Legally Wasted

by Tommy Strelka

  Larkin used his hands to situate his legs and feet appropriately. “Your aunt is the most able-bodied disabled person I’ve ever met.”

  “That’s saying something there,” said Terry.

  Larkin patted his jacket to ensure that his document was safely tucked for the ride. With the palms of his hands resting upon the top of each wheel, he pushed off. The chair scooted forward.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to do it?” asked Terry.

  “You’re already too involved as it is,” said Larkin as he turned gracefully in the street and headed back to the truck. Part of him wanted to add because I need to make sure it’s done right, but Terry had truly helped him in his time of need.

  He gripped the wheels tightly and came to a stop next to the front of the truck. His head was at the same height as the front headlight. He looked to Terry. “Wish me luck.”

  “Do you really think that will work?”

  Larkin shrugged. “I don’t know. I think when people see a man in a wheelchair, they mostly just see the chair and not the man. We’ll see.” Larkin gripped the wheels tightly before propelling himself forward. Terry patted him on the back as he rolled by.

  “Thank you, Terry,” said Larkin. “For everything.” He pumped his arms casually, and approached the courthouse at a comfortable speed. The tires rolled smoothly over the sidewalk. Cars passed and people strolled, but no one seemed to pay him much mind. He aimed for the handicap access ramp to the right of the courthouse building.

  The brick pathway leading from the handicap entrance extended roughly twenty yards ahead of him. Beyond that, he would have to pass through the security check. After running mostly nonsensical fractions and equations through his brain, he estimated that he had about a twenty to thirty percent chance of reaching the elevator.

  “Third floor,” he said under his breath. “Third floor.” Reaching the handicap entrance, he smacked the cold steel plate with the light blue handicap symbol and the door swung open. Ducking his head low, he rolled steadily forward until a pair of neatly pressed khakis intercepted his path.

  “Good morning,” said the aged court security officer. His glasses were as large and as thick as ceramic drink coasters. He held up his right hand, which shook with a slight tremor. Larkin recalculated. He now had a seventy percent chance of making it to the elevators. “Where are you headed this morning?”

  “Clerk’s office,” he said, as he reached into his wallet and withdrew Uncle Donnie’s driver’s license. The old man made two attempts at grabbing it before his fingers finally touched upon the plastic card. He looked briefly at the name, scrawled it onto a piece of paper attached to a clipboard and handed it back to Larkin.

  “Please step . . . please roll . . . er, forward,” the man said as he brandished a metal detecting wand from his pocket. He waved it around Larkin and although it made a dozen squeaks and whistles, the old man nodded and waved him through the corridor.

  “Thank you,” said Larkin as he hurried to the elevators across the large lobby. Framed pictures of the President and the Vice President looked down upon him from just above the brass trashcan. Moving as quickly as he could, he extended his arm and smacked the elevator call button. Luckily, one of the five sets of double doors immediately opened and Larkin headed inside.

  As he turned and pressed the button for the third floor, he spied a janitor with a vacuum cleaner across the lobby. The man stared directly at Larkin. The janitor’s eyes lit up. Larkin knew before the janitor took a step that he had been recognized. As the doors began to close, the janitor released his grip on the vacuum and began walking in the direction of the court security officers.

  “Hey,” Larkin could hear the man call before the elevator began ascending.

  “I’ve got to be fast,” said Larkin as the elevator began its ascent.

  In a calm feminine voice, the elevator announced that he had passed the second floor. Larkin gripped his wheels as tightly as he could. He considered ditching the chair altogether, but he might need to pass another person or two before reaching his destination. A memory of zooming down a hillside on his Aunt Tricia’s wheelchair with his two year-old cousin flashed in his mind.

  “Floor three,” said the elevator as it slowed to a stop.

  Larkin leaned low and prepared for blastoff. The doors opened. Striking the wheels so hard with the palms of his hands that his footrest lifted six inches off of the ground, he yelped like a child. His arms shot out and he gripped the elevator hand rails. With a curse buried behind gritted teeth, he steadied himself and exited the elevator just as the doors began closing. An arrow on the wall directed him to the clerk’s office. Video cameras protruded from the crown molding about every twenty feet.

