

### Legally Wasted

### By Tommy Strelka

Copyright © 2014 by Tommy Strelka. All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-0-692-55581-1

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|On Tap and On the House|

10 Proof

20 Proof

30 Proof

40 Proof

50 Proof

60 Proof

70 Proof

80 Proof

90 Proof

100 Proof

110 Proof

120 Proof

130 Proof

140 Proof

150 Proof

Baby Proof

"Did you make up your mind?" Larkin whispered into Madeline's ear. She did not wear any perfume but carried that sweet smell wrapped around her like a fur. Cinnamon. Her lips pursed as her eyes continued to stare at the witness stand not twenty feet away. "You do realize that you have to plead along with me?" Larkin continued.

She whispered something too faint to hear. Larkin leaned in close. "What?"

"It's my decision," she said, meaning that she had already made up her mind. "And keep your voice down. That bailiff keeps looking at you."

Larkin rolled his eyes. It had been a perfect evening. The Blue Ridge Parkway at dusk with a picnic blanket, bottle of champagne, and the biggest diamond ring that a librarian could afford. The country's oldest and most gentle mountain range loped and sloped into oblivion. A dying orange sun warmed the ridge.

"Your hand seems a little plain considering how it looked the other night," said Larkin. He could care less about a bailiff.

Madeline twisted her body away from him and stared out the nearby window. Apparently the view overlooking the federal courthouse parking lot was far more interesting. Larkin breathed deeply and ran his fingers through his thick brown hair. The people around him fought against their plain wooden seats creating a small din of creaks and groans of benches. With a small forest's worth of glossy dark wood crammed into every corner of the courtroom, Larkin had half-expected the room to smell like a spilled jug of pine-scented cleaner. But the air was thick and musty, and the room smelled not unlike the small public library where he spent forty hours each week. He imagined row upon row of aging leather bound legal tomes lining the walls of the secure rooms where the public was not invited. Secret knowledge. The law fascinated him, and it was only something he had just realized.

"I love you, baby," said Larkin after a moment, "but you're going to sink my ship here."

The back of Madeline's head shook from side to side.

"Sweetheart," he said in his gentlest voice, "you're going to have to trust me on this."

Her shoulders sagged a bit. He momentarily lost his breath as he remembered the last time her body had reacted with such a sigh. "Don't think about that now," he said, mostly to himself. "Let's just get through with this and we'll figure out the whole thing."

Madeline turned. "You're too damned smart," she said. "Either that or you can read my mind."

Larkin smiled. "And you're wiser than me. And right now your heart is screaming at your brain to trust me."

Madeline nodded. "It might be," she whispered. "But what we did was wrong."

"We did not break the law," said Larkin, "and besides." He drew closer and placed his hand upon the fabric of the conservative church dress she had worn to court. Despite the broad lines and length of the dress, it had utterly failed to conceal one of the most beautiful women in Virginia. He brushed his fingertips against the material until his index finger rested about an inch above her left knee. "What we did that evening was so very right."

Madeline rolled her eyes and returned her gaze to the parking lot. Larkin smiled. "Not guilty, love. You can spend the whole rest of our lives together being right and I'll be guilty of whatever you'd like. Just give me this, okay, baby?"

"All rise," bellowed the bailiff. "Oy ye, oy ye," he literally shouted. "Silence is commanded. The Honorable United States Magistrate Judge Victoria Wexler presiding. This Court is now in session."

Judge Wexler nodded to the dozens of people anxiously waiting for their name to be called. A small woman in her early fifties, she gave her courtroom staff a warm smile as she took her place behind the bench. Her bright red hair was scooped up into a neat bun. Bright green eyes surveyed her courtroom.

"Please be seated," she said with a nod.

As the sounds of shoe shuffling and creaking benches filled the air, Larkin leaned in close to his maybe-fiancé. "Not guilty," he whispered, but he packed as much force into it as a whisper could bear. She shot him a too quick glance. For a moment, Larkin wondered if she could smell the bourbon on his breath. He had brushed his teeth twice. And like the telltale heart, he could suddenly _feel_ the swishes of the small plastic bottle of Jim Beam in his coat pocket.

"No talking in the courtroom," said one of the bailiffs. Larkin answered the bailiff with a little wave. He turned back to Madeline. The questioning glare was gone. Perhaps it had never existed in the first place. Either way, Larkin was relieved not to have lost the day before the trial had even begun.

"All those here," announced Judge Wexler, "should be here due to criminal or traffic violations occurring while on the Blue Ridge Parkway. If you're not here for that type of case, then you need to step out and speak with the clerk at the clerk's office." The Judge had mastered the art of broadcasting her voice clearly across the courtroom while maintaining a conversational tone.

Everyone in the courtroom stood their ground. The Judge glanced in Larkin's direction, possibly because one of the bailiffs seemed itching to smack him with his baton. Larkin nodded and surprisingly, the high and mighty federal Judge nodded back.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the Judge began as her fingers flipped through paperwork, "I'm about to ask you how you will plead in your case. This is the point where you enter a plea as to the charge or charges against you. If you plead guilty, I will sentence you. If you plead not guilty, you will have a trial. I will then hear the evidence that the United States government has prepared against you. It will be their burden to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you are guilty of the crime charged. I will hear whatever evidence you would like for me to hear and then I will make my decision."

"Not guilty," Larkin repeated under his breath.

"No," snapped Madeline, but not with words. And with the same slight twist of her neck with her arms crossed, she said, "Guilty," without really saying it at all.

"Jesus Christ," said Larkin. The bailiff approached. Larkin held up his hands sheepishly and acted the good boy.

"If any of you here today would like to plead guilty to your charge or charges," said the Judge, "please stand and approach this first row of benches in front of my bench."

Madeline delicately picked Larkin's inappropriate finger off of her leg. She began standing. "Madeline," Larkin said, his eyes wide, "no."

Madeline took advantage of his hesitation and quickly brushed past him. He lunged and grabbed the strap of her purse. Before she had both feet in the center aisle, he gave a sharp tug. Madeline yanked the purse back to her shoulder, but Larkin refused to release his grip.

"Let go!" Madeline whispered.

"That's it," said the nearby bailiff as he fingered his baton. He began striding toward them.

"Bailiff Spencer," shouted the Judge.

The bailiff froze.

"Keep your weapon holstered." The Judge had lost the more civil tone adopted for the intro. She was the Captain and the collective mass of polished mahogany surrounding them was her ship.

The bailiff complied and looked back to Larkin. Madeline tugged and regained control of her purse. She scurried away from Larkin's grasp and headed for the bench to join the rest of the penitent sinners. "Madeline!" shouted Larkin, but she refused to acknowledge him. Her cheeks flushed red. She was mortified by the scene that Larkin had created.

"Young man," shouted the Judge. Her once kind eyes had been replaced by a fierce glare. "What is the problem?"

Larkin stood while Madeline sat upon the bench of the guilty. "Your Honor," Larkin said as he slowly approached. "That's my fiancé."

Madeline raised her arm in the air in an apparent effort to straighten the sleeve of her cardigan. However, as her hand paused and gently rotated so that the entire courtroom could see that she wore no ring, Larkin finally felt alone on the battlefield.

"Is there a problem with her plea today?" the Judge asked.

"Absolutely, your Honor," said Larkin. He leaned his knees against the waist-high wooden swing gate just behind the bench of the guilty. "She is not educated as to certain areas of the law, your Honor, and I believe that she is making a mistake."

A smile sparked at the corner of the Judge's mouth but quickly extinguished as she returned to her papers. Sufficiently straightened, she looked back to Larkin. "And are you, sir, educated as to certain areas of the law?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you a licensed attorney?"

"No, sir . . . I mean, your Honor."

"Well, then you may not speak for this woman," she said as she coincidentally finished arranging a neat stack of papers. She collected the stack in her hands and beat it against the bench for good measure before passing it to the deputy clerk seated to his left. A gold bangle bracelet jiggled and jostled over the Judge's slender left wrist any time she moved her hands.

"Your Honor," said Larkin as he gripped the gate. It was now or never. "If the Court proceeds with Ms. Simmons' case without further evidence then the Court is going to be making a big mistake."

"What's that?" asked the Judge. Her eyebrow's sunk as she crossed her arms. She studied Larkin for a moment while the heel of Bailiff Spencer's right hand rested comfortably against his skull-basher. "What is your name, sir?"

"I am Larkin Monroe, your Honor. I've also been charged along with Ms. Simmons." Light laughter rippled through the courtroom. "I guess that makes me a co-defendant." The mini-booze throbbed again in his coat pocket.

The Judge flipped through one of her folders. "You and Ms. Simmons have been charged with . . ." her eyes scanned a hidden page, "possession of alcohol on the Parkway."

"That's right, your Honor."

"And do you plan on pleading not guilty to that charge?"

"Yes," said Larkin, "as does my fiancé."

Madeline stomped her right heel.

The Judge raised her eyebrows. "It looks to me like she wants to plead guilty, Mr. Monroe."

"She's confused, your Honor."

"I'll make that determination, Mr. Monroe." The Judge looked to Madeline. "Ma'am, do you freely, willingly, and voluntarily plead guilty to the charge of alcohol possession?"

Madeline stood. "Yes."

The Judge clasped her hands together. "And do you make that plea because it is in fact your decision and not the decision of anyone else?"

"Absolutely."

Larkin bit his lip.

"Has anyone forced, coerced, or intimidated you in any way to make that plea?"

"No, your Honor."

"Are you aware of the maximum penalty that you will face if you plead guilty and thus require me to sentence you?

"I am."

The Judge looked to Larkin. "She doesn't sound confused at all to me, Mr. Monroe. I'm going to have to accept her plea of guilty."

"Your Honor," Larkin shouted, although his lips had outpaced his mind. He had no idea what to say. "As I stated earlier, this Court could be making a grave, er, grievous error and . . . there is an injustice serving to undermine the authority of, well the United States, your Honor."

The Judge leaned back in her chair. "By finding Ms. Simmons guilty, I'm undermining the authority of the United States? How exactly am I doing that, Mr. Monroe?"

The nearest bailiff chuckled. The entire guilty bench, with the exception of Madeline, had turned to watch Larkin. The same speck of a smile again flickered at the corner of the Judge's mouth. Larkin nodded.

"Your Honor," said Larkin, "I have studied some of the law myself."

"Good for you."

"And I have familiarized myself, I believe, with the Socratic method."

"The Socratic method?"

"Yes, your Honor. I think I have a grasp of it and if the Court should allow - -"

"The Socratic method is the traditional form of instruction in law school," said the Judge.

"Yes, your Honor. I think you'll feel well accustomed to it."

"The Court is satisfied that Mr. Monroe has made various inquiries into the law," she said, her head cocked to the side. The smile flickered. "Perhaps he should have been studying the intersection of federal law and his possession of certain controlled substances on federal land rather than antiquated pedagogical methods."

She took a breath and Larkin raised his hand. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as sweat collected at his temples.

"Yes?"

"I have studied those areas of the law too, your Honor. I believe that Ms. Simmons and I are completely innocent of our charges. Although, as you have said, I am not a lawyer. I'm not trained in courtroom procedure. Frankly, I just didn't have time to read it."

The federal prosecutor, who until that moment had his nose buried in the file of a multi-felony drug conspiracy case he planned on arguing later that day, stood and straightened his coat. He wiped his eyes as if his coffee had yet to kick in. "Your Honor," he said, his voice cracking a bit. "Do we really have to entertain this? I mean, she pled guilty your Honor. Mr. Monroe can plead not guilty, guilty, no contest, or insanity if he should prefer." He paused and stared at Mr. Monroe for a moment, giving everyone in the courtroom an opportunity to chuckle. "If he wants a trial he can have a trial. But if that's the case, let's just have the trial. The United States does not need to waste time on - -"

The Judge smacked her bangled fist against her bench. "The United States has been warned twice before about referring to matters in this court as a waste of time. I shall determine when and how this goes, understand, Mr. Roarke?"

The prosecutor hesitated, nodded, and then slumped back into his chair. He reached for his big folder and once again buried his face in a case that was more worthy of his time.

Larkin meekly wiggled his hand in the Judge's direction. "Your Honor? What I mean to say is that if you're comfortable, I think this whole thing can be cleared up if I could use the Socratic method here in the courtroom."

"The Socratic method is a teaching device," said the Judge. "Who would you use it on?"

"Yourself, your Honor."

The smile flickered.

"Objection," said the prosecutor before flipping a page and sipping his coffee. He nodded as he read the language in an indictment.

"Noted and overruled," said the Judge. She looked at her watch before turning her attention to the neatly organized files arranged on the wheeled cart behind the deputy clerk. She nodded slightly. "I'll give you a little leeway, Mr. Monroe."

Madeline covered her face with her hands. Larkin nodded to the Judge. "Well then, please raise your right hand, your Honor." said Larkin.

The Judge blinked.

"Yes," said Larkin. "Your right hand, right there, just raise it up . . . there you go." The Judge held her right hand high in to the air. "I would ask Ms. Clerk there," started Larkin.

The young woman with the pony tail looked at Larkin with a mixture of surprise and fear.

"Yes," said Larkin. "Hi."

The deputy clerk feigned something like a confused smile.

"I'm going to need you to swear in the Judge."

The deputy clerk scowled. "What was that?" She looked to the Judge and back at Larkin.

"Please swear the Court in, Ms. Deputy Clerk," said the Judge, obviously amused. The guilty bench laughed. Best show in town.

Without further hesitation, the deputy clerk stood and turned to face the United States District Court Magistrate Judge for the Western District of Virginia, Big Lick Division. One of the oldest courts in the nation. She raised her right hand to match the Judge. "Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?"

"I do," said the Judge. She thanked the deputy clerk and lightly clapped her hands. "You may proceed, Mr. Monroe."

"Thank you, your Honor," said Larkin. "And Ms. Deputy Clerk?" The deputy clerk looked up from her clipboard. "Thank you ma'am." The deputy clerk did not smile. "Now, your Honor," started Larkin, "are there laws that govern the land and territories of the United States?"

"Oh, Larkin," said Madeline as she crumpled on her seat. Long brown hair failed to conceal crimson cheeks as her head hung low.

"Of course there are," said the Judge. "Here, this court has jurisdiction over violations of law that occur over land owned by the United States. The Blue Ridge Parkway is a national parkway of the United States. It is land owned by the United States. The United States Congress enacts laws that govern the goings on of federal land. If you're on his property, Uncle Sam can tell you just what you can or can't do, Mr. Monroe."

"And what if I had no knowledge of what I could or couldn't do on federal land?"

"Nope," said the Judge. "Sorry. That doesn't get you there. Ignorance of the law is no defense to the law."

Larkin nodded. "I read that too, you Honor. But not in this case." The Judge opened his mouth as if to speak but Larkin held up his finger. "Are there other statutory creations that control and govern federal land?"

"You mean other types of laws?"

"Yes, your Honor."

The Judge cocked his head. "I'm not sure I'm following you."

Larkin cleared his throat. "Does Congress have the power to govern federal agencies?"

"Yes," said the Judge.

"Is the Blue Ridge Parkway managed by a federal agency?"

"It is."

"Are there different laws that - -"

"Yes," interrupted the Judge. "Regulations. You mean regulations."

Larkin nodded and clasped his hands together. Perspiration covered his body. Did he now reek of Old Crow? He cleared his throat. Mini-booze swished. "Are there regulations that govern how I, as a citizen of the United States, should know whether the land I'm on has certain restrictions?"

"Of course. There exist regulations that require codification and publication of all of the nation's laws and regulations. Mr. Monroe, the act of which you are charged of violating has been publicly available for years. Don't tell me you couldn't go to a library and look it up."

"Oh, I work in a library, your Honor." _I hide an expensive bottle of gin in the microfiche cabinet_ , he thought to himself.

"You do?"

"Yes, ma'am, but let's stick to the method, shall we?"

The Judge nodded. "All right."

"Is speeding prohibited on the Parkway?"

"Of course."

