Legally Wasted

by Tommy Strelka

  The poor cop seemed to understand his predicament. Larkin’s smirk telegraphed a lot and the cop knew that he held a camera slightly larger than a deck of cards and encased in lavender plastic. It was the kind of camera a thirteen year-old girl kept tucked next to her sparkly lip gloss in her Hello Kitty clutch. Written just below the lens were the words, “Hot Pix.” Larkin stifled a laugh. It bubbled up like baking soda to vinegar. Perhaps if the police still used one of the big clunkers, the criminal would have received the message: “We’ve got you. Your ass is ours now.” As it was, the tween camera broadcasted a different message, a tacit advisory that confinement would not last.

  “Mr. Monroe,” snapped the deputy. Larkin recognized the man’s face from court.

  The deputy crossed his arms and the pubescent camera was engulfed by his meaty limbs. “In front of the board. Now.”

  “I was in here the other day,” said Larkin. “Disorderly conduct or drunk in public or something. A bloody Vice Mayor showed up and paid . . . somebody. What the hell happened to the camera you used that night?”

  “Chuck broke it,” said the cop. He pointed to the board.

  Larkin turned. The “board” was a large rectangle of poster board with numbers and hash marks denoting the heights of the criminal standing before it. Given his head injury and alcohol consumption the other night, he had not given the board a closer look. “Those measurements are off,” stated Larkin, though he only half believed it.

  “They are?” The deputy squinted at the board. Larkin was pleased. In the courtroom, the lawyer dealt the cards. Some of that authority had carried over, even on the deputy’s home field.

  “Yeah,” said Larkin. “If I stood in front of this, it would say that I’m 5’10” or maybe even 5’11”. I’m clearly six feet tall, from top to bottom.

  “I’m six feet tall,” said the cop. He stood at attention. He towered over Larkin.

  “Yeah,” said Larkin, “but did the board tell you that?”

  “Stand in front of the goddamned board.”

  Larkin complied, though not after complaining about the fact that cops could have just used his earlier photo, that is, unless Chuck broke that too. He gave a slight smile as the camera flashed. Five minutes later, he was led into a perfect cube of a room. It had a peculiar smell, as if it had been scrubbed with steaming water and sea salt. Sound-dampening foam covered the walls. The insulation reminded him of a cheap bed covering that he and Madeline had purchased at a department store. She enjoyed it while he broke out in a rash because of his overly sensitive skin. A broad and presumably, two-way mirror was affixed into the plaster of the far wall. Detective Kincaid and Supreme Court of Virginia Justice Lloyd Byrd sat at one end of the table. Kincaid gestured toward the single empty seat across from him and Justice Byrd. Larkin sat.

  “Detective,” said Larkin as the door was behind him was shut. “Your Honor,” he said with a slight nod to the Justice. The Justice studied Larkin just as Larkin studied the Justice. Though he was seated, it was easy to see without the aid of any board that the Justice was tall, well over six feet. His attractive suit, wrought from a midnight blue fabric, hung a bit loosely off of his frame. The famous jurist still had some filling out to do. After a few seconds of moderately uncomfortable eye-to-eye, Larkin theorized that the anger he perceived was only an illusion. The Justice’s white and wiry eyebrows cut across his brow like lightning strikes. Whatever emotion the Justice may have been feeling, his eyebrows showed an immediate seriousness. His expression reminded Larkin of a show on the History channel about ancient religions. What was the name of that Egyptian god with the eagle head? Horus? Bast? He could not remember. Larkin shook his head. “All right,” he said. “So what’s the deal?”

  Kincaid leaned closer. “Mr. Monroe, we need - -”

  The Justice raised his hand. Kincaid bit his lip. Larkin stared at the Justice’s long, moisturized and manicured fingers. Could they have been the same fingers that held Alex Jordan under water or strangled her in a rage?

  “Has this man been read his Miranda rights?” the Justice asked. His words sounded proper in the right Southern sense of things, as if he had spoken with his lips still touching the chilled glass of a mint julep.

