Legally Wasted

by Tommy Strelka

Anthony dropped his hand. “He was attracted to her,” he said.

  “And you know this how?”

  “The way he was around her. He joked with her. Justice Byrd didn’t, Justice Byrd doesn’t joke with anyone. She made him laugh. Donna, that is, Justice Byrd’s secretary told me that her interview lasted well over an hour and he took her to lunch shortly thereafter.”

  “How long did your interview last?” Larkin asked.

  “Eleven minutes.”

  “And no happy for meal for Tony,” said Trevor.

  Trevor clucked his tongue. “Someone limited this kid to eleven minutes of talk time? Amazing. I can see how Byrd made it all the way to the top.” He glared at Anthony in the rearview mirror for a moment before realizing that he was cruising past the soccer fields.

  “Oh, you don’t interrupt Justice Byrd,” said Anthony.

  “Hmm,” said Larkin as he recalled his interrogation. Maybe he had pissed off the old blue blood more than he knew.

  Trevor stomped on the brakes and swerved neatly into place behind a blue hatchback. The soccer fields were on the passenger side of the car so Trevor unrolled Larkin’s window.

  “Did she ever confide in you, Anthony?” asked Larkin. “You know, about their relationship?”

  “Ryyyy—aaaan!” bellowed Trevor. Larkin and Anthony covered their ears. Trevor sounded three long blasts with his horn before shouting again. “Ryyyy-aaan!”

  “She didn’t confide in me, per se,” said Anthony. “Well, not until just before she died.”

  “Just before she died?” asked Larkin. “What did she tell you?”

  “She was concerned,” said Anthony.

  An object hit the side of the car with a great thump. Larkin and Anthony jumped in their seats. In the side view mirror, Larkin glimpsed a bouncing fluorescent yellow soccer ball. The back passenger door was jerked open. Anthony raised his hands as if the sight of the park rendered him weak.

  “Nice shot, Ry,” said Trevor.

  “Hey, dad,” replied a sweet voice. Ryan, Trevor’s blond and doll-faced eight year-old poked her head into the car. Her golden hair, which normally fell perfectly straight around her toothpaste commercial good looks, was neatly arranged in pigtails. Her yellow and black soccer uniform was complimented by a large embroidered patch of a bee on the back. Trevor had sponsored the entire team and that included uniforms with “Da’ Honey Beez,” stitched above their names.

  “Who is that?” Ryan asked, shrugging toward Anthony but not deigning to really look at him. She picked up her ball and flipped it between her dirty little fingers.

  Trevor turned and smiled at his precious little spawn.

  “That’s a lawyer who’s helping Mr. Monroe with a problem,” said Trevor.

  “Okay,” said Ryan. “Hey, Mr. Monroe.”

  “Hi, Ryan. How was soccer?”

  “I got yellow carded. How are you?”

  “So polite,” said Trevor.

  “I’ve been framed for murder.”

  “Really?” asked Ryan.

  “Yeah,” said Trevor, “like Law and Order.” Trevor nodded to Larkin. “She loves that show.”

  “I think everyone does,” said Larkin.

  “Wicked,” said Ryan as she bounced the ball off her knee. “Hold this,” she said to Anthony just as quickly as the ball popped from her hands. Anthony slapped at it, bobbled it between his palms, and finally caught it between his thighs. Ryan climbed over him and closed the passenger door with the bottom of her right pink cleat.

  Anthony dropped the ball to the floor as Trevor put the car in gear and gunned his V8. Ryan finally turned and stared at Anthony like a python staring at a rat.

  “So how did you get the yellow card?” asked Larkin. He looked to Trevor. “I thought the Meeks clan didn’t get in fights.”

  “I didn’t do it,” said Ryan. “How did you get framed for murder?” She grabbed her ball back from the floor and bobbled it in her hands. When she noticed that this made Anthony nervous, she sped up.

  Larkin twirled his finger to indicate getting back to business. “Let’s go on, Anthony.”

  “Right,” said Anthony. He tried to ignore the wiggly-waggly juggler to his left. “Alex was very upset.”

  “I thought you said concerned,” said Trevor.

  “Well she was,” Anthony replied. “She came into my office just a few days ago. She asked if I would help her finish one of her drafts for a memorandum concerning a writ of mandamus.”