"How would a driver know the speed limit for a particular area?" The Judge seemed poised to answer, but Larkin would not give her the opportunity. "Would there be a map of the Parkway with speed limits marked in the codified book in the library?"

"No," said the Judge. She raised her right hand to her mouth and curled her index finger against her upper lip.

"So how would a driver know the speed limit on the Parkway?"

"Signs."

"And are there - -"

"Yes," interrupted the Judge. "There are regulations that require there to be signs posting the maximum speed limit. The agency is responsible for the posting of those signs. You were not found speeding, Mr. Monroe."

"No, your Honor. But are there regulations governing the postage of signs that regard drinking on the Parkway?"

"Well, sure," said the Judge. She rolled her eyes back in her head as she thought. "Given the mile marker you were at, there was a sign not a quarter mile away that informed you as to Uncle Sam's rules. No booze was one of those rules. No alcohol on the Parkway."

"So these regulations require that sign to be there?"

"Yes," she said. She leaned forward and rapped her nails against the thick dark wood. Irritation was beginning to show.

"Your Honor, how often do you hear cases involving the Parkway?"

"Once a month."

"Did you have court last month?"

"Of course."

"And do you remember a man named Roger Huseby?"

The Judge leaned back in her chair. She fanned her fingers over her mouth, possibly to hide a full smile. "Roger Huseby," she repeated. "He of the mustard-colored Corvette?"

"I remember."

"And what was Mr. Huseby convicted of?"

"Destruction of federal property," said the Judge. She removed her hand to show that she was indeed smiling.

"Specifically?"

"A federal sign. A federal sign that was posted about a quarter of a mile away from where you were stopped. He drove his car straight through it." The Judge shook her head. "How did you know of Mr. Huseby's case?"

"I organized the periodicals section last month. Police beat. What was written on that sign, your Honor?"

The Judge smiled and waved her hand. "I think you've made your point. I'm giving you credit for your research skills. I'm going to dismiss your case, Mr. Monroe."

"And Ms. Simmons' case?" asked Larkin.

The prosecutor leaned his folder down so he could see the Judge. "Your Honor," he began without even standing, "the Court has already found Ms. Simmons to be guilty."

"I did no such thing," said the Judge. "I took Ms. Simmons' matter under advisement pending Mr. Monroe's presentation." The Judge looked to Madeline. "Ma'am, your case is dismissed. You may leave."

Madeline stood while the guilty benchers looked nervously amongst themselves as if they had made the wrong decision. Madeline turned and though her cheeks still shone bright red, she could not help but fight a smile at her would-be fiancé. Her deep brown eyes were about as wide as Larkin had ever seen them. Though she had nearly torpedoed his defense, Larkin could not bear an ounce of ill will. It had taken far more courage than he had anticipated to stand his ground with the Judge, and Larkin had spent long nights at the library studying both the United States Code and the Code of Federal Regulations. It was intimidating as hell to take center stage in federal court. How could he fault her?

She rushed up to him. "You prevented it all from coming out," she whispered. "They didn't hear about any of it."

"Oh, right," said Larkin with a grin. The tawdry facts concerning what occurred after most of the bottle of champagne had been drained had been thankfully omitted from _United States v. Monroe_. "We should have been charged with indecent exposure," whispered Larkin. "I don't think I could have gotten us out of that. Thank god the federal park ranger was at least somewhat reasonable."

A firm hand clapped on Larkin's shoulder. He glanced at the fingertips. They once clutched at a federal skull basher. "I know, I know," said Larkin. "I'm leaving."

"No, sir," said the bailiff. "The Judge is about to take a recess. She would like to speak with you."

"She can't charge me again," said Larkin, suddenly alarmed. "That would be double jeopardy."

"I don't think it's about that," said the bailiff. Larkin smiled weakly and grabbed Madeline's hand. She squeezed back. God he loved that woman. He led her out of the courtroom and into the lobby. They sat upon one of the metal benches and Madeline rested her head against his shoulder. The room was so large, they actually felt somewhat alone, despite their surroundings. He leaned down and kissed the thick waves of brunette hair atop her head. Cinnamon.

"I'm exhausted," she said. "And I didn't even say anything."

"Guilty. You said guilty."

She punched him lightly in the side. Larkin stroked her back with two of his fingers and stared at the large color photograph of the President. It hung curiously close to the brass trashcan.

He sighed. The last time that she had found her way to the crook of his arm, they had overlooked half of the state bathed in a spectacular sunset. A diamond ring had nearly burned through his right jeans pocket while a folded letter, forgotten hours before, had smoldered in his left. The diamond eventually made its way out to see the sunset, but the letter remained concealed in the same denim pocket.

"How'd you know how to do that?" she asked after four perfect minutes.

"I just spoke with the guy."

"Yeah, but it was more than that. You learned a lot studying for that test. More than you let on to me anyway." Madeline straightened herself. "You're going to end up cramming so much in your head." She turned and smiled. "Just don't feel like you can't talk to me about it, okay?"

Larkin returned the smile. "Never. It's still me. Whether I get a law degree or study ants, it's still me."

"Yeah, well." Madeline shrugged. "You know me."

"I do."

"So what's the plan?"

"I had 'happily ever after' in mind."

"So do I," said Madeline. Larkin thought her smile was the stuff at the center of nuclear blasts, all brightness and power. "But I think we have two slightly different pictures."

"Not at all," said Larkin. He scooted to the edge of the bench. Adrenaline from his Perry Mason moment still bubbled in his blood. His left hand brushed against the mini-booze inside its holster. "You see - -"

"The Judge will see you now, Mr. Monroe," shouted a bailiff from across the lobby. "Just head to that door yonder. They'll buzz you in."

Larkin nodded. He gave Madeline a wink and a thigh pinch before standing. As he followed the bailiff's directions he found himself praying that Madeline had not done anything rash with the ring. She was a wise one, but a fire burned in her. Hot blood from her mother.

"She's expecting you," said a kindly secretary as Larkin made his way around a corner.

The Judge's private office actually appeared quite predictably judicial. Sections of the United States Code and various treatises lined the shelves behind the Judge's tall leather chair. Various diplomas and certificates cluttered the walls. Not one had a frame that was less than three inches thick. The office even had a two-foot statue of Lady Justice with her scales. Contrasting all of this was a cookie jar in the shape of a begging dachshund on a small filing cabinet.

Despite fluorescent fixtures installed overhead, the room was lit only by three elegant metal lamps of a Victorian design. This gave the office a softer and cozier feel despite its large size. As he approached one of the chairs, Larkin heard a toilet flush. A moment or two later and door behind the Judge's desk opened and Judge Wexler entered her office, black robe neatly folded over her right arm. She wore an attractive woman's charcoal business suit. It appeared so well-fit to her small frame that Larkin assumed it was custom made. The cut of the suit was surprisingly very modern.

"Well hello there, Mr. Monroe," the Judge said. She tossed the robe onto a side table and sat upon her chair. The back of the chair towered over the top of her head. "Please, take a seat."

Larkin sat.

"Do you know what I like about being a Judge?" she asked.

"Being married to the Constitution?" Larkin asked with a hopeful grin.

The Judge laughed. "I've never heard of that," she said. Like on the bench, she leaned back, crossed her arms, and cocked her head just a bit to the side.

"Article 3 says you're a Judge for life," said Larkin. "That kind of sounds like a marriage to me." The Judge laughed again. Larkin pointed to Lady Justice. "Wedding present?"

The Judge nodded and gave a bit of a laugh. "From a law school buddy. She's a bit much, but we've grown to be good sisters." She looked around her office as she mouthed the words, "for life." Her eyebrows raised. "Actually," the Judge said, "I'm just a Magistrate Judge. Only the full District Court Judges are appointed for life. Maybe one day, I can propose to that lovely lady. It's an arranged marriage, you understand."

"The President picks," said Larkin.

The Judge nodded.

"Has there ever been a female District Court Judge in this area before?"

"No," she answered firmly.

Larkin shifted back to the topic at hand. "So if it's not that," said Larkin, "then I don't know what it is that you like best."

"It's meeting people."

Larkin nodded. "I suppose that would be interesting. You've probably met some characters."

"Over the years, sure," said the Judge. "Occasionally I'll ask someone back here, a person of interest, to chat a bit more."

"A person of interest," said Larkin. "Kind of sounds like a criminal investigation."

"You know some of the law it seems, Mr. Monroe. Have some time on your hands at the library?"

Larkin shrugged. "I actually took the LSAT not too long ago." He had hoped that this statement would have prompted at least an eyebrow raise, but the Judge simply regarded him with the same look of slight amusement. "I've applied to a few . . . selective law schools."

"So are you and Ms. Simmons going to law school together?"

Larkin bit his lip. "Well . . . no. And by that, I mean that she is not going to go to law school, but that we're going to be together."

"There aren't any selective law schools in Big Lick, Virginia. No law schools at all in fact. Where have you applied?"

"Actually," said Larkin, his heart rate quickening, "I was just accepted at Cornell." It was news that he had wanted to shout to the world. Larkin Monroe, Mr. Weird-Southern-name from Nowheresburg, was going to receive an Ivy League legal education. At that time, Judge Wexler was the first person that Larkin had informed of this news.

The Judge lightly clasped her hands as she had in court. Larkin was amazed to see that her golden bracelet now encircled her right wrist. "Well, that's a fine school," she said. "A very fine school. You must have knocked the test right out of the park."

"I studied hard."

"And Ms. Simmons will be following you to New York?"

"No. I don't think so. She's got a family to take care of. Her father needs help and . . . it's health reasons. She works here in town and I think that's going to have to continue here until I'm through school." With the back of his right hand he dabbed perspiration from his forehead. Why was it more difficult to speak with the Judge privately? "It's just three years, right?"

"You haven't told her," said the Judge.

"Sorry?" asked Larkin although he knew exactly what the Judge had said and meant.

"Cornell. You haven't told her about it."

"You're right," said Larkin. He looked down at the thick maroon rug that covered the parquet floor. "She knows I applied, but not that I was admitted." He looked back at the Judge. "But it's not just the admission, your Honor. It's nearly a full ride. There's really no other option for me. I'm not exactly hailing from a family full of railroad or coal money."

"So what are you waiting for? Are you just going to hop on a train to Ithaca one morning and send her a postcard?"

Larkin shook his head. "I don't know. It's been hard."

"You don't want to hurt her."

Again, Larkin shook his head.

The Judge pushed herself away from her desk and stood. Without her robe, her size had diminished significantly. And though she certainly beamed charisma, she looked mundane. She could have been any woman on the street, but one you wanted to meet. The Judge walked toward her window and with two fingers, pushed several of the venetian blinds out of her way. She squinted in the shaft of daylight.

"Railroad is never coming back."

"Afraid not," Larkin agreed.

The Judge turned. She smiled brightly, gave a nod and returned to her chair. "I have a son a few years older than you," said the Judge as she opened the center drawer to his desk, "He's a lawyer just like mom." She reached in and withdrew a business card. "Sam Wexler," said the Judge as she slid the card across the table. "He works here in town. Just started up his practice."

"Just like mom," Larkin repeated as he studied the card. Judge Junior appeared to be a solo-practitioner with an office in downtown.

"Criminal law, mostly," said the Judge, "but a general practice to be sure. He's in court quite a bit. You can't put a price tag on that kind of experience. You go off to Cornell and you'll be handpicked by one of the big firms. You probably won't see a courtroom. Document review. The meat grinder."

"So I've heard."

"I lived it," said the Judge. "Have you ever heard of reading for the law?"

"I don't believe I have," lied Larkin.

"It's an old option that only a few states, Virginia being one of them, practices. Some would like to do away with it all together." She clasped her hands and leaned forward. The leather chair barely moved. "Essentially, it's an apprenticeship. You work with a licensed attorney, learn the ropes. On the job training. No navel-gazing legal theory. Just the nuts and bolts. You learn how to actually practice the damn law. And my son could use someone like you. Someone who likes to research."

Larkin opened his mouth, but this time his brain could not catch up. He was at a loss for words. He stared at Lady Justice's exposed bronze breast and tried to wrap his mind around the hand he had just been dealt by a federal judge. "Are you offering me an apprenticeship with your son?"

"No tuition," said the Judge. "No competition from law students who will rip key pages from the law books in the library. No years of abstract legal theory that has zero effect on the real world. I'm talking about nuts and bolts litigation. You'll be working in the trenches and you'll learn more in your first three months than you would at a place like Cornell in three years. And, I'm sure you can be paid some type of paralegal wage. You could make more than as a librarian. Think about it. In one year, you'll know more about the actual practice of law than any law student in America. You still have to pass the bar exam of course, but I think standardized tests might just be your forte." She winked.

Larkin nodded. His mind raced. A job offer was the last thing he had expected when he had entered the Judge's chambers. He thought of Madeline waiting for him in the lobby. Sweet Madeline with a finger in dire need of a ring.

"It's something to think about, isn't it?" asked the Judge.

Larkin nodded. "I think, Judge, that if the President doesn't appoint you to be on the district court level, you can have an excellent career in sales."

The Judge smiled. "So that's a yes?"

Larkin smiled a true smile, but he shook his head slightly from side to side. "I . . . let me think about it."

Madeline's car battery died at the courthouse, but luckily, her would-be fiancé had been forced to drive separately that day. All of Larkin's many words had left him as he drove silently. He thought about the Judge's offer juxtaposed against ivy coated brick walls and a world at which he could only guess. Secret Knowledge. Privilege. Madeline rested one hand upon the dashboard to steady herself. Larkin's car needed new shocks forty thousand miles ago. Her other hand rested on his, and that slight touch made it nearly impossible to gauge his commitment to either Cornell or Wexler & Monroe, Attorneys at Law.

"Thank the Lord the courthouse is right near work," said Madeline as she stared at the grand Tudor mansion looming at the edge of downtown. The Hotel Big Lick, like much of the city, could have used a good spit-polish and a coat of paint, but that did not take away from its grandeur.

"You've never been late once," said Larkin. "Or even called in sick. Besides, who is going to check in on a Tuesday morning?"

"You're thinking about something," said Madeline.

"I'm thinking about how much I hope you didn't flush my ring down the toilet."

"It's safe. What else did the Judge tell you?"

Larkin smirked as he turned onto the hotel's driveway. "Are you psychic?"

"Yes. What else did she say?"

Larkin cleared his throat. He parked his pickup at the service entrance. Two outdoor ashtrays overflowed with cigarette butts. A huge air conditioning unit, spotted with rust, whirred and shook next to the truck. Larkin rolled up the windows and sighed.

"I'm about to make you really late for work," he said as he softly bit his lower lip.

"What did she say?" asked Madeline as she quickly unbuckled her belt and sat up in her chair.

"She . . . well," said Larkin as he cleared his throat again, "She offered me a job."

"Who? The Judge? She offered you a job?"

Larkin nodded.

"A job? What kind of job?"

"To be a lawyer."

"What?" Madeline bounced as if the car still wobbled down the road on its worn shocks.

Larkin again nodded. "Apparently Virginia has this apprentice program. The Judge's son works as a lawyer in town. I would work for him and then, eventually, I would be able to take the bar exam."

"Oh my God!" shouted Madeline as her hands cupped over her mouth. "That's . . . that's . . ."

"I know," said Larkin. "It came out of left field."

"That's wonderful!" A tear fell from her eye.

Larkin bit his lip even harder. Her joyous smile stabbed at his heart. The quickness with which she had summoned such a tear gave him surprising worry.

"Oh, I can't believe it," she said as she dried her cheeks. "It's just a miracle, right? I mean, you wouldn't have to pay any tuition. You can't afford any of the schools you applied to anyway, right? He would have to pay you for working there. You won't have to worry about paying for some big private law school you could never afford."

"That's true," said Larkin. Now it was the letter's turn to play the demon in his pocket. He could feel the edges of the paper begin to smolder. Soon they would alight and all the ivy would burn. Madeline turned and looked at the horizon as if the future had just crystallized for her twenty feet left of the giant Dr. Pepper bottle cap towering above the Williamson Road overpass. Larkin's shoulders dropped.

