by Jason Rose
Joycee glares at me. “Keep your bad Dad jokes to yourself.”
“Dad joke? I thought it was funny,” I mumble, mostly to myself. “Did you get anything off that computer before you used it as a pinata?”
“I wasn’t blindfolded and it wasn’t hanging from a tree, and no, I didn’t,” she snaps. “I spent the whole night defusing the explosive pack I found inside the cover next to the CPU—”
“Explosive pack?” I ask, dumbfounded and concerned.
“Not enough to blow up the office or anything, just enough to blow the computer and its memory into little unusable bits, and maybe put a hole in the table it’s sitting on.”
“Oh, no big deal then,” I respond sarcastically.
Joycee half-smiles. “Pretty sophisticated setup. I’ve seen some hacker rigs set to blow in case of an FBI raid or whatnot; those are usually low-tech things you can build over the counter, and make an unnecessarily loud boom. This, on the other hand, was high tech, sophisticated, with shaped explosives, and Russian built.”
“How do you know it’s Russian built?”
“Made in Russia label on the explosives.”
“It says made in Russia on the explosives?”
“Basically. ‘Fuck You! Have a Nice Day!’ is written in Russian on the case housing the explosives.”
“You speak Russian?” Having a translator, one I can trust, could come in handy. My new job requires travel and interaction with people from all over the world—odds are some will be Russian.
“No, I Googled it,” she answers.
I choke back a laugh. “So you're telling me Whiley is either connected to a foreign government agency or he’s dialed into a high-end black market?”
“Doubt it’s government. I don’t think they would sign their work so colorfully. Government types rarely have a sense of humor. I’ll do some research, see if I can track down the maker. I wouldn’t hold your breath, though.” Joycee’s tone shifts almost to the point of tears. “Colt, I’m sorry—I thought I had it. I got cocky after I defused the explosives. I didn’t spot the secondary wipe protocol. I should have checked for it before trying to hack the passcode. I’m sorry, it’s my fault. This thing is worthless now. Scrap metal.”
Her rapid mood shifts are starting to make me concerned. She’s gone from angry to laughing to meekly apologetic, all in the matter of seconds. It’s a spin cycle of emotions, I’m not only dizzy but way outside my depth. “It’s okay,” I assure her. “Don’t worry about it. How’s Eirik? Did he give you any problems last night?” I glance over at Eirik sitting quietly in a chair at Wilson’s desk staring blankly into nothingness.
“He was fine. It’s weird, I put him on my couch last night. He laid down like he knew he was supposed to but he never closed his eyes; he just stared at the ceiling until morning. Really creepy. I slept with my softball bat. I know nobody’s in there, he’s just a shell, but I just keep imagining he was going to wake up and strangle me in my sleep.”
“I’m so sorry. You don’t have to take him home tonight. I’ll either take him, or we will put him back.” I could kick myself. I really am sorry. In hindsight, sending the creepy soulless guy home with Joycee last night was a poor decision. She’s been through enough; it should have occurred to me that having a zombie in her house might cause her some mental distress. God, I’m clueless sometimes. “Thank you for doing that.”
Joycee nods. “No problem. I just wanted to do my part for the team. I don’t want to let you down.” I can hear the fear in her voice.
I place my hands on Joycee’s shoulders and look her in the eyes. “Joycee, you didn’t let me down. You are an important part of this team. We all need you here. I need you here. Do you understand?”
Joycee nods as she looks up at me, salty water pooling at the edges of her tear ducts. And then she hugs me tightly. I let her hold on for a second, and then I wreck the moment. “Okay,” I say as I release her, “I need to make a phone call.” As I retreat to my desk, I have to fight off the waterworks. Her emotions must be contagious. My whole life I’ve always felt a part of things but still separate. It’s hard to explain. I’ve always had people who I guess you could call friends; I wasn’t a complete loner or anything, I just never felt like I was part of a family until now. These people—Sinn, Wilson, and Joycee, are becoming my people and it’s terrifying me. Knock it off, Colt, focus, work needs to be done.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Late Thursday Morning
“Adrian,” I say into the phone, “we found Whiley’s apartment; someone beat us there and took his head. I guess they didn’t want him talking. We didn’t find anything that identifies who hired him. His computer was a dead end.”