  As he turned left as sharply as possible, the sounds of stomping feet echoed from the stairwell behind him. He quickly gained speed on the smooth tiled floor and neared a glass door with “Clerk’s Office” painted upon the streak-free surface.

  Grabbing the handle, he tugged, swung the door as far as possible before wedging his footrest into the doorway. The door swung back, pinning his chair between the door and the doorframe.

  Larkin grunted and with a mighty push, opened the door to its fullest extent. Momentarily free and clear, he entered the clerk’s office and raced to the glass window. His footrest banged against the counter just as his hand struck the tiny silver bell.

  “Yes?” asked a woman’s voice. She leaned close to the glass and spotted Larkin grimacing as he gripped his leg.

  “I need to file this,” he growled. He slid his papers through the slot in the window. He kept his head hung low. Only the top of his head was visible from the window.

  “I don’t understand,” said the deputy clerk. “This is a State of Virginia case. It says here on the top. This Court wouldn’t have jurisdiction.

  “Get it to Judge Wexler,” said Larkin. The sound of footsteps grew louder. At any moment the door would burst open and it would all be over. “Please just file it,” Larkin begged. “Just stamp it. It needs to be stamped. And then Judge Wexler.” The deputy clerk said nothing for a moment. Larkin refused to raise his head.

  “Well there’s the filing fee,” the deputy clerk finally said.

  “Last page,” spat Larkin. “Affidavit of Indigence, signed by me. I’m currently broke. Just stamp it and give it to Wexler. Please.”

  The deputy clerk clucked her tongue. “I just don’t see how’s there’s any jurisdiction. Is this a railroad case?”

  “Judge Wexler will find jurisdiction.” The footsteps grew louder. Men shouted. “Stamp the paper!”

  “I think,” said the deputy clerk, “Yes . . . you’ve got the case number here. I just need you to sign this.”

  The woman slid a clipboard through the same slot just as the door swung open. Larkin finally heard the sound that he had been waiting for, the automatic timestamp machine punched the front page of his filing with the day’s date. It would get to Wexler.

  “Freeze!” shouted the court security officer. “Hands in the air!” The deputy clerk shrieked.

  Larkin snatched the clerk’s clipboard and scrawled his last name in the signature space. As a court security officer approached him and grabbed his hands by his wrists, he looked to the deputy clerk.

  “I signed it,” he said as handcuffs clamped around each wrist. The security officer pushed his chair and Larkin finally came within full view of the deputy clerk. Her cheeks blushed as her hand cupped her mouth. Larkin smiled. “Thank you for stamping that,” he said, “but be a peach and fill in the other boxes would you?”

  Hands patted him down. One of the deputies withdrew an airplane bottle of rum which had been filled with “apple pie.”

  “Please don’t take that,” said Larkin. “That’s my medicine.”

  The court security officer raised the rum bottle and examined.

  “It’s not rum,” said Larkin. “I filled it with my medicine. Smell it and tell me if that smells like rum.”


  The court security officer did as he was told.

  “What is it, Kevin?” asked one of the Officers.

  “It don’t smell like rum. But it smells strong. This is your medicine?”

  “If you’re going to put me in lockup, I’d be mighty obliged to take it now,” said Larkin. The Officer looked to the others for a moment before handing the bottle to the disabled man.

  Larkin downed it. A dying man’s last libation. He then abruptly stood. “I can walk!” he shouted, his face feigning surprise. The deputy clerk gasped.

  “Get him out of here,” said Officer Not-Kevin.

  The deputy clerk simply stared with her fingers perched upon her lower lip. She watched the court security officers lead the man in the wheelchair out of her office. As they left, she reached for the clipboard and completed the form.

  150 Proof

  Larkin stared at his reflection in the polished steel plate mirror bolted to the holding cell wall. The image was blurry, as if he looked at himself while three or more sheets to the wind. He smiled and the mirror depicted a wavy blob of white. Sobriety remained elusive but he was far from three sheets.