  “Is he talking Harry Potter?” Ryan asked.

  “This was highly strange.” said Anthony. “She had never previously asked me for any help at all. On anything. I was a bit curious so I asked if anything was the matter. She shut my door and said that she was experiencing a personal problem and that it might interfere with her work a bit. She told me that she was planning on telling the Justice about it later on. I presumed by this, that she meant, later on that day. She never told me what the problem was or exactly when or where she was planning on telling him.”

  “Those are some thick glasses,” peeped Ryan.

  “Later that day,” Anthony continued while he scooted even further away from Ryan, “I stopped by the Justice’s chambers to deliver a memorandum concerning a land condemnation case, but the Justice had left the office for the day.”

  “All right,” said Larkin, “all signs point to yes at this point.”

  “What’s going on, Dad?”

  “It looks like the bad corrupt judge killed the girl,” said Trevor.

  “Oh,” said Ryan. “I remember that one.”

  “Heavens,” said Anthony. “Mr. Monroe,” his voice had raised a bit so as to declare a bit of order in the car. “At this time of year, the Justice always stays at his home at Smith Mountain Lake.”

  “Called it,” said Trevor as he double beeped the horn. “Still got to prove it, but I called that one.”

  Anthony shot a mournful look. “I never saw her face after that day in the office. That is to say, not until that segment on the news.”

  “What was on the news?” Ryan asked.

  “The girl’s dead, drowned and probably fish-nibbled body,” said Trevor.

  “Gross!” shouted Ryan, though it was clear to everyone that she meant, ‘Awesome!’

  “So that’s it,” said Larkin as he slapped the dark leather dashboard. “Classic fall guy. That’s me.”

  “The Patsy,” offered Ryan. “The Chump.”

  “And all because some old southern wingtip in a robe got the hots for the smartest sexiest chick with a banana,” said Trevor.

  “Hahaha,” Ryan giggled. “Bananas. You’re silly.”

  “You’re silly,” responded Trevor. “No g-men,” he said to Larkin.

  A hint of a smile crept across Larkin’s face. It was the first good news in a while. At the very least, they were not the targets of a ruthless shadow organization or a band of international assassins. It had been the simplest explanation of them all, and the most obvious. Alex Jordan had been undone by an old man’s lust. A powerful man. Why try to pin it on Larkin? Why not? He was a nobody, a clown of the general district courts who got a law license because of a loophole. He was as disposable as his artificial ethics award.

  “You’re not a cop?” Ryan asked.

  “Oh, no,” said Anthony. “I’m an attorney as your father said.”

  “So you put away drug dealers in court?” she asked. “People with guns?”

  “No. I work for a judge.”

  Ryan kicked her pink cleats back and forth. She flashed a dimple. “So you’re not a real lawyer then.”

  “Quite the contrary,” said Anthony with a forced smile. He gave a little chuckle and nodded at Trevor in the rearview mirror. “Actually, little lady, I’m about to practice law in the big city of New York after my clerkship ends. You know they call that the Big Apple.”

  “Law in the big city?” asked Ryan. “You mean, like on the show?”

  “No, not like the show. I will be handli
ng large civil claims.”

  “Yeah,” said Ryan though it was clear she had lost interest. She kicked the back of her father’s seat before turning to look at Anthony directly. Larkin watched the two of them. Ryan’s eyes squinted, and Larkin knew that he had seen the look before. Whatever secret ingredient the devil had added to Trevor’s DNA was clearly present and being channeled through the pixie in the back seat. “You’re a civil claim,” she said to Anthony.

  “What?” he asked, confused.

  “You heard me,” she said. “Hey, dad.”

  “What’s up, buttercup?”

  “You know that commercial with the two people talking who are actually the computers? This guy is not the Apple guy.” Trevor beeped the horn in approval. “The Apple guy is cool.”

  “Did she just call me a civil claim?” Anthony asked.

  “I believe she did,” said Larkin.

  “Civil bivil,” Ryan muttered.

  “Little, Miss,” said Anthony, “I do believe . . . that you were a little rude just now.”

  “Whatev.”

  Anthony rolled his eyes before staring at Trevor in the rearview mirror. The law clerk fumed. He seemed to be awaiting the paternal correction, but it would never come.