“Don’t worry about that, my enemies will be revealed soon. A werewolf gathering has been called for tomorrow night. My enemies must be anticipating my father will be convicted tomorrow and want to strike while the wound is fresh. A challenge to my leadership will be made at the gathering. They will demand I step down immediately. I don’t have time to talk further, I need to prepare. I need to meet with members of the council and rally what support I can. You must do whatever is necessary to win tomorrow. If you don’t, there will be war.”
“I have a plan; I don’t think you’re going to like it, though.”
“Do whatever is necessary, just win! You must! I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The phone goes dead. Adrian ended our phone call.
I exhale, set the phone back down on my desk receiver and bury my face in my hands as I try and sort through my thoughts. I hate being backed into a corner. I feel like a marionette. From the get-go, this entire situation has been manipulated by Whanung presumably working in my best interest, and, if I believe him, unknown others with unknown motivations. I hate being a string puppet. What I hate even more is that I thought I had come up with a solution, a way to possibly win this trial on my own; and then Whanung shows up and tries to push me onto the exact same path. My supposed original thought is not so original. God, that pisses me off. Apparently, I’m not the clever unique snowflake I thought I was. I hate feeling unnecessary to a situation. My ego can barely tolerate it. Unfortunately, at this point, I’m not seeing any other options. Whether or not it’s the right thing to do, whether Adrian’s dethronement would really lead to all-out war, I know myself; I will not allow myself to lose this case, not when I know there is a path to victory. Fuck it, sometimes in life, choices are made for you and the only thing you can do is sack-up and execute the plan.
I pick the receiver back up and dial the number Adrian gave me for Eirik’s frat boy pack lawyer in Boston. The phone rings.
Dumb and dumber’s ringleader answers the phone. “Patrick Conroy speaking.”
“Patrick, it’s Colt Valentine.”
Patrick’s tone devolves to a less than excited pitch, “What do you want?”
“I need you to do something. I need you to file an appeal in Eirik Varulv’s state case.”
Patrick laughs. “On what grounds?”
“I don’t really care. Prosecutorial misconduct. Anything you want, as long as you don’t throw any more dirt on Rodrigo Ruiz’s name. You already threw enough dirt on his body when you and your dipshit partner murdered him.” The silence on the other end of the line confirms my suspicion. “I need the appeal on file before the close of business today.”
“Wait, what? It’s after 2:00 pm here. You want us to draft an appeal and get it to the courthouse window for filing in less than three hours? That’s impossible.”
“You want me to tell Adrian you’re the reason his dad loses his case tomorrow?” I know, it’s kind of a chicken-shit move to threaten to tell the King wolf. My other option was to threaten violence, which probably would have worked, just not over the phone. I’d have to portal over there and demonstrate my commitment to hurting him, and I don’t have the time for that. Sometimes, the chicken-shit option is the most efficient option.
“Fine, we’ll get something on file. It won’t
be very good. We’re not going to win the appeal.”
“You don’t have to. Just get it on file. Send me a copy with a file stamp.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, one more thing—did Adrian know you killed Rodrigo Ruiz? Did he order it?”
Patrick remains silent, telling me everything I need to know. “Thanks. Now be a good doggy and get it done. Get that appeal on file, or else.” I hang up the phone without letting Patrick respond. Now that that’s out of the way, I need to find Wilson. This plan only works if he agrees to do something unpleasant. Something that he might disagree with on a moral level, so just a typical Thursday in the life of an Arcane Justice employee. Maybe our motto should be Arcane Justice will win your case no matter what the consequence to our souls. I can’t even believe I’m going to ask him to do this. What am I becoming? Maybe Whanung is right; sometimes you do what you have to do because there is no right thing to do and you can’t accept the consequence of not doing anything. Or maybe I’m just an asshole?
