost like a factory chimney, and I headed up to Roscombe’s courtroom on the third floor.

  The moments before a courtroom door opened were always awkward. Everyone sat around staring at everyone else, trying to guess what they were there for. The lawyers were the only ones laughing and joking.

  I was glad the doors were already open. I looked in. Roscombe was screaming at some poor lady standing at the lectern and crying. I stepped inside, past the audience, and sat down at the defense table. Roscombe saw me.

  He was slim but had this weird droopy skin on his chin. His white hair was combed over to hide a pink scalp, and I had never—not once—seen anything but a scowl on his face.

  He stopped spewing words as his eyes fixed on me. We knew each other.

  Roscombe had locked up a single mother of three for stealing diapers from a Walmart. He’d told her at sentencing she could pay the fine of three hundred dollars or serve thirty days. She could no more pay three hundred dollars than a million, so she was jailed. Her kids were taken into foster care. I was told about the case by the public defender, who’d had her plead guilty without even the slightest fight. I took the case for free and immediately filed a motion to withdraw
the guilty plea due to “gross incompetence and general son-of-a-bitch-ness by the bench.” I made sure to underline the “son-of-a-bitch-ness.” Then, knowing what was coming, I immediately sent a copy of the motion to my friend at the Richardson Herald, who published it in its entirety. The online comments called me “a hero fighting a dictator.”

  Judges did not fear lawyers; they did not fear politicians; they did not fear city councils or the general citizenry. The only thing they feared was bad press, because bad press would force those lawyers, politicians, city councils, and citizenry to really take a look and see if a judge needed to be removed. It was damn near impossible to remove a judge in the state of Utah, but enough bad press might just do the trick.

  Roscombe released the woman when he saw the news stories, but not before finding me in contempt and making me spend a night in jail.

  He seemed to snap out of whatever trance I had put him in, and he stared at the woman at the lectern as though he’d forgotten why she was there. Finally he said, “That’s all. Get out of my courtroom.”

  The woman ran out with tears still streaming down her face, humiliated. I rose and smiled at him. “I see you still have your charm with the ladies, Your Honor.”

  He leaned back in his massive leather chair. “I didn’t think you’d show up in my court again, Counselor.”

  “I let bygones be bygones, Your Honor. And I’m really here to learn from your great legal and humanitarian base of wisdom.”

  He made a clicking sound through his teeth. “I’m afraid we have a full calendar. You’re just going to have to wait to learn from me, Ms. Rollins.”

  It was customary for attorneys to go first rather than those people representing themselves, since we had to get to other courts. “Your Honor, I just have a quick initial appearance. Shouldn’t take but two minutes.”

  “Yes, but then you’d have to butt in line before all these good people. We can’t have that, now can we? Have a seat, Counselor.”