"Wow," she said. "You never even heard back from those real snooty schools that you applied to. Well, to hell with them. You don't even need them."

"Right," said Larkin. Sweat covered his face. His heart pounded.

She leaped from her seat onto his lap. Before he knew it, they were kissing. He knew she could taste the rest of the bourbon he had swigged in the courthouse bathroom after meeting with the Judge, but she apparently didn't care. Her arms pawed at his back a moment before finally just digging in for a tight hug. Larkin closed his eyes and smelled her sweet skin. He pulled her even closer to him. His heart thundered in his chest.

"I'll call back the Judge and tell her yes this afternoon," he said, eyes squeezed shut and lost in her hair.

Madeline tightened her hug for a moment before relaxing and pushing herself back a bit. "You told her you would think about it?"

"Yes."

"This is what you want, isn't it? I mean, am I crazy, or is this just the best thing for us?"

Larkin's left hand gripped his leg. The stars \- - or it might be better to say, _some_ stars - - had so quickly aligned. God he loved her. "It is. I've thought about it." He kissed her cheek. They embraced and while tightly snuggled, he cheated and stared at the rusted air conditioner rumbling next to the overfilled ashtray. "This is what I want," he said. He closed his eyes and smelled that wondrous cinnamon smell. "Yes," he said. "This is what I want."

Larkin Monroe opened his eyes as the constant thump of jazzercising people in the dance studio above his law office forced him back into the waking world. As he flipped his wrist over to glance at his watch, he suddenly realized that the fingers of his left hand clutched something heavy and hard. His gun.

"Jesus," he said with shock as the cheap pistol he took as payment in a divorce case slipped from his hand and landed on the floor with a clatter. Had he been dozing with the firearm the entire time? "How dramatic of my subconscious," he said aloud.

He did not remember opening the left drawer of his desk where he kept the weapon. He only remembered leaning back in his desk chair and shutting his eyes for a catnap. What the hell had he been doing in his sleep?

For a minute he considered whether he truly had some sort of death wish that his unconscious self sought to realize.

_Thump Thump Thump_ went the jazzercisers.

Larkin knew that he did not want to end his life, but an article he read years ago in a magazine about deep subconscious desires gave him a moment's pause.

His mind wandered and he forgot the gun beneath his desk and instead remembered the curvy form of some redhead pinup in the same magazine. His eyes fluttered and began to shut when the pounding above hit a sudden peak and he snapped back to attention. He leaned forward and looked at his watch. 1:30 in the afternoon. He had only twenty or so minutes to do what he had to before heading out the door and back to court.

With a kick of a scuffed loafer, he sent his chair rolling away from the paperclip and legal pad chaos on his desk. Rainbow colored carbon paper copies of court-appointed payment vouchers at least made it a jolly mess. Larkin steered himself toward the small refrigerator humming quietly beneath his printer. His kick only sent him about halfway forcing him to paw at the door before it swung open. As his fingers grabbed the bottle of gin, he sighed.

"Shit," he whispered as he opened the plastic bottle for the first time. His voice was mostly drowned out by the people smashing syncro-jazzing cardio with what sounded like a hyper up-tempo remix of _Brandy, You're a Fine Girl_. He looked up to the ceiling. The song had always saddened Larkin.

Though the floors of the old brick building were thick, he was certain that in the six or so months since Margie altered her business model from a quiet ballet studio to free-spirited human cardiovascular downsizing that the plaster and floorboards above his head had been pounded thin. He took a sip.

"Good god," he stammered as a stream of gin slid down his stubble. He held the bottle away from his face to examine his poison. "Damn you, Bowland's gin," he said as the little liquid that had made it down his throat ravaged his gullet. He winced when it reached the stomach. "I'm counting that as one," he said as his left hand reached for his calendar. He flipped through the summer months and landed on mid-September. As he gazed down at the 2:00 slot for that day, his heart sank. No less than six poorly scrawled names of defendants filled up the afternoon block below the heading "DCSE."

DCSE stood for the Department of Child Support Enforcement, a state agency. As a private attorney on the Big Lick City Juvenile and Domestic Relations District Court's court appointed list, Larkin had agreed to represent deadbeat parents who had fallen in serious arrears on their child support payments. The hearings themselves were rather simple. Aside from trying to paint the deadbeat as a simple down-on-his luck father unable to find steady work, Larkin had little to do but sit next to his client and listen to the other court appointed attorney in the room present the parent's payment history, or lack thereof. Like Larkin, the DCSE attorney was a court appointed attorney who had worked some special deal out with the Department to represent the state agency in court. Larkin made a lowly one hundred and twenty bucks per deadbeat, but he was convinced that the Department attorney made more.

Once the judge had heard the evidence, he or she would either give the parent three or so months to cough up some dough or send them directly to jail for thirty days to think about their life and needy children. Despite any sentence the judge might impose, the custodial parent sat fuming with tightly crossed arms in the back of the courtroom. She, for it was typically a mother, could never be satisfied when the system had already spent years trying to pump an ounce of water out of what everyone already knew was a bone dry well.

Larkin laughed to himself. "Maybe no one in that court room gets what they want." He considered the judges who grew weary of endless child support cases.

"Six defendants," Larkin mutters. "Seven hundred and twenty dollars." He stared at the bottle. Six defendants meant six shots. "Fucking Deveraux better match this," he said as he brought the plastic bottle to his lips, held his breath, and took another fiery swig.

A year ago, Larkin had entered into a competition of sorts with Charlie Deveraux, one of the Department attorneys. The rules were simple. For each defendant that Larkin was assigned that day, both attorneys had sworn an oath to drink that number of shots in the hour immediately preceding the hearings. Larkin trusted Deveraux to follow through with his end of the deal. Once, when Deveraux was six sheets to the wind out by the lake, he had made his oath after an over-the-top clapping and whistling demonstration that Larkin took for some fraternity thing from Hampden Sydney or Washington and Lee or wherever the hell Deveraux had gone to school. The oath had been just too damn elaborate to indicate any fissure in Deveraux's credibility. He half-remembered some sort of animal call in the middle of it.

Larkin trusted himself to stand by his own word because he was a locked and loaded fully enabled alcoholic. He didn't really care if Deveraux trusted him or not.

Both men seemed to get a good deal of pleasure watching the other go through the motions while hiding their eighty-proof breath from the court. Usually, Larkin only had around three or four clients on his DCSE days. He furrowed his brow and weighed the hazards. Six clients coupled with the cheapest gin available at the state-run liquor store might prove deadly on a steamy dog day afternoon.

"Three!" spit Larkin as he glanced at his watch. He would have to drink faster. A year ago, when he and Deveraux began the DCSE drinking club, he had sipped on Gordon's gin. Essentially a mid-list London dry gin, Gordon's was still certainly palatable and Larkin had reconciled the booze's less than smooth finish with the knowledge that it was James Bond's gin of choice. That thought used to give him a bit of swagger as he ambled down to the courthouse in his worn shoes. But the recent decline in his bottom line had forced austerity. Cuts were made so the law office could continue its march both toward and away from a hangover, a destination that could never fully be reached or avoided.

After Larkin's kindly and passably organized secretary had passed away two years earlier, she was eventually replaced with an answering service that he seldom checked. Meanwhile, the office booze budget had dwindled to the bottom shelf.

Surprisingly, after an "eureka" moment and ninety seconds of groping under a desk, Larkin actually found an airplane bottle of whiskey in Sam Wexler's old office. Larkin had never known the man to drink, but he half-remembered kicking it under there a month or two ago. Or was it last week? Larkin half-remembered a lot of things.

Drugs were Sam Wexler's poison of choice, not booze. If only Judge Wexler had known that her son's would-be apprentice was palming a Jim Beam when they first met. Larkin likely would never have been offered the position with Sam. Shortly after beginning his apprenticeship with Sam, Larkin became accustomed to Sam's frequent "trips" to Richmond. He'd disappear for a day here or there early on. A few years later, that became weeks at a time. One time, Sam left and he never came back. The local paper wrote a story about his disappearance. A special lawyer was appointed by the courts to handle Sam's leftover cases left to scatter without a shepherd. Larkin, though a fully licensed lawyer at the time, was seemingly not trusted to handle the task by the powers-that-be-robed. He had, after all, not even attended law school. Another law firm received Sam's entire book of business.

A year later, Larkin drank a large bottle of Kettle One vodka, slowly, next to a river, in honor of Sam when police found his body in a Norfolk alley. As the story went, Sam got to owing some bad people a lot of money. Another version added that Sam had engaged in selling things aside from legal advice. He shed some tears when he thought of poor Judge Wexler. If only her son had possessed one-tenth of her pluck.

Out of respect for Sam's mother, Larkin had left the original sign hanging above the sidewalk, despite the fact that no one named Wexler worked at the Wexler Law Firm. Larkin had even paid to replace the sign with an exact copy when a windstorm sent it into Luck Avenue.

"Four," said Larkin, like a golfer, as a drop of gin launched from his mouth and landed on his business card holder at the edge of his desk. He remembered that he was running dangerously low on cards after having entered into that new marketing strategy with one of his former clients.

"Keep it up ladies!" Margie audibly shouted from the dance studio.

"Lose those love handles!" answered Larkin, truly meaning the encouragement, as he stooped to retrieve his gun. He leaned back in the chair and took aim at the office door leading to the hallway where the vacant secretary's desk sat collecting dust.

"I don't think so, asshole," he said. He erased his Southwest Virginia accent and tried to echo a poor Clint Eastwood. He pulled the trigger and the hammer snapped back. His lips pursed and he made a fairly decent imitation of a gunshot. "I told you, we'd fuck you in this divorce," he said to no one.

Larkin pulled the trigger again. "Defendant to decedent." He said. "One shot." What he would not give to blow away an angered divorcee. He imagined his picture on the front page of the Big Lick Times. Larkin Monroe: Deadeye Badass, Esquire.

He reached for the gin. "Five," he squeaked as he felt the accumulated booze beginning to swirl uncomfortably in his stomach. He placed the gun back in his desk drawer and attempted to forget that, while sleeping, his groping fingers may have attempted to end his life. Standing, he quickly felt the Bowland's simmering in his bloodstream.

"Probably pickling my liver," he muttered as he approached the small mirror that hung over one of his black aluminum file cabinets. His reflection, a once nearly-handsome early middle-aged man stared back with vivid green eyes that shone despite being mostly bloodshot to hell. With his fingers, he delicately sculpted his dark hair which was in dire need of a haircut.

"One more time!" wailed Margie. In response, someone dropped all of her considerable weight on the dance floor above and Larkin's reflection shook as the mirror rattled against the wall.

A nearby frame leaped from the wall and smacked the edge of the metal file cabinet before falling to the floor. Larkin looked down to see that a spider web of cracked glass now obscured his ethics award. Careful not to slice his finger, he retrieved the framed certificate and scanned the text. The broken glass completely obscured the language regarding Larkin's consummate professionalism and the words "role model." The text beneath the signature line remained visible. "Hugo P. Winthorpe," the line read, "Chairman of the East Coast Trail Attorneys Association."

"Fucking 'trail' association," Larkin grumbled as he considered tossing the award from the fictitious "trial" organization that he had misspelled late one night at a Lynchburg copy center into the trash. "That gal should have caught that," he said as he remembered the judging glare from the girl behind the print shop's counter. Who was she to judge a man drafting his own ethics award?

"Almost there!" Margie bellowed.

Larkin looked at his watch. He had only minutes. "Shix!" he spat as he combined an obscenity with the number of shots he was required to take. With a final swig, he grabbed his brief case and wallet, straightened his tie in the mirror, and raced past the secretary's desk and out the door.

Although autumn had begun creeping through the trees in the surrounding Blue Ridge Mountains, the outside air near the law office still felt saturated with the heat and humidity of a persistent summer. The standing water left over from the morning's rain had nearly evaporated but filled the air to the brim with hot moisture. As he double-timed it over the uneven sidewalks, he scowled at the very stickiness of the air. It was as if someone had created a bonfire of post-it notes and vaporized adhesive still hovered above the sidewalk.

Nestled in a muggy valley surrounded by ancient mountains, Big Lick was the largest city in the Western half of Virginia. Although surrounded by largely rural areas, quite a handful of glass and steel buildings had sprung up within the shadows of the gently sloping mountains. Originally a bustling railroad town, the city had stagnated some since its industrial heyday. Rusted tracks crisscrossed the neighborhoods stereotypically separating the relatively affluent from the impoverished.

Beads of sweat trailed down Larkin's temple. As he made his way down the street, he tried not to think about the god-awful liquor that was both numbing his senses and eating away at his stomach. He passed Tudor's Biscuit World and the usually pleasant aroma of hot buttered bacon egg and cheese biscuits forced him to close his eyes and lock his throat in a half-swallow lest some of the Bowland's find its way back to his mouth.

He reopened his eyes after the tip of his left shoe banged against a fire hydrant. The shock shook his constitution and he immediately shuffled to an alley where he coughed and hacked into the side of a brownstone for a precious minute. He looked at his watch. "Damn," he croaked.

From his pocket, he withdrew the kind of wrinkled red bandana that wannabe outlaws carried and dabbed at the corner of his mouth.

"Are you all right, man?" asked a city employee clutching a trash bag in one hand and a spiked pole for litter collection in the other.

"Fine," Larkin lied as he waved his bandana. "I'm fine."

The man stood for a moment and regarded him. Larkin could sense the pity and it swelled him with a putrid mix of anger and sadness. He was a licensed attorney, a professional in a city without much of a professional class, while the other man clutched refuse and wore a blaze orange vest. He waved the bandana again, in an insulting "shoo" gesture. The man shrugged and continued about his business.

More gin burned a hole in his stomach lining, but as it entered and cooled his bloodstream, he felt a second wind. The alley was shaded from the heat of the day and that pleasant moss-on-stone smell filled his nostrils.

"There she is," said Larkin as his second wind flushed him from the alley. "Deveraux had better match me," he said as he straightened his tie. He strode quickly up the long gradual hill toward the city courthouse. Hit with a pang of civic pride, he scooped up an empty beer bottle on Church Street and tossed it into a nearby dumpster.

The state courthouse was a relatively attractive tinted glass structure that poked through the ground about midway up Church Street hill like a polished brick of quartz. The exterior of the building portrayed a bit of class, especially compared with the dour federal courthouse two blocks away. Larkin hustled up the stone steps and pushed his way through the revolving door that had always needed more than a few squirts of oil. He rubbed his eyes while cool conditioned air hit his face. He stood quietly just inside the main entrance for a moment as he regained his bearings. The interior of the courthouse certainly paled in comparison to the building's exterior.

Whether one looked at the tan floorboards, the spiraling stairs that cut through the center of the building or even the metal detector that always seemed a bit too sensitive on humid days, everything was worn. One of the busiest courthouses in all of Virginia, the Big Lick City Courthouse saw heavy traffic Monday through Friday. The paint scheme might have once resembled the muted taupe and pastel shades typically found in public buildings, but now the colors only peeked out from behind layers of scuff marks.

"Christ," Larkin hissed as he scanned the long line of people waiting to walk through the metal detector. Years ago, he could have given the deputies guarding the court entrance a little knowing wave and they would have allowed him to bypass the security check. But now, all lawyers, even the prosecutors who were constantly popping in and out of the building, had to receive the electromagnetic onceover.

The machine buzzed like a game show buzzer as a stream of individuals continually upset the overly sensitive detector. Larkin took his place behind a woman holding a toddler and gabbing on a pink lipstick-colored cell phone.

"That's right," he said under his DUI breath, "bring your baby to court. The judge won't throw you in jail if you bring your baby. He'll feel sorry for you and think that you're probably such a great mother. That misdemeanor won't stick if you bring your baby. Christ," he cursed, "and a cell phone to boot."

Larkin followed the woman's lead and deposited his personal effects into one of the plastic bowls on the card table next to the metal detector. The deputy glared at the woman's cell phone which lay in the bowl a few inches from a dangling baby foot.