Chapter Thirty
Friday Morning
“Mr. Valentine, where is your client? It’s three o’clock here in Rome, the ordered start time for today’s proceedings. Your client was fitted with a rune that should have brought him directly here to the Concordat courthouse. The only way it would have failed to do so would be if it was removed or deactivated. If your client removed it or allowed it to be removed, this Court will have no choice other than to find him guilty of the charges against him. Eirik Varulv will forfeit his citizenship and this Court will pronounce a sentence of death to be executed lawfully by any citizen coming into contact with him. He will be declared an enemy of the Concordat and its citizens.” Judge Prestegard delivers the threat from the bench while maintaining a level of smugness only achievable through relentless practice, likely involving a full-length mirror, a bottle of lotion, and a box of tissues. Just looking at him makes me want to rub myself raw with decontamination soap—you know, the stuff they make people wash down with after heavy doses of radiation exposure. It doesn’t really do anything to reduce radiation exposure, but studies show the act of washing calms people down and makes them feel more positive about their pending illness. I also hear it’s good for your skin, which makes the mortician's job easier, less makeup to apply after you melt from radiation poisoning.
The courtroom is full today, standing room only. Nearly all of the Advocate door runes are illuminated, meaning nearly all of my Advocate colleagues are present, more than half of whom I’ve never even met. Today’s proceeding appears to be the must-have tickets of the season. I wonder how much of that has to do with the case and how much of it has to do with me and my proclivity for killing my opponents during trial. I glance back at Wilson and Joycee seated in the front row of the gallery. Joycee gives me a thumbs up, the sign I’ve been waiting for, indicating we’re ready to rock and roll. Wilson’s on edge; he’s studying the room and everyone in it, looking for signs of danger. He wasn’t happy about it, but he stepped up in a big way last night and did his job—black marks on our souls be damned. If I’m being honest, he embraced what had to be done with more enthusiasm than I expected. He saw it as applying justice. I don’t know what it was. I just don’t feel good about it.
“Advocate Valentine,” prompts Judge Seleena. “Do you know where Eirik Varulv is?”
I look up at the bench; Judge Seleena is wearing a flashy gold strapless dress that matches her gold trident. Prestegard is impeccably dressed, as usual, wearing a perfectly tailored white oxford suit that enhances his athletic build and movie star looks. God, I hate that prick. And the Kokutani, Judge Tavar, looks fearsome as ever with his sharp tusks and foliage ensemble. I’m guessing he doesn’t get out of the deep rainforest very much, and there probably aren’t a lot of posh tailors setting up shop in his neck of the jungle. I also suspect it’s difficult for him to just walk into a Men’s Warehouse looking the way he does. Shopping has to be a pain for citizens who can’t pass as humans. Don’t get me started on trying to find sizes that fit. Who makes pants with cutouts for a tail? I wonder if there is a citizen shopping mall or bazaar somewhere. A place where non-humans can shop, walk laps in the air-conditioned interior on hot days, and eat frozen yogurt and cinnabons in peace. I’ll have to ask Sinn.
“Yes,” I answer.
“Well, where is he?” presses Prestegard.
I raise my right hand with palm facing towards Prestegard and my index finger pointed up at the sky, the universal sign for please give me a moment. I have to strain to keep from smiling at the incredulous look on Prestegard’s face; I don’t think he can believe I’m asking him to wait. Snobs like him think their time is more valuable than anyone else’s. Nothing bothers them more than forcing them to wait on people who they think are their inferiors. After savoring the moment for a beat longer than I probably should, like a millennial who just hit a homerun and watched it travel out of the park rather than jog the bases, I turn and nod at my investigator. Wilson acknowledges my signal, stands and walks over to the Lycanthrope, who’s only just arrived. I haven’t had an opportunity to speak with Adrian since yesterday morning. I tried calling him, but he hasn’t been answering his phone. When we realized we would not be able to explain the plan or deliver the news to Adrian before court, my team and I decided the best strategy would be to deliver the news to him and everyone else live in open court. We want to make an impact on the judges and this is the most effective way to do that. I realize this seems coldhearted, and admittedly it is, but it insulates Adrian from suspicion; and, regardless, Adrian isn’t my favorite person right now, not after what I learned about Rodrigo Ruiz’s death. I will do what I agreed to do, which is everything I can to win this case, but I need not wear kid gloves while I do it. Adrian did tell me he didn’t care what I did, so long as I won. There is a lesson here somewhere—I think it’s something along the lines of you should be careful what you ask for.
