Chapter 7.
Law and Order-taker
It’d been exactly a week since what I like to refer to as, “Awesome Saturday.”
If you don’t remember, let me refresh your memory. I woke up with the second worst hangover of my life, attempted to take the Bar Exam between vomit breaks, then found out in a cryptic message written on the back of a napkin that everything I’d been told for the last month had been one big, fat, juicy, lie.
For obvious reasons, I had a couple choice questions I wanted to ask Mr. Perry Whitcomb. I’ll give you a hint; the questions did not concern soccer. I’ll give you a second hint: the questions did concern the napkin he’d shoved into my pocket when leaving the bar.
Over the course of the past week, I’d tried unsuccessfully to contact Perry. Messages on Deadbook, calls to the Denver Chronicle, and even stopping by the downtown DC office on two separate occasions. Both times I was told, “Perry isn’t around.”
I’d kept the messages on Deadbook brief and ambiguous. I had little doubt the machine that was Two would have no trouble watching the influx of messages on the world-wide-web. I simply wrote that it was great to see him and to hit me back so we could do it again.
He never responded.
So, I was left to agonize about those three words. Those three words on the billboard that hovered six inches from my face. The three words fluorescent, orange, and blinking.
You didn’t die.
And agonize I did. If I didn’t die, then how did I get here? And where was here? And why was I being lied to? And how did he know this? And was I alone on this or had he not died either. And what about everyone else? What about all the people I knew who had died; Perry, Dr. Raleigh, Dr. JeAnn, Darrel, Berlin, all the people from my orientation class, all the people from the Adjustment House? Was he telling me that none of these people had died? Or was it just me? Was that why I felt like the square block? Was I the only person in Two that hadn’t died? And did this have anything to do with the Borns?
The answers to all my questions would come. But not today. And not tomorrow. In fact, they wouldn’t come for a great while.
⠔
The coffee shop was inside the twenty-four hour bookstore. I was waiting for the café down the street to open for brunch, but I had a half hour to kill. I ordered an apple cider from the young woman behind the register and sat down at a small table with the book I’d just bought.
It’d been awhile since I’d read a good legal thriller—John Grisham’s last couple hadn’t been his best—and a couple days earlier, I’d Goggled, “Best legal thriller writer.”
The overall consensus was a guy named Jackson Hall.
I cracked open The Ghost Appellate and started in on the first page. I was about twenty pages into the book and three inches into my cider, when two guys took up the table right next to me.
The guys were lawyers, for that much I was certain. Both were young, early thirties. Both wore suits. One cheap, the other snazzy. One from Men’s Wearhouse. The other Brooks Brothers or the Two equivalent. Both were working on a Saturday. Something I might have looked forward to if I’d gotten more than just my name correct on last Saturday’s Bar Exam.
From what I could gather, both men worked for the District Attorney’s Office. I got the impression one of the gentlemen, the one seated closest to me, the one who “Liked the way he looked,” was a paralegal. A grunt. A peon. The other guy, the one wearing the fifteen hundred dollar suit had that swagger about him. Probably an assistant DA. A big shot on the rise.
The grunt had a legal pad out in front of him and was tearing apart a piece of coffee cake between scribbles. The other guy had two large lattes in front of him. Not one latte. Two lattes.
They were discussing a case. Specifically, the grunt was discussing a case he was working on. The defendant in the case—he kept referring to him as Hord—was being tried for the attempted murder of his wife. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but it was impossible not to.
Grunt: …their whole case is built around a self-defense plea. It’s weak, but the wife’s statement that the stabbing wasn’t in self-defense is inadmissible because she wouldn’t testify.
Big Shot: Marital privilege.
G: So get this, Hord stabs his wife with a meat cleaver six times, tries to kill her, she somehow makes it into a room with a lock and calls the police. Police come, guy gets arrested, wife goes to the ER, records her statement two days later when she’s out of surgery.
BS: Right.
G: Then during discovery, we find out the wife won’t testify against her husband, they had a ‘reconciliation’, and the Judge throws her statement out.
BS: Who is the judge. Ranker?
G: Worse, Glasky.
BS: No wonder. He’s hard on evidence. I had a case with him about six months back. He threw out two DNA tests that had the wrong date on them. I objected on twelve different grounds until the old coot said he would hold me in contempt if I didn’t shut up. Anyhow, what was the basis, Sixth Amendment?
G: ( Nodding.) Yep, said the evidence violated the defendant’s right to be confronted with the witnesses against him.
BS: So without her statement, you have nothing.
G: Zip. But here’s the rub, even the defendant’s statement is vague about whether the wife pulled out a weapon before he stabbed her. But when they put him on the stand, he starts making some shit up about her having a knife of her own and self-defense this and self-defense that.
BS: Whose case is it?
G: McClessens.
BS: That asshole still have a stick up his ass for me?
G: Yep. He thinks he should have gotten the assistant DA position.
BS: Fuck him.
G: He’s not so bad. But he’s acting like it’s my fault the wife’s statement was thrown out. Like I personally talked these two lovebirds into reconciling.
BS: What about Johnson V. Mathers?