"No cell phones, ma'am," said the deputy.

The woman pointed to Larkin's bowl.

"How come he's got his phone?" she asked.

"He's a lawyer, ma'am," said the deputy. "Lawyers can have phones."

"That's discrimin - -"

Larkin didn't give her a chance to finish. "Bullshit," he said. "They don't care if you're black, white or purple. You want to bring a phone in? Pass the bar exam."

The woman glared at the smartass behind her in line. Her lips trembled and she took a deep breath, but she ultimately said nothing.

A sudden stroke of shame at the whole incident, nearly forced Larkin to blurt the lie, "It's okay, though. I'm a civil rights attorney." But he stopped himself before getting in more trouble.

"You'll have to take the phone back to your car, ma'am," informed the deputy.

Larkin scooted around her before either she, her cell phone, or her baby could slow him down any further. When he reached the metal detector, he gave Deputy Deano a high five. Deano gave all the defense attorneys high fives, but Larkin had never asked him why.

"A bit fired up aren't we today, Mr. Monroe?"

"Maybe," said Larkin.

"Not everyone went to law school like you, I guess," said Deano.

Larkin paused. "Right."

"What you got this afternoon, Mr. Monroe?" barked Deano from under his bristly horsehair moustache.

"A little bit of juvenile court, Deano."

"Ah," said Deano with a dip of his head. "Enjoy the circus."

Larkin nodded. A fly on the wall in the juvenile and domestic relations court could hear tales of cheating spouses, physically abused children, and undisciplined juvenile hellions on their ninth strike in a three-strike system. While the subject matter remained juicy, generally, an attorney could make much better money in the courtrooms on the higher floors of the building. Despite this, Larkin could not deny that he received a certain satisfaction from participating in the theatrics of the state family court. But it was not the same rush as winning a sophisticated legal battle in the circuit court. It was more like winning a street brawl at the flea market.

"It's where you get the best stories," said Larkin as he cruised through the metal detector. He didn't know if he was lying or not; just riding the Bowland's train. He nodded once more to Deano and hustled down the hall. As he rounded the corner, his finger slid along the glass wall. Normally he tried as hard as he could not to touch a damn thing in the courthouse. That rang doubly true for juvenile court.

"Feels like I drank a bottle of Purell anyway," he muttered as he navigated his way through the mob of people milling about in front of the three juvenile court rooms. A young deputy standing like a rancher in the thick of the herd rapped a clipboard against his hand. Larkin waved and whistled. The deputy nodded, looked down at the docket, and held up three fingers directing Larkin to the third court room. Larkin snapped his fingers and continued his way through the crowd. He did not spy Deveraux amongst the members of the crowd, but given Larkin's tardiness, he assumed that he was most likely already seated in the courtroom.

"Mr. Monroe, sir," shouted a voice to Larkin's left. He squinted at the man erupting from his chair against the back wall. The vaguely familiar client pawed at the air and eventually barreled his way in between Larkin and the courtroom door.

"Mr. Monroe, sir!" he stammered.

"Yes, hello to you, Mr. . . ." Larkin held out the last syllable and nodded to encourage the man.

"Craig Powers," he replied. He nervously eyed the deputy standing not ten feet away. Sweat dotted his brow.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Powers," said Larkin. "We'll begin in a moment." He attempted to slide past Mr. Powers, but the bigger man side-shuffled like a basketball player defending the paint.

"Am I going to jail? Just tell me now if I am. I need to know."

Larkin sighed. He opened his brief case and rifled through the manila folders until he located the Powers file. "Let's see," he said as he deciphered his own hastily scrawled chicken scratch. "Three hundred and eighty dollars a month to . . . Ms. Tracy Fitzgerald . . . arrearages of around nine thousand bucks . . . hmmm." He flipped through a few more pages before looking up at Mr. Powers. The taller man seemed as if he was about to burst in tears. "No," Larkin finally said and proceeded to scoot past Mr. Powers.

"Are you sure, Mr. Monroe?" Mr. Powers asked as Larkin grabbed the door handle.

"Absolutely," said Larkin. "I have certain things worked out with the department attorney in these cases." He turned and entered the courtroom. The thick doors closed gently behind him and his ears stopped ringing with the din of the lobby. "I'm glad these things aren't open to the public," he announced as he made his way to the defendant's table.

"Why is that, counselor?" asked a woman's voice. "Are you worried about losing face?"

Larkin quickly looked across the courtroom. Though she was no more than five feet tall and seated, Wendy McAdams looked down at Larkin through her heavy framed black glasses.

"Ms. McAdams," Larkin said with a start. He scanned the courtroom for Deveraux's wrinkled hound dog face, but it was very clear that he was not present. His throat clinched. "Where is Deveraux?"

A smile worked its way across Wendy's thin lips. Only a few years out of law school, Wendy McAdams had already made quite a reputation for herself as a competent no-nonsense attorney who particularly despised the pervasive "good old boys" network. Though Larkin surely resided near the bottom of the local male hierarchy, his situation worsened when he recalled that he had seen Wendy's name pop up multiple times on his caller ID log in the past two weeks but he had never returned her phone calls. As he thought for a moment, he realized that there might have even been an unopened letter from Wendy starting to collect dust on the corner of his desk.

"Didn't you get my messages, Mr. Monroe?" she asked, although she already knew the answer. Wendy probably could have envisioned the cluttered surface of Larkin's desk better than Larkin.

Larkin's fingers fidgeted with the latches on his briefcase. He was not in a position to stare competence in the face, much less begin to make legal arguments. And he could tell by the tone of her voice that the hearings were going to be hell. She would relish going toe to toe with a loser like himself but merely as practice to hone her skills for more impressive opponents. A cat playing with a drunk and under-qualified mouse.

With quick glances stolen here and there, Larkin spied on Wendy while pretending to flip through mostly documents in his files. She swung her legs back and forth below her desk fairly quickly, like a child waiting for her favorite carnival ride to start. Larkin's wounded stomach turned. "There might be something on my desk. My secretary has been out for a few days," he said, wincing a bit.

"A few days?" she asked as she tapped her pen lightly against her legal pad. "I don't remember a secretary ever answering my calls. Is she sick?"

"Very," said Larkin. He kept staring at her legs. No one in court twelve years ago wore those shiny knee-high vixen boots, he thought to himself.

"Sorry to hear that. It must be pretty severe. I called you two weeks ago and the call went straight to your answering service."

"Yes, well . . . you know, Ms. McAdams, Deveraux and I had worked out a number of things on these cases."

"Oh yes," said Wendy as she lifted a thin file folder. She opened it and showed Larkin its contents, only a single yellow sheet of paper with a few unintelligible notes lay inside. "I have read Mr. Deveraux's files. Quite the work."

"Where is Deveraux?" Larkin asked. Her attitude was pissing him off.

"Fired," said Wendy. "Three weeks ago."

Larkin swallowed. "Cocksucker," he whispered as he slammed his briefcase shut. It closed loudly and caused the clerk to jump in her chair. A serene middle-aged woman seated next to the judge's vacant leather chair, the clerk glared at Larkin from over her paperwork.

"Sorry," Larkin said with an artificial smile. His tongue suddenly felt thick and dry. He searched for the defendant's water pitcher but found neither the pitcher nor the disposable cups that usually sat in the center of the table. "Hey," he said, "where's the water?"

"Water's been removed, Mr. Monroe," said a nearby deputy.

"Removed?" asked Larkin. "Whatever for? Don't tell me that they're digging that low because of the budget." Larkin wiped his brow with his right sleeve and quickly realized that he had spoken far too loudly.

"No, sir," said the deputy, "but someone done used that aluminum pitcher as a weapon in Courtroom Two last week and Sheriff put in new policies."

"Good god," muttered Larkin, "it is daytime television. It really is." He cleared his throat. He looked over his files again, but that did not distract him. He was very thirsty. More sweat collected at his brow. He knew that he looked terrible.

"So, uh, Ms. McAdams," he started, "what do you want to do? Do you want to have a trial on every single one of these guys? That will surely take up most of the docket this morning. Your cases will get backed up."

Wendy stared at him and squinted. Her legs continued to rock back and forth. "Every single one of these guys here?" she repeated. "You've only got six guys here, Larkin."

"You're damn right that I've got six," grumbled Larkin. His fingers gripped the meaty portions of his thighs as he closed his eyes. He tried to think of anything else other than Wendy's swinging legs or his want for water. He hated Wendy for her tough attitude, envied her competence, and wanted so badly to see what she looked like with nothing on but those boots.

"Yeah," said Wendy, "I'm fairly certain that I have far more cases than you do today, Mr. Monroe." She smacked the heel of her hand against the intimidating pile of file folders stacked neatly to her right. "I'll pursue each one of them as I see fit. However, right now, I will offer you thirty days in jail for each guilty plea."

"Bullshit," said Larkin. "Some of these guys just got jobs," he said. He could not remember exactly who that might have been, but he was fairly sure that _someone_ must have landed a job. "Child support payments will surely proceed again in some of these cases with wage deduction orders. If you throw them in jail, poof!" said Larkin with a clap of his hands, "that money will be gone."

"Your clients should have realized where this was heading when they stopped paying their support," said Wendy. "Of course, some never started paying." She drummed her fingernails on the cheap wooden desk. "You realize, Mr. Monroe, that it would be unethical not to present this settlement offer to your clients, all six of them?"

"What's that?" asked Larkin.

"The state bar provides that it is your ethical obligation to present my offer of settlement to each of your clients. You do not have the authority to deny them the opportunity to settle for so low. This is a serious ethical consideration for you."

"Settle for so low?" Larkin's growing anger momentarily overshadowed his need for water. "You are not a prosecutor here, Ms. McAdams. These are civil matters to be heard by the judge. Do you even have the authority to offer such a deal?"

Wendy did not skip a beat. "Whether I possess that authority or not, if I were you, I would not want to waive any duty that may be perceived as required conduct for an otherwise ethical attorney. You of all people should be aware of what may be construed as unethical."

"Why, you . . . you . . ." Larkin stammered. The vein that traversed the center of his forehead bulged as he glared at Wendy with balled fists. He wanted to shout, to bellow a litany of obscenities. But despite his rage, he knew that if he did go on the offensive, he would be playing right into Wendy's trap. He would appear as an unhinged maniac, someone who probably should not be carrying a law license, and that was just what Wendy had implied. He cursed quietly under his breath. A drop of sweat fell off of his nose and landed in his briefcase. "All six defendants," he muttered.

Wendy laughed. "I just don't know what the deal is," she stated to the clerk. She reopened Deveraux's file and held up one of his notes. In bold strokes of permanent ink at the top of the page, Deveraux had written a giant number six, circled it, underlined the digit, and placed two exclamation points next to it. Wendy rotated the paper as if showing it to a group of third graders kneeling on the carpet. "Six," she said. "I just don't get it." The clerk shook her head and shrugged her shoulder.

Larkin pointed at the clock hung above the main entrance. "We're going to begin any second. It can't possibly be my ethical duty to advise clients not to take a terrible offer that's extended after the time the hearing was already supposed to begin."

"Judge Loundsbury had a lunch appointment and I don't think he's returned yet," said the clerk.

Larkin's head hung low. He already knew what lay ahead. He was being tag-teamed. The courtroom felt hot and nearly as humid as the outside air despite the conditioning.

"I have an idea," said Wendy as if the thought had suddenly struck her rather than actually occurring to her yesterday after her fifth unanswered phone call to Larkin's office. "Why don't we just start with a few of the unrepresented defendants first while Mr. Monroe circulates my offer in the lobby?"

"That sounds fair to me," said the clerk, who had apparently appointed herself interim judge.

The room suddenly shifted as if part of the underlying foundation had crumbled. Larkin squinted and grabbed the back of the chair next to him. He quickly realized that he had begun swaying from side to side and the room was as still as it had always been. "But, we . . ." Larkin began. His words came purposefully and with difficulty, "the court does not hear unrepresented cases until after all of the attorney's have been heard."

"That's what we normally do to make it easier on y'all," said the clerk. "But I bet that Judge Loundsbury wouldn't mind if we switched it up to allow you to speak with your clients."

"You have absolutely no authority here," Larkin whispered to himself.

"There you have it, Mr. Monroe," said Wendy. She snapped and the deputy turned. "Why don't you go ahead and call the first _pro_ _se_ case while Mr. Monroe works his magic?" The deputy nodded and stared back at Larkin's table.

"I'm moving, I'm moving," said Larkin as he shuffled around the table and headed toward the door. He avoided looking in Wendy's direction, though he could feel her thin smile burn into the back of his head as he pushed his weight against the heavy door.

As the door swung open, every face in the lobby turned to view Larkin. Since juvenile and domestic cases were not open to the public, anytime an individual opened the courtroom door, dozens of people held their breath and bit their lower lips as they wondered if their turn had come. Larkin sighed, opened his briefcase, and began calling names. One by one he was able to find all six of his court-appointed clients. Their reactions to the prison settlement offer spanned quite an emotional range.

"That's a bunch of bullshit," spat Mr. Taylor as he glared at the equally pissed mother of his child from across the lobby. "That bitch done got married well off and don't need a dime. She's with one of them contractors in Iraq. She sees him six months a year and he makes over six figures for guarding a goddamned dumpster. They can shove that deal up their ass."

"Jail? What kind of lawyer are you, man?" asked Mr. Nutley. "I know I ain't paying you or nothing but I know if I walked in there without you, I bet I could get a better deal than that. What kind of law school did you go to?"

"They want to put me in jail?" asked Mr. Thacker as he began to smile. "Well, don't that just beat all? I done way worse in my life than not pay some dinky child support and I never had more than a weekend in the jail. And now they want me for a month." He shook his head and whistled. "Yes, sir. We live in a funny world, ain't no doubt of that."

The worst, of course, was Mr. Powers. When he made simple eye contact with Larkin, the larger man had to turn around and cover his eyes. "I've been watching you talk to people," he said as Larkin approached. "It can't be good. I've seen how they've been reacting. That one guy in the red hat looked like he was going to deck you. I'm going to jail aren't I?"

"Yeah, well the deputy will deck him if he wears that hat inside the court room, and I'm not warning him." Larkin cleared his throat, wiped more sweat from his forehead, and tried to swallow some spit but he had none. His tongue felt as dry as if he had gargled sand.

"So what is it?" asked Mr. Powers.

Larkin shrugged his shoulders.

"I knew it! I knew they would lock me away." Tears welled in his eyes. A man seated nearby turned to avoid playing any part of Mr. Powers' drama.

"They're not going to lock you away," said Larkin, although his voice sounded closer to a croak. "They just presented everyone here with the same deal and it's my ethical duty to - -."

"What is it?" interrupted Mr. Powers. "It's jail time isn't? How much? I might be able to do a weekend here or there and not get fired."

"Thirty days," said Larkin. He immediately held up his hands to prevent Mr. Powers from reacting too dramatically, but the dam broke. Mr. Powers flung his immense body back to the wall as if he had been sucker punched. The sound of his large back smacking the wall forced a nearby deputy to clutch his CB radio. Larkin gently waved to the deputy and the deputy relaxed. He released his grip on his radio and smirked at the large man reduced to such pathetic behavior. Mr. Powers sobbed into his hands. From time to time he looked up at Larkin with tears in his eyes, but the sight of his court-appointed attorney only made the sobs more audible.

"God, I hate her," said Larkin as he approached Mr. Powers. "It's just a bullshit plea deal, Mr. Powers," he said in as soothing a voice as he could muster. "She's just doing it to jerk our chains. You don't have to take it. We're not going to take it."

"I thought you said that you had these things worked out with the other lawyer."

"They fired the other lawyer," said Larkin. For whatever reason, this news sent Mr. Powers reeling through another wave of unstoppable sobbing.

"I knew it," Mr. Powers kept repeating. "I knew they would get me."

"No one's got you yet, Mr. Powers. You're just going to have to buck up here. I'm going to tell them that we're not taking this deal and we'll deal with it."