  Kincaid glanced at Larkin with wide eyes and Larkin grinned in response. Only an appellate lawyer far removed from the law as practiced on the street would have asked that question. “We made him aware,” said Kincaid. He folded his arms across his chest. The Justice nodded.

  “I’m an attorney, you know,” said Larkin. “I’ve got a bar number and everything.”

  “I am aware,” said the Justice, with particular emphasis on the last word. “I’m sure we all want proper criminal procedure followed.”

  “Proper criminal procedure,” repeated Larkin. “I can’t say that any of my clients have ever been interrogated by the Supreme Court of Virginia.”

  “This is not an interrogation,” said the Justice as he prevented Kincaid from speaking once more. It was very clear that despite the numerous and convoluted levels of local and state bureaucracies, the Justice was the boss.

  “It isn’t?” asked Larkin. He spread his arms to indicate his surroundings. “What’s that mirror for? Shaving? If it’s not an interrogation, what is it? An interview? I think I’m a bit old to be a law clerk.”

  The Justice’s eyebrows sank further. “We just want to ask you some questions,” said Kincaid.

  “Hmmm,” said Larkin. “I would ask if I needed a lawyer, but I already know what you might say. Besides, I couldn’t afford anyone other than myself anyway.” He nodded. “And just to throw in my two cents for the benefit of you fine gentlemen and whoever might be standing behind that mirror with the tape recorder, I’m in police custody and this is an interrogation.” He rapped his fingers against the plastic table. Kincaid sighed loudly. Larkin looked at the Justice. “Just out of curiosity, where did you learn criminal procedure?”

  “We are asking the questions,” said the Justice.

  Larkin smiled at Kincaid who looked about as pleased as a scolded dog. “If this is an interview,” said Larkin, “even in an interview, the interviewee can ask a few questions.”

  “Mr. Monroe,” started Kincaid, but this time it was Larkin’s turn to cut him off.

  “No, no,” said Larkin. “If this is going to go down, I want a few questions answered. Where did you learn criminal procedure?”

  “Hamblen,” spat the Justice. “Harvard.”

  “I’m assuming Hamblen is a name? A professor at Harvard? I like how you say that, as if everyone should know who or what you’re talking about. Do you do that in your judicial opinions?”

  The Justice did not respond. He crossed his arms and stared gravely, looking like an etched profile on a Confederate note. With those eyebrows, it was unlikely that the man could do anything not gravely. “Why do I doubt that you read very many of the Court’s opinions? There’s been a death, Mr. Monroe. Let’s get on point.”

  “Your doubts would be fairly justified. Do you know where I learned criminal procedure?”

  “I know that you never attended any law school; that you learned by reading for the bar.”

  “Wrong. I learned crim pro from an old con named Randall Calloway. He wasn’t my first case, maybe my second or third. The guy had seen - - hell, he had lived criminal procedure, virtually every aspect of it, for the past fifty or sixty years. He knew everything. The real knowledge, the practical nuts and bolts. Not that phony baloney theory that Hamburger fed you.”

  “This is pointless,” said the Justice as he raised his hands in disgust.

  “Mr. Monroe,” snarled Kincaid, “I can keep you in a holding cell for as long as you’d like. I’ll make you intimately familiar with nuts and bolts of criminal procedure that even you’ve never seen.”

  “Just a second, Detective.” Larkin looked to the Justice and matched Kincaid’s pointed finger with his own finger pointed squarely at the Justice. The Justice raised his eyebrows ever
so slightly. “Do you know what Randall Calloway taught me about criminal procedure? He said that if you’re ever being questioned by a dirty cop that you should let him know that you know he’s dirty. But you shouldn’t say it outright. That would be the worst thing you could ever do. But you make sure that there’s an understanding between the two of you. You let him know that you ain’t stupid, that you get it. Let him know that you know, but you keep the tape recorder dumb to that fact.” Larkin held his finger toward the judge for as long as his confidence would allow. The room grew hotter.

  Kincaid stared at Larkin’s finger and then at the Justice. For a moment, Larkin truly believed that he had rattled the older man’s cage. But then the Justice simply straightened his tie and leaned forward.

  “When did you first meet Alex?” he asked.