  The holding cell door swung open. “Wondering how momma’s little boy reached such an end?” asked Trevor. He slid into the holding cell dressed in a suit that probably cost more than the jail’s budget.

  Larkin turned and hugged him. Trevor laughed.

  “You know, you’re getting orange prison jumpsuit all over my pinstripes,” he said. “You smell like you washed that in sweat.”

  Larkin stepped back. “How in the hell are you wearing that and I’m wearing this?” He tugged at the scratchy day-glow orange one-piece.

  “I had clothes dropped off for my appearance in court.” Trevor stooped a bit and straightened his tie in the steel mirror. Even blurry, the bastard was too handsome for his own good. “I see you opted for something more traditional.” He turned and leaned his rear against the sink. “So is this it?” he asked with eyebrows raised, hands clasped. “Is this the big hearing at the end where you save yourself and prove that your buddy was justified in raiding that home and driving the cops on the lake around in circles for over an hour?”

  Larkin sat on the bench. “Over an hour?”

  Trevor nodded. “I finished the bottle in thirty and started getting bored. I had trouble getting the front lights on so I’m really just happy I didn’t smash into a dock. Tail lights weren’t a problem. I was quite easy to spot. They said the whole thing had something to do with me being denied bail. The Judge said that I had proven I was a flight risk. Didn’t seem fair to me given that I was speeding around a landlocked body of water. Judge didn’t buy it. Of course, I didn’t have you then.”

  “More like thrill risk,” said Larkin.

  “You could have come up with a better argument.”

  “Sorry about that,” said Larkin. “Otherwise occupied.”

  “I asked for you to defend me and the Judge said since you were a co-defendant, it wasn’t going to fly.”

  “So what did you end up telling the Judge about what happened?”

  “I told him the truth,” said Trevor. “As a matter of fact, I turned myself in. That boat had half a tank still in it when I popped it in neutral. After the Glen Livet emptied, I was sure that the whole booking process would be more amusing sooner rather than later.”

  Larkin smiled. “Jesus, I hope this works.”

  “It will,” said Trevor. “I have full faith in you.”

  “You don’t even know what you’re doing here. This is federal court. You have no idea what the plan is, if any.”

  Trevor cocked his head. “Sure I do. You’re the plan. And that’s good enough for me. Good leaders delegate.” He pointed to Larkin and poked him lightly in his blaze orange chest. “Get me out of jail,” he delegated. “If you had been my lawyer, I wouldn’t have had to beg my ex-wife to bring me a suit.”

  “Did she say anything about Ryan? And why does your breath smell like fruit cocktail?”

  “That’s the hooch Garrison in D Pod made. Fermented four weeks in a garbage bag in his pillow. Better than that awful gin you drink. But Ryan? No. Was she supposed to?”

  Larkin shook his head. “No.”

  “You look nervous.”

  “I’m facing a life sentence. You’re facing twenty years in jail and you look and sound like you’re about to head to a fundraiser.”

  “It’s a public forum,” said Trevor. “If we survive this, think of the advertising that this would do for my next campaign. I’ll look bulletproof.” Footsteps in the hallway caught Trevor’s ear and he turned and squinted through the small hole in the metal door. “I’d ready yourself, Larkin. Game time.”

  The lock unlatched and the door opened so quickly that Trevor nearly toppled from the sink. Justice Byrd stood in the doorway. His tightly pulled expression of disgust judged both men. Two U.S. Marshals flanked him on either side. Kincaid had received his letter.

  “Mr. Monroe,” he said. “Your subpoena will be quashed today before this,” he looked at the stained walls of the holding cell, “whatever this is, can even begin.”

  “What do you want to say, Monroe?” asked a familiar voice.

  “Kincaid?” asked Larkin.

  “I’m behind the wall of federal agents.” One of the U.S. Marshals stepped aside and allowed Detective Kincaid to position himself directly behind the Justice.

  “I just need a second of your time, your Honor,” said Larkin.

  Justice Byrd shook his head. “This whole incident is completely inappropriate.” He glared at Kincaid.