  “Not even a real lawyer anyway,” mumbled Ryan. Larkin knew instantly that Ryan really did not care what Anthony did in the Big Apple. She was no different than a baby shark testing out her teeth.

  “Quite the contrary,” said Anthony. “One hundred attorneys who graduated from my law school, which happens to be the top-tiered school of Cornell, would kill for the job I have right now, or the one that I’m about to start.”

  Ryan giggled. “How often do you say that to yourself?” Larkin and Trevor both laughed. “Do you always talk like that?”

  Anthony suddenly kicked the back of Larkin’s chair. His face flushed red.

  “Hey!” snapped Larkin. “Just knock it off back there.” He turned a bit and shot a halfway decent glare which halfway hid half of a grin.

  “Ooooooh,” said Ryan. “You just got in trooooooouuuuble.”

  “Will you not put a stop to this, sir?” cried Anthony, his pride wounded and all but pleading for Trevor to enact some sort of discipline.

  “You’re asking my dad for help? I’m eight. What kind of lawyer are you going to be when Judge Judy finds out you lost an argument to an eight year-old? I’ll tell her too.”

  “Judge Judy is no real judge,” said Anthony.

  “Baloney,” said Ryan. “You’re just scared to face her because you’re not a real lawyer.” Ryan smiled like a jack o’ lantern.

  Anthony breathed heavily. “I will be working for Havish Cromwell in New York, little girl. The very top.”

  “Havish Cromwell?” repeated Ryan. “You don’t work for Havish Cromwell.”

  “Little girl, I told you that I currently don’t work for Havish Cromwell but that - -”

  “I work for Havish Cromwell,” squealed Ryan. She laughed.

  “Little girl,” started Anthony, but again, Ryan was too quick.

  “Actually I don’t work there. That place sounds really dumb. Are you really dumb? And by the way, you didn’t answer my question,” said Ryan. “What kind of lawyer are you going to be if you can’t even - -”

  “Enough!” shouted Anthony. He struck his car door with a closed fist. Trevor immediately swerved off of the road and pounded the brakes. Larkin’s seat belt pinched against his chest. He held his hands over his face, a learned reflex stemming from a night seven years ago involving Madeline’s Dodge, half a bottle of gin, and a telephone pole.

  “You’re about to get a red card,” Ryan whispered to Anthony.

  Trevor twisted in his seat and pointed a long index finger in Anthony’s face. “Don’t you ever raise your voice to my daughter.” Papa shark was in the water.

  “Daddy?” squeaked Ryan with a trembling lower lip, “he yelled at me.”

  “You got a problem, son?” Trevor asked.

  “Just shut up, Anthony,” said Larkin. “Tell him you’ll sit here and not say a word and all will be cool.”

  “Daaaaa-aaaad,” whined Ryan.

  Trevor hit a button concealed behind the gear shift and the SUV’s rear passenger door opened automatically.

  “Who are you, James Bond?” asked Larkin.

  “The car is seventeen percent after-market,” said Trevor.

  “I don’t know what that means,” said Larkin. “Look, quit pointing at the kid.” He pushed against Trevor’s arm.

  “Get out,” said Trevor.

  Anthony immediately unbuckled his seat belt.

  “Oh, come on, Trevor. Give the kid a break, he’s just - -”

  “Daaaa---dyyyyyyy.”

  “Out,” said Trevor. Anthony exited the car.

  Larkin shrugged his shoulders. He at least knew the identity of the man plotting against him. Kicking Anthony out of the car for a break sounded like a good idea. “Call my cell later this evening,” said Larkin as he flipped a business card through the open car door. It smacked Anthony straight in the center of his chest but his thick and seemingly stiff fingers could not lay hold of it.

  “Nice throw,” said Trevor.

  “I can hit twenty feet. I’m a good thrower.”

  Ryan slinked out of her seat and slammed Anthony’s door. She smiled through the window at the man she had so easily defeated. With her two hands she held up eight fingers.

  Anthony, who had reached down to retrieve Larkin’s business card, crumpled it in his right hand when he noticed Ryan mugging from the back seat.

  “We’ll talk,” shouted Larkin as Trevor accelerated quickly, sending a plume of dust and debris into and around the law clerk.

  “A bit on the harsh side don’t you think?” asked Larkin.