  “I’ve never met Alex Jordan.”

  “Is that the truth?” asked the Justice. He leaned in. Larkin could smell his aftershave. It smelled nice and overpriced, like something you would buy at the Greenbrier gift shop.

  “Yes.”

  “I think you’re lying.”

  “You don’t want to know what I think.”

  “Fine. Let us operate under the false assumption that you never in fact met Alex. What did you know of her?”

  Larkin shrugged. “Not much.”

  The Justice clenched his right hand into a fist and raised it as if to pound the table. He brought it down swiftly, but paused just before striking the surface. He instead tapped the molded plastic and relaxed his hand.

  Larkin looked to Kincaid. “Rage issues,” he said. “Heat of passion.”

  White eyebrows descended. The Justice’s mouth chewed on words that Larkin assumed would be akin to the four-letter variety. Larkin doubted that the Justice could truly curse a blue streak. He probably used antiquated utterances like “balderdash” or “drat.” The Justice swiveled in his seat and directed some of his ire toward Kincaid. The detective seemed thankful to be handed the reins.

  “Mr. Monroe,” started Kincaid, “we’ve already talked about the fact that Ms. Jordan had your business card on her person when she was found. Twelve hours later, you’re standing over her body in the morgue. Half a day after that, you’re hosting a known felon who - -”

  “Marijuana possession,” said Larkin.

  “A known felon who had a number of private conversations online with Ms. Jordan immediately before her death.”

  “That was quick,” said Larkin. “Did Melody tell you that?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about Mr. Hughes’ cooperation at the moment.”

  “How can you honestly look at that body and call her Mr. Hughes?”

  “It’s what’s written in the file,” said Kincaid.

  “Does it say that I killed Alex Jordan in the file?”

  The Justice audibly cleared his throat. “

  Larkin snapped his fingers. “Come on, guys. Didn’t you talk to her? Did you read the messages?” He looked to the Justice. “I’ll break this down into very simple sentences that even Hamburger could understand. Your clerk was having gender identity issues. Melody was trying to help. I had helped Melody in the past. Maybe Melody thought that since I was a lawyer, I could help Alex too, or listen to her, or maybe I could buy her a goddamn drink, who knows? You should really ask Melody.”

  “We know more than you may think,” said Kincaid.

  “Damn,” said Larkin. “Where’s the Law and Order ringtone when you need it?” He crossed his arms and half-remembered the half-baked conspiracies from the prior evening. “Was Alex working on a significant opinion before she died? Maybe something controversial?”

  The eyebrows raised a bit before lowering right back to bird of prey setting. “All of the opinions at the Supreme Court are significant. And you’re being absurd merely for the sake of absurdity.”

  “That’s not a denial,” said Larkin, although he spoke directly to Kincaid.

  “This is getting nowhere,” said the Justice. “We’re asking the questions, here.” It was then Kincaid’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “What exactly was your relationship to this Mr. Hughes person?”

  “If you cooperate now, Mr. Monroe,” said Kincaid, “it will only help you out later.”

  “You can’t make any deals, only the prosecutor can.” He turned to the Justice. “What exactly was your relationship to Ms. Jordan?” he asked.

  The Justice’s body language gave no hints. “Are you aware that the rules of professional conduct in Virginia prohibit a lawyer from asserting that impropriety even may exist in the judiciary?”

  “Seems a pretty paltry consideration when I’m being framed for murder.”

  “Notwithstanding your opinion or your inane behavior,” said the Justice. He spoke like he should have been bound in old leather. “But Ms. Jordan and I enjoyed a professional relationship. She was an incredibly intelligent woman and - - ”

  “And you’re worried,” said Larkin, “that since she was found floating belly up in Smith Mountain Lake that this will in some way affect your chances of getting that seat on the Fourth Circuit. Not to mention the fact that she pissed while standing in heels.”

  “Rubbish,” said the Justice.

  Larkin nodded. He had forgotten about ‘rubbish.’ “That part ain’t false, buster.” He looked to Kincaid. “What was his reaction when you told him about Jordan’s secret? I bet he acted surprised. Come on, Detective. You’ve probably been up with six cups of coffee by now, but don’t tell me you couldn’t read him. He knew the whole time. He probably found out about ninety seconds before she was dumped in the lake.”