  “It’s Detective, your Honor,” said Kincaid. “And if your motion to quash his subpoena is successful today, then you will never hear what this man has to say to you.” Kincaid snapped his fingers and pointed at Trevor. “You.”

  Trevor smiled. “In the hallway.”

  “Don’t mind me,” said Trevor as he approached the Justice. “Is this Oleg Cassini?” he asked as his finger grazed the Justice’s lapel. “I love the globe bar, by the way. I owe you one, mate.”

  One of the Marshals escorted Trevor back into the hallway while Kincaid pushed his way past the Justice and entered the holding cell. As he looked at Larkin in his orange jailhouse uniform, the cop bit his lip to stifle a grin.

  “I know,” said Larkin. “It’s not my color. I’m a winter not a fall.”

  “Your Honor?” asked the remaining Marshal.

  “Yes?”

  “Will you be entering the cell?”

  The Justice peered at the crude graffiti marring the cinderblock walls.

  “Yes, he will,” said Kincaid.

  The Justice stepped forward as the Marshal reached for the handle on the holding cell door. Before the Justice seemed able to stop it, the door had shut behind him locking him in the dank cell with Larkin and Kincaid.

  “Take a seat, your Honor,” said Kincaid as he motioned to a small square of space on the bench.

  “I’d rather stand.”

  “Now, your Honor,” started Larkin.

  The Justice cleared his throat so loudly that it echoed off of the thick walls. “You listen here, Monroe. I see you’re pulling every string in the book to get some sort of local hometown treatment, but I will fight this. I am fighting this. You have violated not only the sanctity of my office, but the very privacy of my home. I hope you spend many years in a room such as this, focusing on your decisions.”

  “This isn’t an appeal, your Honor,” said Larkin. “I’m innocent until proven guilty, remember?” The Justice crossed his arms. “Look. We got off to a terrible start. I made some assumptions about you. As you’ve no doubt made assumptions about me. I just want to talk to you about Bedford County v. Trans-Appalachian Rail.”

  “You have absolutely no jurisdiction,” said the Justice. “You may be able to get me here on a handwritten subpoena scrawled on jailhouse letterhead, but you have no authority to compel a federal judge to touch that case. It’s nearly been
decided.”

  “Exactly,” said Larkin. “That’s what I want to talk to you about. You were assigned that case, right?”

  The Justice said nothing. He kept his arms tightly bound around his chest.

  Larkin looked to Kincaid. “He was assigned the case.”

  “I was not assigned the case,” said the Justice. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  Larkin rolled his eyes. “Jesus. Lawyers. He is responsible for drafting the Court’s opinion. And, I might add, is the deciding swing vote on the issue.”

  “Okay,” said Kincaid.

  “Okay?” asked the Justice. “What does that prove? What is the point?”

  Larkin clapped his hands in frustration. Just like the Justice’s cough, the sound bounced off the walls and commanded attention. “You haven’t made up your mind though, have you Justice Byrd?”

  The Justice raised his eyebrows.

  “You see?” Larkin said to Kincaid.

  “See what?” asked the Justice.

  “I’m about to prove that you didn’t murder Alex Jordan,” said Larkin.

  “You’re the one charged with murder,” said the Justice.

  “Oh,” said Larkin. “Getting me off the hook is easy. Now why don’t you take a seat, your Honor, and we can have a nice discussion about railroads in Bedford County.”

  The federal district courtroom was big. It could have easily gobbled up two of the state circuit courtrooms and left plenty of room for a juvenile and domestic relations court in the back corner. Everything was broad, and dark, and wooden. From the huge tables that lined each party’s particular side of the courtroom, to the thick and high-gloss polished witness stand, everything seemed very permanent and somehow brand new. The Judge’s unoccupied bench must have been wrought of three tons of timber. It was a courtroom made for television, the kind of place that a juror would walk into and nod slightly as if she finally understood and appreciated where her tax dollars had gone. And like a courtroom on television, multiple video cameras kept on rolling.

  The crowd hushed. Larkin felt as if he had just walked into a room immediately after everyone had been joking about him. He nodded to himself. They probably had.