Legally Wasted

by Tommy Strelka

  “Witch hunt is another good word,” said Larkin. “Words.”

  Kincaid eyed him for a moment before retreating to the panels. “A whole court of smarties in robes. Men and women who would sure as hell fire release a criminal, even if they knew he was particularly guilty. But because the cop had made some procedural muck up, the evidence had to be suppressed. And they tell us to accept it because they’re smarter than us and it’s the correct decision. But they’re not the ones who unlock the guy and send him on his way. They don’t have to do that.”

  “That’s the law,” said Larkin. “It’s not Justice. She’s a blind woman that collects dust behind a Judge’s office chair.”

  Kincaid nodded. “It’s interesting what happens when the dart hits close.”

  “You mean, when someone rocks the boat? When it hits close to the ivory tower? Look, lock me up if you want, or if it’s because you have to do it, but tell me you’re investigating that pretentious ass. The scene is easy to paint. Old Powdered Wig takes a fancy midnight boat ride and the two are canoodling on his yacht or Boston Whaler. One thing leads to another and he discovers something that may not only disgust him, but threaten his whole career. And then the rage kicks into overdrive. You saw that in here. He’s got a temper. A fiery one. Don’t tell me that this wasn’t the first thing you thought of.”

  Kincaid cracked his knuckles. “It was on the list.”

  “And?”

  Kincaid looked away.

  “Alibi,” said Larkin knowingly. “He’s got a rock solid alibi. A dozen senators, the chief of police, my mother and the head nun of the convent all swear up and down that they were with Old Powdered Wig at the time of her death.” Larkin ran his fingers over his scalp. He sighed. “And the only witnesses to my whereabouts are an obese cat and a bottle of eighty-proof.”

  Kincaid nodded.

  “So what happens next?”

  80 Proof

  Larkin had been in the holding cell perhaps a hundred times. The stale smell of unwashed men, the unknown reddish-brown stains on the wall. A stainless steel toilet with no seat. These were familiar. But this was the first time that the door had been shut and locked behind him. He had never considered the room as particularly conducive of claustrophobia until that moment. To ease his mind, he began reading some of the graffiti. The dim light coupled with a night of terrible sleep in a similar cell forced him to lean close. F-bombs, misspelled racial epithets, a few swastikas and prayers to Jesus seemed to make up the majority of the scribbling. One phrase in particular caught his eye. “Who’s going to rep Big Lick?” the wall asked.

  “Who indeed?” questioned Larkin.

  He was wondering how the inmates had ever smuggled pens into the room when the door opened. The deputy led another man into the room and shut the door.

  “Mr. Monroe!” shouted Terry Woolwine. His piercing mountain twang echoed painfully off of the cinder block walls.

  “Jesus, save my soul,” Larkin read aloud from the wall.

  “What’d they get you for?” Though the room was very small, Terry positioned himself as close as possible to his former attorney. Larkin could smell blue ribbon winning Pabst on his breath. “I heard one of those deputies talking about you this morning. What’d you get? A DUI?” He pronounced this last word just as one would pronounce the name of one of Donald Duck’s nephews.

  “Murder.”

  “Come again?”

  How could he not have heard? “Murder,” he spat. This time, Larkin’s word bounced around the room. For a moment, he considered how many times the walls had heard that word.

  Terry shook his head. “Nope. That don’t cut the mustard.”

  “Afraid so.”

  Terry whistled. “I heard someone mention your name and the word, ‘homicide,’ last night in the drunk tank. I thought they was talking about someone you was defending. I also kinda thought I was hallucinatin’ too. Go figure.”

  Larkin merely shook his head. The air in the room had become saturated with the pungent aroma of beer still lingering on Terry’s tongue. It smelled yeasty, as if a loaf of bread had been shoved behind the toilet last month and forgotten. “Weren’t you supposed to have surgery?”

  Terry shook his head. He stared at the far wall, if one could call it that, with a distant expression. “Faked the whole thing,” he said just before belching. “Wanted some pills. New doctor saw right through me. Said I was just a Blue Ridge pill popper. Got discharged, went home, and got tanked.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Terry.”