  The Justice stood slowly. He carefully buttoned the bottom two buttons of his coat and stepped away from the table. With his right hand, he pushed the plastic chair back beneath the similarly constructed table. The metal capped feet scraped against the floor not unlike fingernails against a chalkboard. This action seemed both deliberate and oddly pleasing to the Justice. When the screeching had finished, without a look toward anyone in particular, he said “Show him the e-mail,” before leaving the room.

  Larkin raised his eyebrows. “What e-mail?”

  Kincaid rifled through the papers in the folder before him and withdrew a single sheet of paper. He then handed the e-mail to Larkin.

  “Shit,” said Larkin.

  The detective nodded.

  The email was sent from larkinmonroelaw@gmail.com. It was addressed to a Jordan.Alex@vawd.uscourts.gov. The body of the email read as follows:

  Dear Alex,

  I had such a time last night. I’ve always dreamed of meeting someone just like you. You have shared something with me that I will never forget. I will now share something with you. If you’re never going to love me like I love you, I’m going to have to end it once and for all. It will be done.

  --LM, Esq.

  “Wow. I really am being framed for murder,” said Larkin. For the first time since entering the room, he began to perspire. He then knew exactly why the room smelled the way it did. “I didn’t write this. This isn’t even my e-mail address. Did he give it you? Come on, Kincaid! He practically has the words ‘chief suspect’ tattooed on his pompous forehead. You’ve seen my business card. It has my real e-mail on that. This,” he waved the sheet. Kincaid snatched it from his hands. “This is garbage, a fake. I don’t even know how to open an e-mail account. My wife had to set up my last one and half of the time I still can’t get into it. Shit. You’ve got to be smarter than this. You’ve got to understand that I’m being set up here. He’s making me the fall guy because he doesn’t want to ruin his goddamned civil fucking servant career. There are red flags popping up all over the place. Don’t tell me you can’t see them. I never wrote that. When does it say I wrote it? I bet you I can prove I was elsewhere. Check my damn computer. Get your ass out of this room and go get a blasted warrant. There’s nothing on my computer close to anything like that e-mail. There’s data on there that your guys can check, right? Didn’t you see how mad the guy got at m
e when I started probing? Couldn’t you see the way I was pushing his buttons? I had him squirming in that goddamned thousand dollar suit. I’m innocent, Kincaid. I didn’t do it. I’m not capable of murder. I’m incapable of almost everything. I did not do it.” Larkin would have said more, but he was out of breath. His hands appeared blanched and he wondered if he would pass out again.

  “What was it you said about the Law and Order theme song?” asked Kincaid.

  “Am I going to be charged with murder?”

  Kincaid rubbed his beard. “Murder, manslaughter. Maybe a few others.”

  “With absolutely no forensic evidence whatsoever. No opportunity to kill her if you cared to look. You can’t really believe that I would kill her, Kincaid. The charges won’t stick.”

  “I think you can appreciate the gravity of the situation.” His eyes glanced toward the chair that the Justice had neatly and loudly tucked beneath the table.

  “Does the gravity of the situation outweigh reasonable doubt? The Fourth Amendment? And what about common sense?” He leaned back in his chair. “God I need a drink.”

  Kincaid made a curious gesture with his left hand, a quick lateral movement of his index finger across his neck.

  “Ahhh,” said Larkin. The conversation would continue off the record. “I mean, I knew you were recording me earlier, but shouldn’t you have told me?”

  Kincaid leaned back in his chair. He stared at the foam insulation affixed to the ceiling. As the seconds ticked away, Larkin was half-convinced that Kincaid was counting the panels.

  “You know what’s a great word?” he finally asked.

  Larkin remained silent.

  “Bupkus. You don’t hear that much down here. It’s a bit Yankee, maybe even Midwestern. My wife’s family is from Illinois. Her father used to say it. He loved the Bears too. Maybe he liked saying it because it sounded close to Dick Butkus.”