"Deal with it?" Mr. Powers peaked out from between his large sausage fingers. "But we could get more time if we just walk in there with no deal, right?"

"Probably not."

Mr. Powers shook his head and sniffed. "Probably not," he repeated.

"Look," said Larkin, "I'm going to head back in there and I want you to listen carefully out here in case - -"

"Can't you beg the judge or something?" Mr. Powers interrupted again. "I mean if you had something worked out with the other attorney, I mean, shouldn't that still stand? I'm not the lawyer, but maybe if you ask the judge . . . you never know until you ask, right?"

Larkin nodded. Mr. Powers had a point. All of the Bowlands swirling in his gut may have blinded him a bit. He could still play a pretty strong card if he indicated to the judge that he had entered into some sort of binding agreement with Deveraux. Normally, first-timers got a harsh warning and a review hearing scheduled to determine if the deadbeat would begin paying during the following three months. Two-timers received a suspended sentence and deadbeats hauled into court for strike three took a turn down the hallway that led directly to jail. Most of the time, Judge Loundsbury simply nodded his head and approved Deveraux's recommendation. There was no reason to believe that Wendy could manipulate the system any more than she already had.

"Alright," said Larkin he began nodding. With each bob of his head, his confidence grew. "I got it," he said as he grabbed Mr. Powers' shirt. "But we're going first."

"What?" stammered Mr. Powers. "I can't, I mean, we can't - -"

"Shut up and sit next to me," said Larkin as he made his way back to the courtroom with Mr. Powers in tow. The larger man pawed at his eyes to remove the evidence of his minor tantrum.

"Have we got a taker?" asked Wendy as Larkin proceeded into the courtroom while the giant mess of a man behind him attempted to quickly tuck his shirt into his pants.

"You wish," said Larkin. His pulse quickened as he reached the defendants' table. He threw down his briefcase with a bang. The clerk jumped in her chair. "Sit here, Mr. Powers," said Larkin as he slapped the wooden chair next to him. Mr. Powers nodded politely to the other people in the room before hustling into his seat.

"Mr. Craig Powers?" asked Wendy as she disturbed her mountain of file folders.

"You got it," said Larkin.

"He's not who we're calling first," said Wendy. Mr. Powers immediately stood from his chair.

"That's fine, ma'am," said Mr. Powers, "I can just go back - -"

Larkin gripped the man's belt buckle and jerked him back into his seat. "Be quiet," he said. Mr. Powers placed his hands over his mouth and did the type of deep breathing a person did just before passing out.

"He's not our first case, Monroe," stated Wendy. The boots crossed and pressed back against the bottom of her chair.

"He was the first case with prior counsel. Prior counsel and I had agreements and I'm honoring those."

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Yeah," she said, "that will fly."

"Your damn right it will," said Larkin with a bit too much venom.

"Who's damning who, Mr. Monroe?" asked an older man's voice. Everyone in the room leaped to their feet as Judge Loundsbury entered the room. A genteel Virginia gentleman with trim bright white hair and a grandfatherly face, Judge Loundsbury would not have been out of place in a courtroom from the 1800s. He was the kind of person who held the common man to a high standard of moral and social responsibility. It was the kind of unrealistic standard that 19th century idealists published in pamphlets. Deadbeat dads were not merely expected to pay all of their child support obligations because a court order demanded it, but also to meet the demands of chivalry. The valley between this ideal and the reality of family court was very wide at times.

"Sorry, your Honor," began Larkin but Judge Loundsbury waved his hand.

"There will be no profane utterances in this court," Judge Loundsbury stated. He held the last word out for two distinct syllables. Co-art.

"What have we to hear first, Ms. McAdams?" he asked as he motioned for everyone to take seats. He retrieved a small pair of gold-framed spectacles from a pocket buried in his judicial robe and placed them on his face. Larkin squinted. Judge Loundsbury could easily find work in Colonial Williamsburg as a founding father or some esteemed candle maker.

"Judge," began Wendy, "the department has a specific order in which to call these cases, but Mr. Monroe has brought in Mr. Powers notwithstanding that order."

The judge turned to Larkin. "Is that correct, Mr. Monroe?"

Larkin stood. "Judge, in preparing for my cases today, I made a number of arrangements with former department attorney, Mr. Deveraux, regarding dispositions for my clients. In my negotiations with Mr. Deveraux, we had agreed that Mr. Powers would be the first today." Mr. Powers jumped in his seat at the mention of his name. Larkin placed his hand reassuringly on his shoulder. "I put in a good amount of footwork securing these settlement negotiations with Mr. Deveraux and I came here today expecting the department to honor those agreements. However, Ms. McAdams has informed me that due to her unilateral decision on the matter, all of that is out the window."

Judge Loundsbury nodded and clasped his fingers. "Is that true, Ms. McAdams?"

Wendy was on her feet. "Judge, the only thing Mr. Deveraux had arranged for today was a Bloody Mary. If Mr. Monroe entered into any deal with Mr. Deveraux it was to determine who was going to pick up the bar tab."

"I object to this, you Honor!" shouted Larkin. "She's disparaging an officer of the court without any justification." He faced Wendy. "You ever heard of defamation, missy?"

"Isn't the truth the ultimate defense against defamation?" she asked.

"Enough, everyone," said Judge Loundsbury. He quietly studied a sheet of paper before turning to Larkin and Mr. Powers. "Just what deal did you have worked out?" he asked politely.

"Your Honor - -" began Larkin, but the judge held up his hand. "No, Mr. Monroe," he stated. "I would like Mr. Powers to answer that question." The members of the defense table sank lower in their chairs.

"Uhhh," said Mr. Powers. He held the syllable for some time.

"Mr. Powers," repeated the judge, "have you agreed to any plea deals with the Department?" Mr. Powers could not even turn to Larkin, he was paralyzed.

"Your, Honor," started Larkin again, "this is a complicated legal process and - -" The Judge raised one finger.

"Have you agreed to any deals, Mr. Powers?"

With his mouth slightly agape, Mr. Powers shook his head very slowly from side to side.

"I see," said the judge. "Mr. Monroe, I don't believe that your client has agreed to any arrangement presented to him." He nodded to Wendy. "Why don't you begin, Ms. McAdams?"

"Wait!" shouted Larkin. He had been bullied too long. He was also drunk. "I mean," he said, "objection!"

"Mr. Monroe," the judge stated firmly, "I don't think we need an outburst like that."

"Do you want to hear my grounds?"

The judge nodded and shrugged.

"There has been no substitution order in place here your Honor. No JDR judge has signed an order substituting Ms. McAdams for Mr. Deveraux. Mr. Deveraux is still counsel of record. I participated in early and frequent communication with Mr. Deveraux and I have not been served any notice by this court, this Department, or anyone else that there has been a change in counsel." His knee buckled a bit, but he gripped his fingers tightly to the edge of the desk. The force of his grip sent all of the blood out of his hands.

"Is that all, Mr. Monroe?"

"No," he said. If his mouth hadn't turned into Myrtle Beach, he might have been spitting. "I furthermore, I mean, furthermore, I motion to continue this matter. If there was a switch in counsel, my client and I need the additional time to . . ." his eyes caught the boots, and he attempted to swallow, but his throat muscles closed with a gulp of air stuck midway down his throat. He coughed a bit. "I need the additional time." He said as he looked down at his hands. They appeared bone white. "Too white," he muttered. He wondered if he was wearing white gloves before the table rushed at his forehead.

Larkin regained consciousness on the courtroom floor. The first thing he noticed was the deputy standing over him clutching his CB radio as if it were the ultimate tool for any crisis. He then noticed that Mr. Powers had his head on the table with his hands over his face. He could not tell if Mr. Powers was silently sobbing or whether he had also passed out. Finally, Larkin noticed the blobs of rust colored eighty-proof vomit on his tie. He laid his head back against the floor and sighed. He slid his right hand delicately into his jacket pocket and retrieved his red bandana. For a moment he wondered how long he would have to stay on the ground before a sexy boot appeared nearby. Would he get the opportunity to steal a glance at forbidden treasure? He let the thought linger before he eventually sighed and began picking himself off of the floor.

"May I have a recess, your Honor?" said Larkin as he continued to dab the cloth against his tie. He refused to make eye contact with anyone in the room.

"I should say you have it, Mr. Monroe," said the judge.

"Thank you, Judge," said Larkin as he kept his gaze glued to the floor. He slowly walked away from the defendant's table and out of the courtroom.

The lights in the dance studio had dimmed when Larkin returned to his office. The jazzercise had thankfully ended and Margie was either quietly cleaning the room or perhaps even leading an afternoon meditation class. With his necktie wadded in his left hand, he reached out and gripped the doorknob. His fingers fumbled with both his tie and his keys and as he tried to manage both, his right hip bounced against the door which opened easily.

"What the . . . ?" he muttered. He dropped the tie on the ground and gripped his key as if it were a stabbing weapon. With his loafer, he pushed against the door until it opened completely.

"Hi, Mr. Monroe," said a familiar voice. Freddie Beard, a lean man in his forties stood from his seat in the lobby area of Larkin's office. His right hand stroked against the many wrinkles in his khaki pants, but it proved useless. They were utterly wrinkled, not unlike the temples of Freddie's eyes. Too many years spent harvesting in Bedford under the hot sun. Freddie's left hand held a thick manila envelope.

"Is this about the bill?" asked Larkin. "Did you come to make a payment?" Larkin had handled Freddie's uncontested divorce a few years earlier. "And how the hell did you get in here?"

Freddie took a deep breath and raised his left hand.

"What?" asked Larkin.

Freddie wiggled the envelope. Larkin snatched it out of his hand. "You've been served with process," said Freddie.

"What?" He tore open the envelope. The top page was a Notice of a hearing in two weeks in the Juvenile and Domestic Relations Court for sole legal possession of Rusty, Larkin's cat. "What in the name of Christ is happening here?" He glared at Freddie. "Did you break into my office to serve me with this bull shit?"

"No," said another familiar voice. Larkin's heart fluttered before dropping like a dead butterfly. "I let him in."

A thin tiny woman with long attractive brown hair neatly pulled back with a tan headband walked out of Larkin's private office. As Madeline passed the secretary's desk, she briefly studied the dozens of pictures upon the wall. She paused and turned to regard Larkin. Her big brown eyes seemed full of fear, but Larkin knew that was how Madeline always looked, like a deer just about to leap behind a pile of brush and escape. The look was her secret weapon. She might have been the most confident and headstrong woman he had ever met. But she cloaked it, when needed, behind a mask of vulnerability. In short, she could push his buttons with a blink, even those he never knew existed.

"You hid a spare key in the tomato can by the gutter," she said as she held up the brass key. The size of the key strangely made her fingers appear even smaller. "You didn't even turn over the tomato can. It was right side up, Larkin. It had filled with an inch of rainwater. You have confidential files in here, right? What are you doing? Anyone could have come in here."

Her sudden appearance was too much. Larkin turned to Freddie to delay, to stall, to breathe. "You owe me twelve hundred bucks, Freddie."

"I gave you all them cases of Sunny Devil," Freddie quickly replied.

"You're not paying my bill with moonshine."

Madeline sighed. Larkin could _hear_ her roll her eyes.

"Hey," she said. "Is this the same tomato can? You kept it?"

Larkin headed across the room to take the key, but the thought of her proximity made him pause. He tried to remember the last time he had touched her hand, but he could not remember.

"I'll just leave it on Charisma's desk," she said after easily interpreting his hesitation. She looked to the pictures on the wall. "Where is she?"

"She passed away," said Larkin. "It was sudden. A heart condition."

Madeline's hand covered her mouth. "How long \- -"

"A year . . . no. Two years."

Madeline's hand fell from her mouth and covered her chest. "Two years?" she repeated. "Two years, and still this?" She gestured to the array of family photos hung behind Charisma's vacant desk.

In the time that she had worked for Larkin, Charisma had done little else besides straighten the seldom used waiting room and clean the twenty-seven picture frames of her enormous extended family that hung behind her desk. After Sam Wexler's final trip to Richmond, Charisma had asked Larkin if he would consider allowing her to personalize her workspace. He had readily obliged, not knowing that Charisma had planned on putting two dozen holes in the wall. Nearly one hundred smiling black faces greeted anyone who entered his office.

"Didn't you tell?" asked Madeline.

"Tell?" asked Larkin. She always assumed that Larkin could read her mind.

She pointed to the photos. "Didn't you tell these people that they could come and get these pictures?"

Larkin nodded. "I did, I made a number of calls, left messages, but no one came."

"No you didn't.

"No. I really did."

Madeline glared at him, her lie detector on maximum sensitivity. Her shoulders relaxed and she returned her gaze to the photographs. "That's sad."

"It saves on spackle."

"None of these people loved her as much as she loved them."

"That's a bit of a leap," said Larkin. He could tell that his comment irritated her. "What the hell is this?" Larkin flung the manila envelope across the room. It landed neatly on the edge of the desk and slid to a stop directly in front of Madeline. He could always throw things.

"Nice toss," said Freddie.

Larkin nodded. "You're goddamned right. Now explain to me just how in the hell you think you can sue me for Rusty?"

Madeline picked up the envelope. She withdrew the contents and straightened the stack of papers. "That's not all I'm doing," she said. She held up the Notice. "You're not the only one who can learn the law, Larkin. We have a never-ending divorce case pending in Circuit Court. I talked to the clerk and the Court typically refers custody matters to the family court. I went down there, and brought it to the Clerk's attention. Apparently Judge Loundsbury found it worthy of consideration."

"Son of a," said Larkin. "This is insanity."

"These," said Madeline with guttural inflection. She swung a stack of seventy-five pages or more over her head. As smooth and steady as a construction crane, she moved the stack laterally until over the middle of Charisma's desk. Freddie and Larkin's eyes trailed her slow and somewhat graceful movement. "Are the final divorce papers that I prepared requiring your signature." She slammed the paperwork down upon the desk. Larkin jumped.

"You? You prepared? Didn't I type up the separation agreement?"

"Which you never signed and then lost. I did the research. To be honest, I'm glad I didn't sign that thing. Do you use that as a model? It was missing some key things."

Larkin raised his hands. "Don't even - -"

"I was going to ask you about that, Mr. Monroe," Freddie interjected. "You see, I was flipping through some of the pages in the documents your wife prepared, and there's a lot more in there then what you put in my divorce papers. I mean a lot more. That thing's got some weight and I think you gave me no more than twelve or so pages. There's Latin stuff in her work. That's important right? The Latin stuff?"

Larkin turned to Freddie. "You're divorced. You owe me twelve hundred bucks. Get out."

"Right," said Freddie. "I'll wait by your car, Ms. Monroe."

Freddie brushed past Larkin. Larkin squinted. "Her car?" The light went off. "And you owe me another eight hundred bucks for that DUI last fall," shouted Larkin as Freddie raced out the door. "You get your license back when I say so, pal!" The door slammed.

Silence. Larkin could barely turn to face her. "So that's it?" he finally asked.

Her huge brown eyes blinked.

"You found someone?"

"Maybe," she said. "I want you to handle this. Put it on the front burner, Larkin."

"Front burner."

"Yes. I know you. This will sit somewhere on your desk and it will be buried by paperwork and no one will see it again for six months. I want this on the front burner, and I want to go ahead and schedule the thing where I come in with a witness and we talk about the divorce."

"The deposition."

"Right," she nodded, "the deposition. I'll arrange for the court reporter."

"You can't - -"

"No," she stated firmly and quickly. "How's next Tuesday?"

"Next Tuesday?"

"Say, two o'clock in the afternoon?"

"I can't do it," said Larkin.

"You haven't looked at your schedule."

"I know that I can't do it."

"You're drinking too much."

"Oh?"

"I almost took out the trash in your office. So many bottles, Larkin. They're spilling over the rim of the trash can. You need to stop."

Larkin nodded and rocked back on his feet. The light was rather dim inside the room, and he hoped that she could not see the small new stains on his shirt. However simply thinking it, seemed to make her scrutinize him. Nothing could hide from those brown eyes.