Wilson leans over and whispers to Adrian, who nods and starts walking towards me. The entire courtroom is intently watching this drama unfold. They are a captivated audience, one who knows something’s about to happen; you can feel the electricity in the air. I steal a look at Makki, all six-foot-nine of her—more like seven-foot-three, if you count the dangerous-looking stripper heels that she’s wearing—to check out how she’s reacting. She’s frowning. I can see her mind working. While I’m watching, she bites down on her lower lip; she must realize something’s about to happen and that it’s not likely to be good for her case. She is sharp, she might figure it out. I don’t care if she does. Some things you just can’t stop, even when you see them coming.
When Adrian reaches the stone wall separating the public gallery from the rest of the courtroom, he stops and waits. He knows better than to cross the bar into Advocate territory without the Court’s permission. I remain on my side of the bar in the attorney area, intentionally keeping distance between us, and state loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear, “Adrian, I’m sorry, there is no easy way to say this. Your father, Eirik Varulv, is dead.”
Someone in the crowd literally gasps, like an old southern lady who’s just been told by the white-gloved server at her country club that they’re out of sweet tea. Murmurs run rampant around the building; even the three judges are whispering amongst themselves. Adrian’s eyes narrow, his muscles twitch as he fights against a change and he lets out a primal howl, pain reformed into melancholy. You can’t hear that sound and not think about someone you’ve lost and re-experience the pain you felt when it happened. For me, I can’t help but think about my mother. For a moment, darkness closes in. I feel like I’m in a collapsing tunnel, all thoughts of Eirik Varulv and the case are blocked out, forgotten, and memories of my mother’s death seep past the protective barriers I’ve built in my mind—and then I feel Sinn’s hand on my shoulder, pulling me back to the moment. I gaze over at her; I can see the pain of her father’s death reverberating in her hauntingly beautiful eyes. Pain I caused. �
�I am sorry,” I whisper.
She mouths back “Me too,” while she wipes tears away. I don’t think I’ve heard sweeter and yet sourer words in my entire life. At that moment, barriers between us collapse, the world outside of Sinn and me fades away. It’s just us, shared pain and clarity. Two vulnerable and broken people, who have been trying to figure it out alone, realizing maybe we’re better together.
Our shared understanding is short-lived. Adrian has gathered himself and is demanding answers. “How did he die?”
“Yes,” interjects Prestegard, clearly tired of not participating, and/or hearing the sound of his own annoying voice. “How did he die? Did you kill him? Maybe you had one of your humans kill him?”
I lean across the bar to Adrian and whisper, “You’re going to have to trust me now. Please sit down, everything will be explained. You hired me to do a job, let me do it.”
Adrian growls as he steps back and sits down in the front row seat recently vacated by Joycee. His eyes never leave me, like a predator tracking its prey, making sure it doesn’t try and escape. If we were anywhere else, this would probably end in violence; even here, it might. I’d rather it didn’t. Getting into a physical altercation with your client, particularly in public, isn’t really good business acumen. It has a tendency to drive future clients away. I think it’s also a lawyer’s ethics violation. I vaguely recall from my ethics training you’re not supposed to steal from your clients, ignore your clients, fight with your clients, or fuck your clients. Other than that, the world is your oyster. The ethics committee’s put a lot of emphasis on that last one. It’s depressing that my profession must expend so much time and energy policing itself because of lawyers’ apparent inability to keep their sexual organs in their pants and away from their clients.
I turn back around and look up at the judges perched on the raised bench. “No, I didn’t kill Eirik Varulv. He was a citizen. Killing him would be murder. He didn’t die by my hand. I would never murder a citizen. I am offended, Advocate Prestegard, that you would even suggest such a thing. And neither did any of my team murder him, human or otherwise. Although, if the human members of my team had, it wouldn’t be any of this Court’s concern. Humans aren’t subject to our laws. A human can murder any one of us without repercussions. Just thought I’d throw that out there, food for thought. One consequence of our short sightedness in refusing to extend basic Concordat rights to all humans. Just something the Concordat should revisit, and soon.” I can’t help but ham it up and preach a bit. If you can’t screw with people and occasionally act overly melodramatic and self-righteous, what’s the point of being a lawyer?