G: Doesn’t work. Wife died. Changes everything. If the wife croaks in the next 48 hours we could use it. What would you do if it were your case?
BS: It would never be my case. They save the big ones for me.
G: Right, I forgot.
The conversation slowly moved from law to one of Big Shot's friends, “Ridiculous Vegas Bachelor Party.”
Gag.
Luckily for my newly digested apple cider, I stopped listening. I had flipped back to the opening chapter of The Ghost Appellate. The chapter was set in a courtroom. A witness was testifying when a bomb exploded killing the witness, the judge, and a handful of jurors. Great scene. Sucked me right in. But that wasn’t what concerned me. Before the bomb exploded, there had been five pages recounting the trial. And get this; the trial was of a husband charged with the attempted murder of his wife.
I found the paragraph I was looking for. After I’d memorized it, I leaned over and said to the Grunt, “Excuse me.”
Big Shot was in the middle of a sentence, “…girl is loving me. Starts given me a lap dance—” They both turned. Big Shot glared at me.
I smiled and said, “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”
They looked at each other.
I said, “Your case, I mean.”
Big Shot’s face dropped. I think he was worried I was the youngest member in the history of the American Bar Association Professional Conduct Committee and I was going to disbar him on the spot, then drink one of his prized lattes.
Before he could jump up and run, I said, “I think there might be a way the wife’s statement would be admissible.”
Big Shot was about to say something, probably tell me to mind my own business, when Grunt leaned over and said, “I’m listening.”
I took a deep breath and said, “Under Michigan v. Glower, you can’t bar the admission of a witness's statement against a criminal defendant if the statement bears an ‘adequate indication of reliability.’”
Grunt looked at Big Shot.
/> Big Shot said, “Who the fuck is this guy?”
I stuck out my hand, “Madison Young. But you can call me Maddy.”
He didn’t take it. He did stand and say, “I gotta run Chuck. You can listen to this idiot if you want.”
He walked out.
Chuck said, “Sorry about him. “
I shrugged, then said, “So you go to the judge and argue that he has to deem the wife’s statement reliable because it was nearly identical to the defendant’s own statement to the police, in that both were unclear as to whether the victim had drawn a weapon before the defendant assaulted her.”
Chuck said, “Where the hell did you pull that from?”
“The Ghost Appellate. Page five, paragraph three.”
“Ghost what?”
I lifted up the book and showed it to him. He laughed. I showed him the paragraph. He laughed again.
He asked, “You think it’s true. Glow V. Michigan, or whatever?”
“Probably. Most of the stuff these guys use is fact-based. I was reading up on the author a couple days ago. He was a lawyer for like fifteen years, so I’d guess that it is. But it’s easy enough to confirm.”
He nodded.
We made small talk for another ten minutes. He asked about law school and I ended up telling him my whole life story. Or at least my whole month long story, ending with my tragic failing of the Bar Exam seven days earlier.
Chuck said, “Yeah, I had to take it twice.”
Chuck had been here eight years. Boating accident. He asked, “What kind of law do you want to practice?”
“I always saw myself as a court appointed defender.” I explained how I’d heard too many stories about the poor getting the short end of the stick because they couldn’t afford a decent lawyer. But I think it had more to do with my growing up rich. Elite. By defending the poor, I would somehow purge the remaining blue blood cells from my system.
Chuck found this admirable. But he did ask, “You don’t want to be one of the good guys?”
“You mean like your friend there. No thanks.”
He laughed. “You mean Jeremy Palace. The golden child. Yeah, he pretty much sucks. He grew up like seven houses down from me.”
“The word tool comes to mind.”
After a good laugh, Chuck said, “As good as Jeremy is at being a tool, and he’s amazing at that, he’s an even better lawyer. And that’s hard for me to say. The guy’s never lost a case. He’ll probably be DA by the time he’s thirty.”
“At least he’s ugly.” Jeremy looked like a Hugo Boss model. Probably another reason why I immediately disliked him.
After another good laugh, Chuck said, “I gotta get going. What’s the name of that case again?”
I ripped out the page and handed it to him.
He thanked me, then said, “If you’re looking for a job, I might be able to help.”
“Yeah?”
“I can put you in touch with a guy at the Public Defender’s Office.”
“That would be great.”
He took his phone out and rattled off a number. I wrote it on the inside back cover of the book. I asked, “What’s his name?”
“Jeremy Palace. He’s the deputy director over there.”
“Jeremy Palace? As in the aforementioned tool softener Jeremy Palace?”
“Jeremy Palace Sr." He threw a mischievous grin. "He's Jeremy's father.”
⠔
“Any good?”
I looked up. A petite, brunette, in a gray button down, blue jeans, and a white apron was leaning over the metal railing, trying to read the title of the book. I surmised she was my waitress. I was seated at one of two tables on the small patio of the restaurant, the other table occupied by two women and two golden retrievers. A tan umbrella shielded me from the early morning sun.
When I first looked up, I had to do a double-take. For a moment I thought it was her. But that was impossible. Still, the resemblance was uncanny.