  “S’alright. How’d they ever stick you with killing somebody? The devil’s collecting someone’s due.”

  Larkin studied Terry for a moment. He looked a little diminished without his trademark CAT ball cap. But his hair seemed permanently molded in place as if he wore an invisible CAT ball cap in the cell. “You don’t think I did it,” confirmed Larkin.

  “Hell, naw,” said Terry. He shook his head vigorously and squinted. Not a single strand of hair moved. “You wouldn’t kill nobody, Mr. Monroe. If you asked me, someone stuck you with this.”

  “Wow,” said Larkin. He was stunned. “You know, Terry, I never thought you’d ever - -”

  “Wait a minute,” said Terry as he smacked Larkin’s shoulder lightly. He shot Larkin a serious bloodshot look. “It wasn’t your wife who done ended up killed was it?”

  Larkin shook his head.

  Terry’s expression eased. “Naw, you didn’t do it, Mr. Monroe.”

  “Right.”

  “So how’d they get you?”

  Larkin leaned back on the concrete bench and rested his left foot on the rim of the toilet. “Some coincidences, random acts from strangers.” He opened his hands and raised them a bit. There was no point in getting overly exasperated. “But the kicker, was that the smoking gun wasn’t even a smoking gun. It was the flimsiest, fakest . . . I can’t even believe Kincaid fell for it. It just doesn’t make sense. Reasonable doubt is on my side. In spades.”

  “What was it?”

  “An e-mail. A stupid, cooked up e-mail. Not my address. Never typed it. Just enough to maybe throw some heat off the right guy temporarily and focus on me.”

  “Hacked your computer is what they did.”

  “No. They didn’t. It was just a made up account. A dummy account. Someone got online and created an e-mail account. Larkin dot Monroe at something or other dot com. Anyone on the planet could have written it. It just had my name in the address.”

  “What did it say?”

  “What does it matter? Motive. It said I had a motive, that, and some other coincidences might have made me a suspect, I suppose. But that insufficient evidence shouldn’t have led to this. This case will never survive a preliminary hearing. There’s absolutely not enough evidence to convict.”

  Terry nodded. “Yeah, but if they done played these cards, who knows what’s coming down the pipe.”

  It was Larkin’s turn to nod. Terry was right. It was foolish to believe that if a conspiracy in fact existed, that it had played itself out to completion.

  “So either you got yourself one dirty cop,” said Terry, “or someone the cop really trusts gave him that e-mail.”

  “Jesus, Terry. When the hell did you turn into trailer park Columbo?”

  Terry laughed. “I don’t know,” he said and flashed a smile that at one time had more teeth. “I guess I’m still drunk.”

  “They should keep you drunk all the time, boy.”

  “They just about do!”

  Both men laughed. Larkin even slapped his knee. “Shit, Terry.” He wiped the moisture from the corner of his eye. “What did they arrest you for, anyway?”

  “It’s a DIP, of course. But I think they got me on an A and B too. I didn’t mean it or nothing. I might have somehow hit my sister while she was trying to grab the keys to my truck out of my hand. I don’t think I really did it. But she was the only one that I can remember who went for the keys.”

  “You didn’t hit your sister.
”

  “You sure?”

  Larkin nodded.

  “Now you tell me how it is you know that.”

  “We’re in the holding cell for General District Court. If you had smacked your sister, you would’ve been charged with assault and battery of a family member. That sends you to juvenile and domestic relations court. Different floor of the building.”

  “Hmmm. I wonder . . . just who in the hell did I hit?” Terry coughed up some phlegm and launched it at the toilet. Larkin watched the spit sail less than half an inch over his ankle before smacking the back of the rim.

  “Don’t worry,” said Larkin. “They’ll tell you. And give me a warning next time you try that.”

  “Oh. Pardon.”

  Larkin shook his head. Both men waited in silence for a few moments as they considered their respective criminal charges. The alcohol in Terry’s system must have been rapidly breaking down because his head leaned against a questionable stain on the wall behind him. His eyelids soon drooped and his mouth opened. Larkin recalled a previous charge in which he had represented Terry. Larkin had gripped his Swingline and threatened to staple Terry’s lips together. Now that Terry quietly snored, Larkin strangely wished he was still conscious. But after a while, the snoring was somehow soothing. The sound was not too far removed from Rusty’s snores. Larkin was glad that Madeline had demanded possession of the cat. He might not be eating much at Madeline’s house, but at least he would be cared for.