"What's on your shirt?"

"Nosebleed."

"Do you need Vaseline?" she asked as she went back into the bag.

"That's not a cure-all despite what you think."

"How's Rusty doing? I miss him so much."

He wanted to throw a chair. To clinch every muscle and bellow to the Gods to smote her ruin. "He's fine since he's back in the house."

"I never wanted him in the garage in the first place. That was your mother's insistence." Her face pinched, but not at the thought of his mother. A sad and painful memory resurfaced, but she swatted it away with a swing of her big bag. "You have to be careful," she said after turning a full circle in place. "He can gain weight really quickly."

"He's not going to get fat again. And what do you care. You and Judge Loundsbury are going to steal my cat. What's next? Do you want my refrigerator? My garden hose?"

She shrugged her shoulders and stared at him. He found that he could no longer meet her eye to eye. "A Detective Kincaid called for you."

"What?" asked Larkin.

"Detective Kincaid. He wants you to call him as soon as possible." She ripped off a small pink slip from the secretary's desk and extended her hand.

"You answered my phone?"

"It was ringing when I got in the door." She placed the slip of paper with the detective's phone number on the envelope. "You know me and phones."

"And you have absolutely no idea how unbelievably weird that is." He crossed his arms.

"Don't cross your arms."

He uncrossed them. "What did he want?"

"For you to call him," she said.

"But did he say what it was about? I don't have any active criminal cases going on right now."

"He didn't say. Just call him, though, please? He sounded like he really wanted to talk to you." She looked back at Charisma's old desk. "What do you have going on, Larkin?"

His mind raced into bullshit mode. Lawyers chatted all the time about their business between hearings. Larkin had been lying for months about a personal injury case he was attempting to settle. He began mouthing the words "truck accident" when he realized with whom he spoke. He crossed his arms again.

"Don't - -" began Madeline, but Larkin angrily cocked his head. "Next Tuesday at two," she said after taking a deep breath. With a flurry of steps, she walked by him and headed for the door. He bit his lip as she passed by and chose to hold his breath rather than smell that cinnamon smell that always seemed to swirl around her. But it didn't matter. His memory realized what his senses could not and he was worse for it.

Larkin listened to the door shut and he walked to Charisma's vacant desk. He stared at the envelope until two drops fell from his eyes and splattered on the yellow paper. Losing steam, he leaned forward and placed his head on the desk. His hands massaged his scalp and he suddenly felt like Mr. Powers.

The door reopened.

"Please come back," he said, his voice muffled a bit by his hands.

Twenty or thirty seconds passed.

"You left your tie outside," she said. "You need to dry clean this. I'll put it . . . here." He did not look up. He only listened to the door shut.

"There's the man of the hour," said Trevor Meeks as he hopped onto the barstool next to Larkin. Larkin continued to stare at his half-empty gin and tonic. He had let all of the ice melt until the slice of lime simply bobbed in the liquid like wreckage after a storm. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Trevor's hyper-expensive platinum watch and was a bit shocked to discover how long that he must have been staring at the drink. It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening.

"Rough day in court?"

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you," Larkin muttered just as some business-suited gentleman appeared behind them and smacked Trevor on his back.

"Mr. Vice Mayor!" said the suck-up.

Trevor made some sort of shooting gesture with his hands, laughed and sent the man walking away with a grin on his face. Everyone grinned when they spoke with Trevor, the bastard was too damned charming. In fact, if Trevor was truly in a great mood, which was not infrequent, a five-minute conversation left you with the same feeling you had when you returned from vacation and look approvingly in the mirror at your new tan.

"What was that you were saying about court?" asked Trevor. His perfectly set teeth gleamed even in the dim bar light.

Larkin leaned back. "I said, you wouldn't believe it if I told you."

"Oh yeah? How much time did he get?"

Mr. Powers' tears seemed to burn on the fabric of Larkin's shirt. "Six months," he said, "for not paying his child support."

Trevor snapped at the bartender and pointed to Larkin's drink. "Beefeater?" Larkin shook his head. "Make mine Beefeater," he told the bartender. "You know, his first mistake was to get married in the first place. Six months is half a year. Marriage is a life sentence."

"The sentence came down after I threw up."

"You what?" asked Trevor.

"I threw up. Passed out." He took a sip. "It was horrible."

"Jesus Christ, Larkin," said Trevor with a laugh. Larkin repeated most of his day to his friend. He left out the bit about Madeline and the separation agreement. Trevor was a serial tomcat and devout bachelor ever since his bitter divorce. Larkin did not want his friend to dwell upon his past. As the two chatted, the bar became busier. More lawyers and businessmen entered and many, like the man earlier, smacked Trevor on the back. Handsome, rich, and politically connected, Trevor nearly lived the life that many fourteen year-old boys dreamed for themselves: fast cars, a steady stream of younger women, and the incredible ability to navigate difficult situations with little more than a winning smile. Larkin had always been amazed by his friend's uncanny ability to talk his way out of a DUI charge despite the bottles lining the floorboard or the passed out girl in the back seat. Down deep, Trevor was a devious bastard, but Big Lick just loved him for it.

"Fuck Deveraux," said Trevor as he withdrew a black pipe from his coat pocket. "Why is it that only you have days like this?" He struck an expensive and thick wooden match that hissed for several seconds before the flame curved to light the tobacco.

"Born under the worst sign, I guess," he said. He pointed to Trevor's pipe. "If I had lit that pipe in here, they would have tossed me out before I could blow out the match."

Trevor laughed before sucking on the pipe for a minute. "So there's this blonde who works for the city," he began. Larkin swiveled in his chair and feigned attention. He had heard tales of so many conquests, he could probably recite them better than Trevor at this point.

As his friend carried on about a tattoo on someone's inner thigh, Larkin allowed his attention to stray to a nearby table of young attorneys. He could tell by their dress and composure that they were all associates at one of the larger law firms in Big Lick. He was at first puzzled why these legal eaglets had landed at Marty's at a time of the day when they still should have been billing hours, but their joyous high-fiving demeanor broadcasted appropriate clues. Though Trevor nearly shouted in his left ear, Larkin heard the words "mediation" and "settlement" repeated more than once from the table. Fresh from the kill, the eaglets had gorged themselves on either the ultimate billed hour of high-dollar defense work or they had forced someone to send a bloated settlement check to their already wealthy client. Whatever the reason, they surely had spent months, perhaps years, of long hours at the firm in anticipation of a moment that had occurred hours earlier. And to their satisfaction.

"What a feeling," muttered Larkin. He swigged the rest of his drink and continued to watch the eaglets. Trevor carried on and on about his sexual escapade. The Vice Mayor waved his hand and a new drink was poured. The bartender placed it by Larkin's hand. The cool wet glass slid against his fingertips and, without looking and acting purely on instinct or reflex, he began to drink.

He hated the eaglets almost as much as he wanted to sit and be among them. University of Virginia, Washington and Lee, and maybe even Ivy League law degrees, he thought. Pedigrees. He had qualified to take the bar exam through a backdoor apprenticeship loophole that most attorneys could not believe still existed in the twenty-first century. He shook his head. They had certificates of merit framed in exotic wood upon their walls. Larkin was going to have to stop at K-Mart on the way home to pick up a replacement frame for his false, misspelled ethics award.

He sipped again, dribbled on his shirt, and looked up to see two of the eaglets looking intently in his direction. He coughed and attempted to straighten a tie that he no longer wore. They approached quickly until one of them stood only inches away.

"L-Larkin Monroe," Larkin said with trepidation, his voice cracking. He extended his hand, but the eaglet ignored it and looked over Larkin's shoulder. Trevor shoved Larkin sharply in the arm. "Ouch!"

"Shhh!" someone in the bar hissed. More people approached Larkin.

"What the hell?" asked Larkin.

"Turn it up!" one of the eaglets called.

Larkin swiveled in his chair to see the bartender scrambling to find the remote control that operated the television hanging above the bar almost directly behind him. The television was tuned to the local news. The camera focused on a bleached-blond reporter standing in front of a large dark green body of water. The caption below her read, "Local Attorney Found Drowned at Smith Mountain Lake."

The bartender began pulling apart the rail, looking nervously for the remote.

"Oh for Christ's sake," said Trevor as he placed his drink down, hoisted his legs, and stood atop the bar. He wobbled a bit before stretching his right arm and smacking the volume button on the television.

"Hell yeah, Meeks!" a constituent applauded. Trevor gave a little wave and rather gracefully returned to his seat.

"Do you ever do anything wrong?" asked Larkin but those around him quickly "shhhed" him.

"—with more questions than answers," said the reporter as the camera now focused only on a quiet cove of the lake. "Here is where two local fishermen found the body of Alex Jordan."

"Who?" asked Larkin.

The shot cut to a Smith Mountain Lake local wearing a stained ball cap. "We was hittin' the water this morning looking for bass when I seen something on the shoreline," he said. "I first thought it was deer, but then I could see a hand and I knowed it was somethin' awful."

The scene changed again, this time showing a still picture of a remarkably attractive young red haired woman in her mid twenties. At the sight of her, Trevor stiffened.

"Do you know her?" asked Larkin.

Trevor shook his head and continued to stare. She wore a conservative business suit and a bright smile. "She's smoking hot though. Am I right?" he asked.

"Alex Jordan, a law graduate from Berkley in California," the reporter stated, "had until recently worked as a law clerk for Justice Lloyd Byrd of the Supreme Court of Virginia."

"No shit," someone uttered.

The picture of Alex Jordan was replaced with that of a serious looking man with salt and pepper hair wearing judicial robes. "Justice Byrd could not be reached for comment at the time of this broadcast."

"I wonder what happened?" asked Larkin.

"Wouldn't be the first time someone drowned in that lake," said Trevor.

The reporter continued. "The police at this time are still investigating the incident and will not comment on whether they can rule out foul play." The camera then focused on a thin, bearded policeman in his forties. His brow cut sharply across the corners of his eyes, giving him a permanent squint. "Detective Kincaid of the Big Lick Police is coordinating an investigation with Bedford Police at the lake."

"I know that name," said Larkin. He took another sip. Where had he heard that name before?

"It's too early to say what happened," said Kincaid, "other than to say it's a tragedy. We have a lot of ground to cover before we make any decisions as to how this may have happened."

"You know him?" asked Trevor.

Larkin set his glass down. An image of his soon to be ex-wife slamming a telephone book of expertly crafted _pro-se_ work product upon a desk flashed through his mind and his stomach turned. "Yes," he groaned. "Dear God," he muttered, "am I going to get sick again?"

"You better not," said Trevor. "I'm meeting someone later on."

"Of course," said Larkin as he wiggled his wrist and swirled his drink. He stared at the small whirlpool of gin he had created while concentrating on his breathing.

"Do you own an ugly home?" Madeline asked.

Larkin looked up. Madeline stared at him from the television screen. Her brown hair fell upon her shoulders in broad attractive curls. A charcoal business suit and a strand of pearls did very well to diminish her look of vulnerability. She looked like a million bucks. The screen blinked and showed a home with a sagging roof. A cartoon frowny face bounced across the screen.

"No matter the home," said Madeline as the advertisement showed a series of dilapidated homes, "no matter the condition, Simmons and Associates can make the dreams of a sale, become a reality." The screen blinked again before showing Madeline hanging a "SOLD" sign in someone's front yard.

"Thanks," said Larkin to Trevor after the commercial had ended.

"Your welcome," said Trevor. It had been agreed upon that Trevor would no longer comment on how hot Madeline looked in her commercial.

Larkin slid off of his bar stool and headed for the bathroom. He pushed against the door and raced for the small sink. With his lips locked tight to prevent anything from coming up, he repeatedly splashed cool water against his face. After a minute, he turned off the flow and stared at himself in the mirror. Water droplets slid down his tired face.

Suddenly, a loud snarling noise forced him to jump. He spun, but no one else had entered the bathroom. As he grabbed a paper towel to dab at his face, he heard the noise again, but this time, it was unmistakable. Someone was snoring.

Larkin crept slowly to the only closed bathroom stall and peaked through the crack between the scuffed door and the frame. A man sat fully clothed on the toilet seat with the back of his head pressed against wall.

"Fucking, Deveraux," said Larkin. He watched him for a moment. Every three or four seconds, Deveraux's whole head shook until an immense snore erupted from both his nose and mouth. A tipped over whiskey sour lay at his feet. The maraschino cherry waded in a pool that could have been equal part booze, bile and urine. When Larkin had entered Marty's earlier that evening, Deveraux must have already been in the bathroom. At least now he knew that he had probably taken the shots.

As Larkin watched the slumbering man, his temper gradually calmed. While he certainly had experienced one shitty afternoon, at least Larkin was not unconscious on a toilet. He wondered if he had some sort of obligation to help Deveraux. Part of him wanted Deveraux to wake in the filthy bathroom with a splitting headache while his conscience debated a rescue attempt. He continued to stare, his face pressed against the crack when the main door opened behind him.

"What are you doing?"

Larkin turned. One of the legal eaglets stood in the doorway. "I, uh . . ." he started. The eaglet then decided that his desire to piss outweighed his interest in what appeared to be a bathroom peeping Tom. He walked quietly by and headed to the urinal.

"I know the guy," said Larkin in his defense. He then realized that he had not really explained a thing. The eaglet stood with his back to Larkin and silently began to use the bathroom. "You don't understand," said Larkin, "he's a guy that I practice with. Not that we work together, but I see him from time to time." The eaglet's silence pissed him off. "I'm not peeping," he barked, just as his cell phone began to ring.

He reached into his pocket to withdraw it, but his fingertips were still wet from the water. As he pulled on the phone, it leaped out of his hands. His hands frantically swatted at the phone, but Larkin only succeeded in smacking it like a volleyball and sending it flying across the bathroom. It landed with a clatter on the tile floor and slid across the restroom floor. It stopped not two inches from the eaglet's mahogany brown leather left shoe.

"Shit," said Larkin. The eaglet looked quizzically at the phone and then back at Larkin.

"Is that a camera phone?" asked the eaglet.

"What?" said Larkin.

Rather than retrieve it, the eaglet turned and kicked the phone with his toe with just a little bit too much force. The phone skidded across the tiles toward Larkin. Both men stood still.

"You could have just . . . " started Larkin, but he lost the will to continue.

"Hello?" the cell phone asked. The eaglet or the fall must have hit the button to activate the speaker phone. "Larkin?" asked a gruff man's voice.

Larkin lunged for the phone. As he fumbled with the button, the other attorney glided swiftly past him and out the door.

"Larkin?" asked Ron, the phone still on speaker mode.

"I'm here, Ron," said Larkin as he finally discovered how to disable the function. He pressed the phone to his ear, but immediately recoiled as he remembered that it had just rested on the bathroom floor at Marty's.

"I've got one for you," said Ron. His voice was hushed. Larkin heard others talking in the background. "He's on the third floor. They're going to operate on him tomorrow morning. You may want to stop by as soon as you can."

"Hmmmmm," said Larkin.

"It's good, Larkin. By the way, did you talk to my wife's attorney about the dresser with the comic book?"

"I left some messages," he lied after wiping the phone on his sleeve. "I'm going, Ron."

"Hey, man. Are you going to come by?"

"Yeah . . . maybe," said Larkin as he closed his phone. He straightened himself and retreated to the bar. All of the eaglets turned when he exited the bathroom. He wanted to shoot the bird, but his shame prevented it. As he made his way to his barstool he caught glimpses of himself in the dusty mirror hanging behind the top-shelf liquor. Deveraux might have it better off after all, he thought.

Trevor had abandoned his post at the bar. The man was constantly on the move. Like the true gentlemen that he envisioned himself to be, Trevor had left a tall fizzy glass near Larkin's stool along with a five-spot.

"Nice," said Larkin as he ignored the stares from the eaglet's nest and made his way to the bar. His phone rang as soon as he sat. "What?" Larkin shouted into the receiver. "I'm coming over at some point, dammit."