Shaking off the thought, I said, “The first thirty pages were pretty good.”
She smiled twice. Once with her big brown eyes. A second time with small even lips and perfect teeth. She leaned down and picked up the book. Turned it over a couple times. Read the back synopsis.
It was the nose that reminded me of her. The small, perfect, nose.
After a long minute, she looked up and said, “Sounds boring, there aren’t even any vampires.”
I laughed. I thought about asking her if she was more of a Twilight girl, but she probably wouldn’t understand the reference. I did ask, “How do you know there aren’t any vampires? Maybe the judge is secretly a vampire?”
She read the back again. Looked up. “No mention of a judge vampire. Sorry.” She handed the book back to me.
“Thanks.”
“You want some OJ.” She leaned forward. “That’s an acronym for Orange Juice.”
“I thought it was short for Orenthal James.”
She didn’t get it, but I could tell she was thinking hard. Her face was all smushed together. It was insanely cute to be honest. Her face relaxed and she said, “No, the acronym for that. is GAWM.”
“GAWM?”
“Get’s Away With Murder.”
I laughed. So she did get it. “You know that he’s in jail now.”
She nodded. “Yeah, something about a hold up to get a bunch of his memorabilia back. What an idiot.”
I tried to think when that happened. A couple years ago? Less? Had someone told her about it or had she seen it firsthand? Was she a recent Arrival? I wanted to ask her how long she’d been here, but I thought better of it. I said, “Yep, he’s a moron. But to answer your question, orange juice sounds great.”
“Aye, aye, captain.”
She disappeared into the café. I had a suspicion at this point, but that was all. A mild suspicion. I started back in on the book. Five pages later, she set a glass down in front of me and asked, “That vampire Judge show up yet?”
“Yep, he just attacked one of the jurors. Sucked him dry.”
She thought this was funny.
After she took my order; granola, yogurt, fruit, and a side of bacon, I asked, “Can I ask you a personal question.”
“How personal? Like what type of shampoo I use or if I like to be on top?”
Um. “Somewhere in between?”
“Sure.”
“How long have you been here?”
She looked around the small café, then said, “Five months. It’s a good gig.”
“I meant here, Two.”
She did this thing with her mouth. Did a dramatic fake frown. “Oh, here, here. Eight months.”
Eight months. That would make it February. It fit. My mild suspicion was now a likely probability.
She said, “How bout you?”
“Almost a month.”
“Fresh meat.”
“That’s me.”
“The second Twilight movie come out yet?”
I knew it.
I said, “No, I think it was due to come out in November or December.”
“Bummer.”
“I’m assuming you read all the books.”
“Uh, yeah. I was on my third go-round when I kicked the bucket.”
“Kicked the bucket huh? What happened?”
If I remembered the story correctly, she’d died snowboarding.
She took a deep breath and said, “I was in Colorado visiting my sister. We were snowboarding. It was like my fifth time ever. I was trying to keep up with her, but she was a lot better then me. I was trying to stop when I went off the lip of a catwalk.” She was using her hands at this point. One hand of her on a snowboard. The other hand the catwalk. “And my feet went out from under me. That’s the last thing I remember.”
It was her.
The story I heard was that she’d snapped one of the vertebras in her neck. Died instantly. I wonder if she knew this. And if she did know this
, did she think she was lucky. Lucky to be here, alive and able to wait tables. Or would she have been lucky if she’d survived only to live the rest of her life in a wheelchair, eat through a straw, breath through a tube.
Before she could ask me how I kicked the bucket, I said, “Did you know the guy and girl from Twilight are engaged.”
Her jaw dropped, “Kristen Stuart and Robert Pattinson are engaged?”
“Yep.”
She shook her head. “That bitch.”
⠔
She left me to eat my breakfast, stopping by a couple times to make sure everything was perfect. The place was packed and when she dropped my ticket off, I was set to ask her what her name was, but she was gone before I could muster the courage. I picked up the receipt. In the left hand corner was her name.
Abby.
I put down my card.
She came back a minute later. She was shaking her head. She leaned forward and said, “I hate people sometimes.” She disappeared to run my card.
She came back ten minutes later. She looked like she was ready to snap. She set my card and receipts down and said, “Sorry that took so long. I have this lady who is allergic to like everything in the world. I swear she’s allergic to matter.”
“Matter?”
“Yes. Matter. Like everything in the universe. Matter.”
I couldn’t stop laughing.
I thought about telling her then. But she was too busy. Maybe I’d come back and tell her some other time. Maybe I’d come back tomorrow. I looked down at the receipts. Scribbled in a nice tip. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d written a note at the top of the merchant copy. I placed the carafe of water on top of the receipts so the light wind wouldn’t blow them away, stood, and started down the sidewalk.
“HEY.”
I turned around slowly.
Abby was three feet from me. She was holding the receipt up in front of her face. The sun was behind her, shining through the thin paper. I could see the black writing in the top right corner. The four words.
Abby’s face was ashen. “You knew my sister?”
Knew your sister. Had a huge crush on your sister. Died jerking off to your sister.
I let out a deep breath and said, “Yes.”