  Without warning, the door opened. Three men were led into the cell. One wore the green and white striped uniform given to all the inmates in the Big Lick jail. Larkin surmised that the man must have picked up another charge while pulling his time. Though the room was now more cramped than even Larkin had ever seen it, all of the men gave the jailbird some space. The sour smell of the jail enveloped all of them. It even overpowered Terry’s beer breath. It smelled like the fat kid’s gym suit from the ninth grade, the one that he never took home and washed.

  “What was that kid’s name?” asked Larkin to himself. The jailbird shot him a questionable glance, but Larkin could not care less. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught one of the new men mouth the word “convict” to the other. In the prison system, a convict was a different breed of prisoner than an inmate. An inmate did his time. A convict collected time. Larkin studied the convict’s heavily tattooed knuckles. Most had the grayish-blue appearance of prison crafted skin art. He momentarily considered his own hands covered with the same markings. As a murderer, he’d have the right to place a single teardrop at the corner of his eye. Early in Larkin’s career he learned that a majority of jailed men with the teardrop tattoo never really killed anyone, they just wanted to look tough. Larkin wondered if he would look tough with prison tats. “Probably not.”

  “What’s that?” asked the convict. “You talking to yourself, loco?”

  “I’m talking to you, sweet cheeks,” said Larkin.

  The convict gritted his teeth and cocked his head.

  The door swung open. “The first two,” said the husky female deputy. Larkin had probably made small talk with her two dozen times. She refused to look directly at him. That could have meant respect or shame. He turned and punched Terry lightly in the shoulder. He awoke with a belch.

  “Come on,” said Larkin.

  Terry stood and rubbed his eyes. “Got crowded in here.” He looked to the deputy. “Maybe you should put up the no vacancy.”

  “I remember your face, man,” yelled the convict.

  “I remember your smell,” said Larkin.

  Lawyer and client were led by the deputy down a hallway that both men had walked many times. They paused before the brown steel door that opened into one of the courtrooms. The deputy waited for some indiscernible cue. Larkin turned to face her. She repositioned her badge and smoothed a wrinkle in her pants.

  “You look good,” said Larkin. “Professional. Tough.”

  The deputy looked up and met his gaze. She smiled briefly before her cheeks flushed pink. She placed her key in the lock.

  “Is it court yearbook picture day or something?” Larkin quipped as the door swung open. “Oh, Jesus,” he said as he glimpsed the packed courtroom.

  “No talking,” said the deputy. She had raised her voice so that the dozen or so news reporters in the first two rows could hear her command her celebrity prisoner.

  Typically the courtroom was nearly full during arraignments as they appeared early on the docket. But this crowd differed from the typical. The individuals lining the benches reserved for the public were only interested in one arraignment that day. At the sight of Larkin, journalists began furiously scribbling on notepads. It was as if his first footsteps on courtroom carpet made the biggest scoop of the year. As he and Terry proceeded into the courtroom, the large glass eye of a television camera trailed their movement. Terry attempted to straighten a ball cap that was not there.

  Judge Leopold Wallace, a semi-retired judge who now only filled in as a substitute judge eyed paperwork from behind a thin pair of gold rimmed spectacles. Big Lick’s first black judge, Judge Wallace had first taken the bench nearly thirty years earlier. In fairly short order, he had drawn the ire of most of the local police and all of the prosecutors. Not only did Judge Wallace apply the correct rule of law when it came to illegal searches and seizures, but he had no qualms about putting an overzealous policeman in his place. Larkin nodded. This might work out, he thought. Surely Judge Wallace wasn’t wrapped up in the massive corporate conspiracy.

  “Why did everyone stop talking?” Judge Wallace baritoned. Everyone was of course supposed to refrain from talking in the courtroom, but in General District Court, that rarely occurred. The spectacles trained on Larkin. “Oh,” he said and made a note on a sheet of paper.