The individual on the other end of the call cleared his throat. "Mr. Monroe?" asked a man's voice.

"Uh," said Larkin.

"This is Detective Kincaid, Big Lick City Police Department."

"Yes," said Larkin. He pushed his drink away as if his Baptist grandmother had just walked into the bar.

"I need to meet with you to discuss a matter. I know that you're busy, but I need to meet with you as soon as possible."

Larkin again attempted to straighten a tie that was not there. The cop's voice was not outright alarming, but his voice's deep tone demanded attention. "What's this about? Is this an old case that you're looking into?" The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Again, he remembered his ethics award. Three of the most significant criminal cases that he had worked on in the past year flashed through his mind, but all three were drunken driving charges.

"No, sir. This is a criminal investigation. We're investigating the death of Alex Jordan."

"The law clerk."

"Did you know Ms. Jordan?"

"No," said Larkin, "but I just saw the news. Terrible incident," he said with little emotion. What in the world tied him to the dead girl?

"You never met her?"

Larkin bit his lip. "No. Why are you calling me? What makes you think I did?"

"Can you come into the station tomorrow morning?"

He wanted to say, you didn't answer my question. Instead, he lied. "I think I have court."

I see," said Kincaid as he held out the last word. "I want you to stop by my downtown office as soon as court is over tomorrow."

"I already told you I don't know her."

"I understand, Mr. Monroe, but I still need to meet with you."

Larkin ended the call but held the phone in his hand for a full minute. He dropped it onto the bar wondering if the alcohol in the wood could sufficiently sterilize it. A yawn crept through him. He needed a night off. Too much had happened all at once and he was about half a liter deep in Beefeater gin.

Ron's call demanded attention, but his mind wandered to his worn leather sofa that fit his outstretched body like a mit to a baseball.

"A worn baseball," he said as he swirled his drink with the swizzlestick. He could kick off his shoes, while Rusty found a comfortable spot near his toes.

"Shark week," he said as he imagined picking up his remote. That's what he'd watch: gnawing, ripping sea monsters.

Loud laughter erupted from the eaglets' table. Larkin turned. All but one of the eaglets bobbed up and down in their seats, laughing louder and louder. The man that Larkin had encountered in the bathroom stared directly at him. They met eye to eye, neither blinking for a long time. Larkin balled his fists.

With an audible grunt, Larkin leaped off of his stool and bounded for the eaglets. They gasped as he stopped at the edge of their table and cowered as they beheld the perspiring weirdo from the bathroom in all his glory.

"Rawwwwr!" yelled Larkin in his best imitation of a roaring tiger shark. Someone screamed and he bolted out the door. With a smile on his face, he double-timed it back to his car. He cruised to the hospital with the windows down and his first smile of the day. The breeze tousled his hair, but he did not care. His second wind, perhaps his fifth or sixth of the day was hurricane strength. Several minutes later he parked at the hospital and again straightened his missing tie.

Bright light from the emergency room entrance cut through the dark parking lot. Newly installed energy efficient exterior lighting had flickered on a moment ago, but the green glow could not compete with the halogens over the ER. Men and women wrapped in a rainbow of scrubs swirled around stretchers while a small man in a yellow vest tried to coordinate traffic in the busy drop-off area.

Larkin hung back behind a row of pines that concealed a dumpster and a coffee can filled halfway with cigarette butts. A secret nurse hideout. He flipped open his phone, but the brightness of the backlit screen surprised him and he retreated further into the trees.

"Christ," he spat as he cycled through his contact list to call Ron. Shortly after he hit send, the theme song from Law and Order began playing not twenty feet away. Larkin turned. The orange ember of a lit Winston Light bobbed up and down as a stocky man in a baseball hat approached. He spotted Larkin behind the trees and waved.

"The theme from Law and Order is your goddamn ring tone for my calls?" asked Larkin.

Ron silenced his phone. "The theme song from Law and Order is my goddamn ringtone for everyone's calls. I love that show. Why are you always back here? It smells like old cigarettes and trash."

"And Christmas," said Larkin as he moved away from the tree, but remained in its shadow. "I don't want to be seen."

"Hell, man," said Ron as he turned to look at the ER, "a marching band could head through there and no one would ask a question."

"You have only one volume setting, Ron."

"Allison says the same thing. Hey, man, are we ever going to get this thing with the comic book resolved?"

Larkin had represented Ron in a brutal divorce that had lasted over two years. Unfortunately, Larkin saw no sign that it would end anytime soon. With Larkin by his side, Ron had fought bitterly over almost every issue a couple could seize upon. They had been on the losing end of things for some time. The court had ruled against them in the last four hearings and Ron had not paid Larkin in nine months. The latest fight regarded the alleged existence of a rare comic book, the first ever appearance of . . . someone. Daredevil? Aquaman? Larkin could not remember. Regardless, the comic was supposedly accidently left in a sock drawer which now sat in a dresser in Allison's new home, surrounded by a tall fence, two Dobermans, and one hell of a restraining order.

"You know if we get that comic, I can get you some money," said Ron.

"What have you got for me tonight?"

"He's on the third floor. I'll show you." Then returning his attention to the comic book, "Don't you want the money, Larkin? I mean this whole barter thing doesn't seem to have really worked out for you."

Larkin laughed. Did Ron really believe that he had a chance to get that comic book back? "A paramedic loaded with a lawyer's business cards. How could it lose?"

Ron shrugged. "I need a few more."

"Was it an auto accident?"

"No, no. Come on I'll show you."

"That doesn't sound promising." Larkin followed Ron out from behind the trees and headed toward the small carnival that was the ER. The notion of bartering lackluster legal representation for direct access to personal injury clients seemed like a good idea when he had first considered the deal months earlier. However, as he made his way across the dim parking lot he felt as if he had crossed a line. The high contrast between the dark lot and the bright hospital entrance did not help the situation. As his mind wandered back to his fake ethics award and Madeline, his left foot smacked against a curb and he stumbled.

"Christ!" he yelled as his arms flailed to catch himself.

"Watch your step," shouted Ron.

"What the hell is with the lights?"

"It gives us more customers."

"You know what Ron? Don't talk to me until we get to this guy's room."

Ron smiled but said nothing. They proceeded through the entrance. Cool antiseptic air kissed his skin. Larkin kept his head down and stayed several yards behind his guide. For a moment, he was glad he had left his tie at the office. As he made his way past a group of nursing assistants wielding metal carts, he passed a very pregnant woman on a stretcher. He instantly thought of Madeline with her big manila envelope.

"Christ," he whispered as he attempted to wait for the elevator nonchalantly next to Ron. After a moment of thought, he slid about a foot to the left to give himself more cover. "This is a threshold," he whispered. "A moral one. A professional one. I should be on the couch."

Ron laughed once they entered the elevator.

"What?" Larkin shouted. The word echoed against the aluminum plated elevator and stung their ears.

"You know, Larkin," said Ron, "there might be more lawyers here than doctors. You can take it easy."

"I've reached my threshold," said Larkin. "So it wasn't an auto accident." The elevator doors opened to reveal a much quieter hallway.

"It's good," said Ron as he took a quick left turn.

"It's good. Hooray for me."

They entered room 320 and as soon as he saw the patient to his right, the couch was a distant memory. "Wow," he said as he hustled to a man half-wrapped in plaster with a four-lane highway of tubes entering and exiting his veins at different junctions in his battered body. "Can you hear me, Mr.," Larkin glanced at the man's identification bracelet, "Chambers?" The man's eyes remained shut.

"Larkin," Ron called from across the room.

"Mr. Chambers, can you hear me at all?"

"Mr. Monroe!" cried an all-too familiar voice. Larkin turned. Terry Woolwine sat up in his hospital bed and flashed Larkin a half-toothed grin as he waved his gauze-covered left hand.

"Oh my God," said Larkin. He looked angrily at Ron. "This? This is why you called me? Because goddamn Terry Woolwine hurt his hand?" He kicked a biohazard waste basket near Mr. Chambers' bed. It rocked and wobbled but did not topple. Larkin had spent half of his career representing Terry and other members of the immense Woolwine clan through assaults, batteries, domestic disputes, vagrancy, vandalism, pandering, check bouncing, two fake bomb threats, prostitution, solicitation, drunk moped driving and half a dozen other charges. Though they might be troublesome mountain folk, the Woolwines stuck together. This solidarity extended toward the typical Woolwine mindset on bills: they never paid.

"I got a claim, Mr. Monroe," said Terry from under his ever present CAT hat. He spat his words, but with his missing teeth the words still rolled together, like the sound of field mouse running over the frets on an out-of-tune banjo.

"He's got a claim," repeated Ron.

"I can't believe this horseshit," said Larkin. "I can't believe this day. Ron, this whole," he waved his arms back and forth, "thing we have together is supposed to help me out. Good cases, Ron, money cases. Slip and falls, cases with skid marks, exploding propane tanks. I don't want Terry Woolwine after he got in his twenty-eighth fight with his girlfriend."

"But there were skid marks," yelled Terry. Drops of blood dotted his sleeveless shirt.

"A car hit you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who was driving?"

"Crystal."

"You're girlfriend."

"We got engaged, Mr. Monroe. She's my fiancé right now."

"So what do you want me to do?" asked Larkin as he leaned against Mr. Chambers' plastered legs, "You want me to sue your wife?"

"She's going to be my proper wife, Mr. Monroe, but, no sir. I don't want you to sue her. She don't have no money."

Larkin threw his hands in the air. "Jesus Christ, Ron! This is what you call me for?" He slapped the hard cast encasing Mr. Chambers' right leg. Mr. Chambers didn't budge. "This is what it's supposed to be about, casts and tubes and people who can't open their damn eyes. People on the verge of the great beyond." He pointed to the cast again. "Who the hell is this guy anyway?" Larkin thumped the cast again. "Did you pick him up and run out of business cards? Where the heck was the call for this guy?"

"I don't know him, Larkin."

"Well get to know him, goddamn it."

"Mr. Monroe?" asked Terry.

"What?"

"It's a divorce," said Terry. "I figured after she done hit me, it would be a fairly simple case. You know, vehicular battery and all."

Larkin closed his eyes and balled his fists. He needed a drink, a gun, anything that could do damage to himself or others. With his eyes shut tight, he spoke through gritted teeth. "You can't afford to buy a goddamn band-aid to put on your hand. I'm paying for that bandage right now, because you don't have insurance. I should sue you, Terry, as a taxpayer."

Terry laughed. "It's all good, Mr. Monroe, I'm receiving disability now and everything and - -"

"You're not married. How in the hell can you get a divorce?" Anger seeped like sweat down his forehead.

"Common law wife," said Terry.

"And you," said Larkin as he jabbed a finger toward Ron. "You send him to me?"

Ron raised his hands, palms upwards. "Now, Larkin. Just take it easy. You're not hearing him out. If his wife hit him with the car it shouldn't be that hard. He's got money. He's collecting disability. And don't be so hard on yourself. That judge just hated the both of us."

"That's right, Mr. Monroe. I can pay you. Well, I mean I gotta get some money that some other people owe me, but I can pay you. I can pay you like two hundred next Friday and another two hundred dollars the Friday after that."

Larkin turned toward the door.

"You always stuck with it," said Ron. "Even when it got bad, you stuck with me."

Larkin leaned his forehead against the cold aluminum plating on the door. His head slipped a bit on the surface.

"Sweaty mess," he whispered. He opened his eyes and watched his breath fog over the nicked metal. He knew then exactly where all of his rage had originated. Terry was not to blame, it was himself. He knew the moment that he spotted Terry that no matter what came out of the hayseed's mouth, he would take the case. He tilted his head back but he could not make out his reflection in the scratched metal surface. "I hate myself."

"What's that?" asked Terry.

"Just call me tomorrow afternoon, Terry," said Larkin as he pushed the door open with great force and immediately knocked a nurse onto the hard off-white tiles.

"Christ!" he yelled as he extended both hands to help the nurse back to her feet. Though she had been knocked off her feet, Larkin was comforted that she seemed to have tumbled well and did not appear to need any medical attention herself.

She waved his hands away and glared. "There are windows on the doors for a reason. What are you doing on this floor?" She reached for a nearby stretcher and lifted herself off of the ground.

"I . . . was visiting." Larkin kept his hand extended as if evidence of his good intentions would prevent further inquiry. Sweat fell from his face to the floor. His hand remained extended for too long.

"You weren't visiting," said the nurse. She reached her full height of just a tad over five feet and stepped closer to Larkin. "Who are you? Are you one of them lawyers?"

Larkin ran. He rounded a corner and glanced from side to side, searching for an elevator. He heard shouts from behind him and cursed.

"Stop running!" a woman screamed. It was good advice.

Larkin nearly crashed into a pair of wheelchairs left unattended in the hallway. The chairs slowed him a bit, but he took a sharp right down another corridor and made it safely inside another elevator as the doors began closing. Grabbing his knee with his left hand to gasp, he slapped the lower row of buttons with his right.

He looked up to see a man in a dark blue uniform with a badge hustling toward the elevator. Their eyes met and Larkin knew that both he and the cop had seen each other before. They did not know each other by name, but they had each seen the other in court a number of times.

"Stop!" shouted the cop. The doors shut.

Whether it was the gin or his historic hatred of all things cardiovascular, Larkin was quite out of breath. A wave of nausea passed over him and it nearly brought him to the elevator floor. As the doors opened, he staggered forward. A brick wall in front of him seemed inviting and he pressed his full weight against it. He coughed for a moment and fought the familiar urge to vomit.

He had missed the ground floor. His hand must have hit a button for a lower level. In-between his gasps he realized that if the police or security were looking for him - - and they most likely were, a sweating, sprinting, nurse-assaulting man in a suit was big news in Big Lick - - the basement might be just the place to lay low for a moment. With his eyes shut he heard a loud click, a mechanical whirr, and then a blast of chilled air swirled around him. Goose bumps raised. Invigorated, he opened his eyes to see a janitor pulling a large plastic cart piled high with cleaning supplies out of an immense metal door marked with bio-hazard signs. The morgue.

"Good God, that feels good," Larkin whispered as he stood and straightened himself. The janitor looked up. Larkin nodded as he fished in his pocket for his cell phone. Quickly placing it to his ear, he acted like he was actively engaged in a very important conversation.

"Yes, Steve," he said in a voice a bit deeper than normal. "I'm on the bottom floor now as we arranged. Yes. I'll just wait here for the medical examiner." He watched the janitor close the morgue door and push three digits, 5, 5, 1, into a numeric keypad next to the door. The keypad beeped and the whirring sound repeated as the electronic deadbolt slid into place.

As the janitor passed by and pressed the button for the elevator, Larkin gave a military-style salute while continuing to act like he had to negotiate a multi-million dollar corporate merger with an unnamed medical examiner in the morgue in about five or six minutes. As soon as the elevator doors shut and the janitor was gone, he headed to the door and punched in the code. The inner mechanisms released the lock and the door opened a few inches. He grabbed the handle and yanked. Cold air engulfed him.

"Good lord," he said as his breath floated away like a specter among the dozen dead bodies lining the metal shelves. All of the bodies, including four or five scattered haphazardly on stretchers in the middle of the room, were covered in sheets. An overhead bulb did not enhance the tone of the room. Though the sheets did a bit to dehumanize the corpses, the sight of so many exposed toes with attached tags was a bit horrid. Larkin's stomach trembled as he noticed a large drain in the floor. But the cold air felt so damn good.

He closed the door most of the way behind him, but did not shut it completely. Adrenaline coursed through his limbs as he moved slowly among the bodies. He stepped forward but his shoe slipped on the freshly waxed tile. His arms jutted sideways to catch his balance. The fingers of his right hand gripped the cold aluminum railing of a stretcher, but not before grazing the sheet-covered body upon it.

"Oh, Jesus," he said. He caught himself and stood upright. "Rebecca Overstreet," he read on the nearby toe tag, "F." Judging from the rather sizeable breasts beneath the sheet, he surmised that "F" meant "female" and also that Ms. Overstreet would likely be missed. Stepping carefully, he walked to the corner of the room and sat upon an unoccupied shelf that was affixed to the wall at or near normal bench height. He immediately felt the chilled concrete through his thin wool slacks. He quickly buttoned his coat.