  “When he first spoke,” said Trevor, “I wanted to swallow my own face.”

  “I wanted to jump off of a building!” screamed Ryan.

  Trevor laughed. “I wanted to stick my head in a wolverine cage,” he said.

  “Nice one!” said Ryan. “They kill like two or three times what they need to eat.”

  “Come on,” said Trevor as he lightly punched Larkin on the knee, “don’t tell me you didn’t want to at least put some duct tape on his mouth.”

  Larkin eventually nodded in agreement.

  “Well okay then,” said Trevor. “So now you know who’s after you. How are you going to fix this?”

  “I don’t know,” said Larkin. Ryan began humming a song and the two fell silent. He watched the drivers of other cars as they went about their goings-on. Had any of them been accused of murder? Committed murder? An attractive younger woman in a Jeep prompted a memory of Madeline’s tan thighs paired with jean cutoff shorts on a trip to the lake.

  “So where to?” asked Trevor.

  Larkin thought it through. To his office, he thought. There was something calming about that place. His focal point, maybe something to do with zen. After that, to his house, a gin and tonic, and a call to the magistrate to pre-arrange Melody’s bail and release. He would pour a stiff second one before hopping in the car to pick her up at the jail. On the way, he might make a stop to have just another drink before coming in sight of the courthouse. He was going to need something better than a typical buzz if he was going to see bars again that day.

  After that was taken care of, it would be off to Xang’s Chinese Garden for takeout before returning to his empty home to plot . . . what? A trap to ensnare his enemies? Larkin could not begin to think of a first step. By then he would be pretty toasted and his mind would most likely be wandering to Madeline. Madeline.

  “Do you know where you want me to take you?” asked Trevor.

  Larkin blinked. “Just take me back to the office,” he said after a minute or two. “Let’s start there.”

  “Do you need some help on this?”

  “You’ve helped me too much.”

  “Shut the hell up,” said Trevor. “You’ve been wron
gfully accused of murder and I’m the only one who can really help you. You have to be thinking of your assets at this point. Like the survival guy on TV, you have to know what tools you have and what you can depend on. You can depend on me. I’m good looking and I have a James Bond car.”

  “Hmm,” said Larkin. “All right,” said Larkin. “Drop me off at my office, but I’ll call you later. Maybe we’ll grab a late dinner and come up with the game plan to win against all odds.”

  “Sold,” said Trevor.

  Larkin nodded. It was going to be another very long day.

  110 Proof

  Larkin sat frozen. His eyes stared unblinking at the digital keypad just outside of his driver’s side door. The twelve buttons glowed with an eerie green light. It was the same kind of light that lit monster-infested dungeons and UFOs in bad late night movies. He knew exactly which numbers to punch to open the massive wrought iron gate several feet in front of the car, but his hands stayed still.

  His teeth chomped down on his lip. He figured that like a spur to a horse’s side, pain would promulgate movement. But his hand did not move. Despite everything that had happened, he knew that he was about to cross a line.

  A big line.

  His mind raced though the moments that had brought him there. Six hours of planning had resulted in a lot of talk and little else other than drinking. After a long telephone conversation with Anthony on speaker phone - - Trevor had refused to meet with him in person - - a true plan of action had been hatched. With the mission objective clear, Larkin and Trevor had brought their wrists together over the remains of their ribeyes and feigned timepiece synchronization.

  With the rendezvous location and time agreed upon, Larkin had returned home to ready himself. It wasn’t every day that he chose to break into the home of a prominent political figure in order to prove a murder. He had allotted two hours to change into stealth clothes and pack whatever he needed for the mission. After twenty minutes of rummaging through his tool box, his eye caught the spot in the basement where Rusty used to curl into a tight ball of purring slumber. He instantly dropped his pry bar and phoned Madeline.

  His heart throbbed with each ring. It was the same feeling of anticipation, exhilaration, and terror that he had felt when climbing aboard a roller coaster as a child or walking into his first jury trial as a spanking new attorney. Why did he think that Madeline would calm him down? He hung up the phone and returned to his tool box. A small voice in his mind prayed quietly as he looked once more for some object that would undoubtedly prove invaluable on the mission. After debating the usefulness of his caterpillar-decimating blowtorch, he decided against bringing it.