  The deputy directed Larkin and Terry to sit at the defendants’ table. Terry sat, but Larkin remained standing. The deputy stepped forward and cocked her head. Larkin had bucked her authority a bit and her feathers had certainly been ruffled.

  “He’s going to make me stand anyway,” said Larkin just as Judge Wallace cleared his throat. The deputy retreated.

  “Mr. Lawrence Monroe,” the Judge read from a sheet of paper. “I do believe that you are the person listed here.”

  “I’m certainly here, your Honor” said Larkin. He used his best courtroom voice.

  “You have been charged with first degree murder, manslaughter, aggravated malicious wounding, and obstruction of justice,” the Judge read. He looked at Larkin. “All felonies.” Larkin nodded. “You may choose to represent yourself, hire your own attorney or you may see if you qualify for court appointed counsel. How do you wish to proceed?”

  “I would like to represent myself at this time, your Honor.”

  The courtroom stirred. The slightest smirk crept over Judge Wallace’s face but swiftly disappeared as the camera panned in his direction. “All right then,” he said as he made another notation. “I’m assuming that you are familiar with the procedure on scheduling a bond hearing?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Larkin. He stepped back from the table and began walking toward the center of the court room. The deputy lunged for his arm, but Judge Wallace raised his hand.

  “Your Honor, may I - -”

  “I’m assuming you’re acting as advocate?”

  Larkin nodded.

  “Proceed.”

  “Thank you, your Honor.” The deputy released her grip on Larkin’s arm. Larkin circled the table. As he made his way to the podium near the witness box, situated as an oak island in the center of the gray muted carpet, he glanced toward the back of the courtroom. Wendy McAdams and her crinkly blonde hair watched him with wide eyes. It was Larkin’s turn to smirk. He hoped Judge Wallace would give him a long enough leash.

  “Your Honor, though I’m readily familiar with the procedures necessary to schedule a bond hearing, it will be a bit difficult for me to procure an agreement from the Commonwealth while I am incarcerated.”

 
“What’s that?” asked the Judge. He peered at Larkin and then at the twelve year-old of a prosecutor who sat at the other table in the room. Larkin had tried a few misdemeanors against the young man, but he could not recall his name. At the mention of his employer, the prosecutor raised his head and looked sheepishly at the seventy year-old civil rights activist in the black robe.

  “I just said, your Honor,” began Larkin, “that since I am representing myself and I am a licensed attorney, and, as you know, the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office in this circuit has a long history of being somewhat hard to reach at times - -”

  “Hard to reach?” the Judge interrupted. The junior prosecutor stood.

  “Yes, your Honor,” Larkin continued, “with that consideration coupled with the interest of judicial efficiency, it would behoove the Court to have a quick bond hearing at this time.” Larkin nodded to himself. It did not sound so bad coming out of his mouth as he had previously thought. In fact, he felt that it had been a long while since he had articulated a legal position with such poise.

  “Judicial efficiency,” repeated the Judge. Good, thought Larkin. Judge Wallace had latched onto it. Mumbling from the audience reached a crescendo. Larkin did not have to turn his head to know that ink was flying from pen to page in the gallery behind him. “What does the Commonwealth have to say to that?” asked the Judge. The prosecutor opened his mouth but the Judge cut him off before a sound escaped. “Is the Commonwealth prepared to proceed with a bond hearing right now?”

  Perspiration gleamed off of the prosecutor’s prematurely balding head. He gave Larkin a look that said, this was only supposed to be an arraignment and, don’t you realize that no matter what happens after this, I’m going to get yelled at?

  “Your Honor,” he began as his fingers rapidly buttoned his coat. “I do not have Mr. Monroe’s file and - -”

  “What?” asked Judge Wallace. “You don’t have his file? He’s being arraigned for homicide.” The cameraman swiveled his camera and put his crosshairs on the prosecutor. Judge Wallace pointed to the stack of manila folders on the prosecutor’s table. “What are all of those?” The prosecutor looked down and opened his mouth, but the Judge interrupted him again. “What do you have to say about this argument of judicial efficiency?”