"Well this is nice," he said, meaning every word. The air and the silence relaxed him. He watched his breath for a minute, and considered the notion that he was the only one breathing in the room. As his eyes adjusted to the level of light, he gazed upon the assortment of toes. Some had toenails that seemed old and brittle, while others appeared as if they had more wiggling left to do before God, cancer, or fate had decided that enough was enough.

A big toe that seemed a bit smaller than most of the others peeked out from beneath a sheet only a few feet away on a stretcher. Peach-colored nail polish looked to have been applied not too long before death. Larkin leaned forward and squinted at the tag.

"Alex Jordan," he read, "M." He recognized the law clerk's name. He stood and slowly approached. His foot slipped a bit on the tile, but the peach-painted toe had him in a tractor beam. He did not stumble. He stood directly over the body and made out the outline of the young woman's body beneath the sheet. She was a slight thing and almost as flat-chested as a twelve year-old boy.

With his right hand, he carefully flipped the toe tag over so the light fully shone upon the letters. "M," he whispered. He looked back to the breasts. She had not been well-endowed in life, but there were definitely breasts. A few strands of red hair dangled over the edge of the stretcher.

The "M" had to have been a mistake, thought Larkin, after all, Alex was indeed a man's name. The picture of the person that the news footage had displayed earlier in the evening could never have been confused for a man. She was beautiful, attractive even, and utterly feminine.

Larkin looked at the area of the sheet where Jordan's pelvis would have been located. The fabric was thick and telegraphed no clues. He sighed loudly as he knew that he would give in to curiosity's demands.

Holding his breath, he gripped the edge of the sheet with his right hand. He counted to three and lifted. His eyes wandered down Jordan's flat stomach. A small pink penis, like that of a child, lay against her left thigh.

The morgue door opened and light flooded the room.

Larkin screamed, staggered backward, slipped, and fell. His head hit something very hard. Intense pain freight-trained through his nerves as he gritted his teeth. Men shouted at him, but he could not discern the words. The pain was awful. He opened his eyes and saw flickering spots and slashes in his vision. The sheet that had once covered Alex Jordan floated downward through the frigid air. As a tip of the fabric touched his forehead and the rest blocked his vision, Larkin closed his eyes.

More rough, thick fabric rubbed against the nape of his neck. He opened his eyes and light struck his retinas like spear tips.

"Jesus," he growled. He tried to block the light with his right hand, but a locked handcuff prevented him. The cuff clanged against the metal railing that encircled his stretcher. Larkin bit his lip as the sound echoed in his aching skull.

"He's awake!" hollered Terry from across the room.

"Just kill me now," said Larkin. "Please, Lord, strike me down."

Heavy footsteps smacked against tiles. Larkin shifted on the cheap pillow. The back of his head stung like hell.

"Good evening, Detective," shouted Terry. "I haven't stepped a single foot on Hank's land since last time. Have your investigators found any leads, as it were, to what he done with my dog?"

Through a crack in his eyelid, Larkin watched Detective Kincaid grip the undrawn curtain near Terry's bed and, with a quick flick of his wrist, the curtain buzzed down the runner and blocked Terry from view. "Aw, man," said Terry, concealed from view.

Kincaid approached Larkin's stretcher. He fidgeted with the remote control wired to his bed. Larkin's bed whirred as the back rest tilted upward to a more vertical position.

"Mr. Monroe."

Larkin squinted. Kincaid wore a full salt, pepper, and a pinch of Cajun seasoning beard that was in great need of a trim. Wild bristles poked out from his tan face like uncoiling springs. Stubble marked his cheeks and neck where he had neglected to shave for about three days.

"Detective," said Larkin. "You look like you could use a good cup of coffee."

"I've had three. You've had quite a night, here, Mr. Monroe."

Larkin raised his cuffed hand. "I seem to have been arrested."

"Mmmm," said Kincaid as if he had just swallowed foul medicine. His fingers were noticeably worn and callused. "You're in custody right now. You're not arrested."

"You don't need a lawyer to tell you that there isn't much of a difference."

"You're not in my custody. You're in the custody of the hospital."

"I'm in hospital jail?" He smiled but it hurt.

"You're temporarily detained. Someone seemed to think you may have suffered a concussion. The handcuff is because of your trespass and a few other violations." Kincaid cracked his knuckles.

"So what do you plan on doing?" asked Larkin, although he had already imagined his law license engulfed in flames along with everything else in his dusty office. Strangely, he did not feel nearly as remorseful as he would have predicted.

"Well," said Kincaid, "I was thinking about obstruction of justice. That's a class five felony."

Terry "ooohhhhed" from across the room and behind his curtain.

"Shut it," snapped Kincaid.

"It's only class five if I threatened you by force," said Larkin. "Take it back to misdemeanor town, pal. But you'll never even get that to stick. I don't suppose you can get me a private room?"

"And desecration of a body."

"A body," repeated Larkin. "Would it be more accurate to say, _his_ body?" He stared at Kincaid, but the cop did not even blink.

"When did you meet, Ms. Jordan?"

"You mean, mister - -"

"Knock the crap off, Monroe." Kincaid drew in close. "The attitude, I mean." True to his word, he did indeed have coffee breath. Bloodshot eyes, perhaps even worse than Larkin's, glared. "I've had to deal with two heaping handfuls of bullshit tonight. You give me anymore and I'll make it two fists worth. Don't dick me around. Not only are you going to lose your ticket from what you've been doing tonight, but I can make sure that the next several months are spent in close proximity to a lot of your former clients. I have half a notion to believe that some of those fellas were less than thrilled with your legal work."

"Da'yum," drawled Terry.

"For Pete's sake," said Kincaid as he swatted Terry's curtain aside. Despite his two fists being filled with bullshit, Kincaid gripped the railing of Terry's bed and escorted him to the door.

"You've always done right by me, Mr. Monroe," said Terry as he coasted by. He fell backward in his bed as the other end punched the double doors open and Kincaid sent him sailing into the hallway.

"Watch out for nurses," said Larkin as Kincaid returned to Larkin's bedside. He gripped the aluminum railing of Larkin's bed as if the cop planned on violently moving two beds that evening.

"When did you meet the victim?"

"I never met her," said Larkin. He dropped all of his gin-infused, brain injury pseudo pretense. "That's the God's honest truth."

"You never met her," repeated Kincaid flatly.

"Never. I mean, come on, Kincaid. You know who she works for. I haven't had a case go up the chain to the Supreme Court of Virginia in over five years and I'm certainly not her boss's golfing buddy."

Kincaid took a step back and rubbed his beard. His eyebrows lifted as if he suddenly seemed to realize that he did indeed need a trim. "Then why did she have your business card?" he asked.

"Business card? My business card?"

"Cyber Card Print dot com," said Kincaid. "One thousand cards for free," he said as he recited the small print marking the back right bottom corner of each of Larkin's business cards. "You just pay the shipping."

"Why did she have my business card?"

"I already asked you that."

"Well," said Larkin, "clearly, I don't know!" He tried to raise his hands in exasperation, but only one arm would raise more than a few inches. "You read it yourself," he said. "I ordered a thousand cards. That's a lot of damn cards. I've been doing that deal online for years. I don't know how in the hell she received one or why. I never met her . . . him."

"Where were you two nights ago?"

"Drinking. Alone in my house. You can ask my cat."

Kincaid crossed his arms. He wore one of those neat blazers with suede patches on the elbows. "If you don't know her, why did I just watch you knock yourself out looking over her body in the morgue?"

"Look, Kincaid, I'm going to level with you."

"Now would be about the time."

"I came here tonight because Terry, the guy out in the hall - -"

"I know him," said Kincaid, "or at least his family."

"I figured you would. Well, I've represented him before. You see I have this deal worked out with this paramedic named Ron. I'm sure you can track him down if you want. He kind of gives me a heads up when good cases come rolling through the door here."

"Terry Woolwine is a good case?"

Larkin had to laugh a bit to himself. At least others shared his opinion. "I didn't say that. He's a terrible case. But that's why I was here. You can report me to the state bar if you want. I'm guilty of soliciting cases from people in the damn hospital. Report me, I'll be in good company."

Kincaid smiled. He had a warm smile, a big welcoming Christmas morning smile. "Soliciting," he said. "You mean ambulance chasing."

Larkin ignored him. "Whatever you call it, I was here to dig up work. That's when I accidently bumped into a nurse outside in the hallway, a little thing filled with piss and vinegar. She alerted security because it wasn't visiting hours or what have you. I thought about my law license and I panicked."

Kincaid continued to smile, but despite its warmth, Larkin knew that he was now just a punch line. "So in a panic you bolt through the building and instead of heading outside, you run down into the basement to let things cool off. When all of a sudden, you realize that the best possible hiding place is in a large cooler filled with dead bodies."

Larkin cocked his head. "In so many words."

"And you've never even heard Alex Jordan's name before."

"Saw her on the news tonight," said Larkin.

Kincaid rolled his eyes. He walked toward the doors.

"Hey," called Larkin, "when do I get to post bail here?"

"Hold your horses, Monroe," said Kincaid as he rushed out of the room. "I'm checking on a few things," he said before the doors shut.

Twenty minutes later, after Kincaid located, interviewed, and educated the fiery nurse on the procedures for filing a warrant with the magistrate for assault and battery, two cops came into Larkin's room and uncuffed him. Thirty minutes after that, he was driven to the police department, inked, photographed, and cited for drunk in public, a petty violation, but one the state bar would not look kindly upon. Kincaid most likely had believed Larkin's story, nutty as it was. Still, the cop thought that a weekend in lockup might be the best for all concerned parties.

The cops snickered at him as he was handed a phone to place a call. Larkin recognized all of them from traffic court and they likewise remembered him. "Just wait until I cross-examine some of you wise-acres," he imagined himself saying in a tough-guy tone to the assorted men in uniform. But he kept his mouth shut until a phone was handed to him. He dialed the only man with enough clout to help him, that is, if he wasn't passed out in the back of his Mercedes with the hot local news anchor's panties in his pocket.

Fortunately, the night seemed to be just beginning for Trevor Meeks. After five minutes on the phone, much of it filled with Trevor laughing like a hyena, Larkin did as he was told and handed the phone to the nearest deputy.

About fifteen minutes and a few more jokes at Larkin's expense passed before a surly deputy escorted him out of the police station. The crickets were chirping at full capacity as he flung open the door of the taxi awaiting his arrival. Larkin flopped into the backseat. Trevor had worked his magic.

His head still stung like hell. He wondered whether he could sleep on it. His watch told him that it was already approaching two in the morning. He vaguely remembered something someone had told him about not sleeping after suffering a concussion and he was half-mad that the hospital staff had not seemed to have cared one way or the other.

He groaned as he stretched his legs as far as he could manage. Part of him wanted to simply ask the cabbie to drop him off at home. "Hells bells," he mumbled as he felt his car keys in his coat pocket, "might as well be done with it. Excuse me," he said, "driver? Can you take me to the hospital please?"

The wooly old man behind the wheel winked at Larkin in the rearview mirror. He smiled and his reflection depicted a smattering of teeth and gaps. "I got instructions, sir."

"What's that?"

"I'm to take you down to the country club to see Mr. Meeks."

"Bullshit," said Larkin. "Mr. Meeks can go kiss my foot. It's almost two in the morning. I need my car."

The driver turned on Melrose Avenue and played with the radio a bit, ignoring Larkin. Agitated, Larkin leaned forward but the driver raised his hand. "He said you'd be feisty."

"Jesus Christ," said Larkin as he reached for his wallet. "I'll pay you."

"Mr. Meeks already paid me. And he said that whatever you would offer me, he would double."

"You're going to trust that tom cat? I offer you two million dollars."

"This wouldn't be the first time that we've done some business."

"Wonderful," said Larkin. The lights of a nearby donut shop forced him to cover his eyes. "You ever kill somebody for Mr. Meeks?"

"It's a nice night," said the driver.

"It's false imprisonment." Larkin sunk back into the frayed tan fabric of his seat. "You know, I'm a lawyer. I could sue. You could lose this job."

"Mr. Meeks said you'd say some of that, the suing business that is."

"Yeah?" asked Larkin. "And what did he tell you to do when I said it?"

"In his words?"

"In anyone's words."

"He said, I don't care what the little shyster tells you. He ain't gonna sue nobody. He said your law license was pulled on account of your public drunkenness."

"Drunkenness? What the hell, Meeks? Look," said Larkin as he gripped the fabric of the front passenger seat. "I have my law license and I'm not afraid to use it." He smiled a bit, impressed with the toughness of his words.

"That was the police department we was just at, right?" asked the driver.

"Of course it was, but—"

"And what pray tell were you arrested for?"

"Jesus!" Larkin wailed. He smacked the back of the passenger seat. A cloud of dust rose and sank.

"I ain't trying to offend you," said the driver.

Larkin looked out the window. "Well we're almost there anyway. He shook his head. "What a night."

"Yes, sir."

"You did some pretty good cross examination there," said Larkin as he rubbed his eyes.

The taxi pulled up to the Big Lick Country Club. A few decades earlier, the area surrounding the club was only notable for a few rolling hills and several sleepy neighborhoods. Now, the club was an island of Southern Aristocracy surrounded by a neighborhood beset with high crime. Larkin had himself represented at least three individuals who had picked up criminal charges for drug deals or violent altercations that had occurred at the convenience store located not two hundred yards from the club's nearest security camera. He always got a kick imagining the well-heeled of Big Lick rolling their windows up and driving their luxury SUVs above the speed limit in order to feel secure. Like the train tracks that crisscrossed town, the club had rusted some in recent years.

The taxi slowed as it reached the club and began passing partygoers seemingly leaving the last hours of a late night soiree. The driver pulled to the front where a doorman quickly opened Larkin's door.

"We're preparing to close, sir," said the doorman.

"Thank God," said Larkin. He turned to the driver. "Take me to the hospital."

"He's here to see Mr. Meeks," said the driver.

"Ahhh," nodded the doorman.

"Shit," hissed Larkin.

Larkin extended his arm. The doorman gripped his hand and yanked. "Thanks," said Larkin as he was hauled to his feet. He actually appreciated the gesture. The driver beeped his horn and waved, but Larkin ignored him and attempted to straighten his non-existent tie. He knew he would look out of place among the high muckety-mucks, but he also considered that they might be too drunk to notice.

"Vice Mayor Meeks is on the patio," said the doorman.

Larkin buttoned his coat and flung open the door. A small black cricket scuttled around the threshold. With a well-aimed motion from his left foot, Larkin sent the bug hopping through the doorway and into the lobby. "At least he's dressed for the occasion," he whispered.

He carefully stepped over the cricket as he made his way through the brightly lit lobby. The heady aroma of spicy hors d'oeuvres and spilled red wine hung in the air. Members of the wait staff hustled over thick maroon carpet carrying empty bottles, lipstick-stained glasses and the like. Larkin caught two waiters shooting him sideways glances.

He gripped the handle to the broad glass door at the back of the building and left the air conditioning for humid night air. Cricket choruses sang as Larkin scanned the multi-tiered patio. It was littered with the signs of a good party. A beautifully manicured golf course glowed under soft light and disappeared in the dark horizon. Larkin approached the wrought iron railing. A half-empty glass of brown liquor upon a nearby table called his name, but he ignored the invitation.

Movement in the distance, somewhere just behind the third green, caught his eye. He squinted and made out an off-white golf cart zigzagging over the golf course at high speed. A woman's voice shrieked in delight.

"Of course," said Larkin as the golf cart circled a sand trap before bee-lining toward the patio.

"Larkin!" shouted Trevor from behind the small plastic steering wheel. "Who the hell invited you?"

Larkin was about to curse a blue streak but the $10,000 smile flashed from the supermodel in the passenger seat stole his breath.

"Is this man your friend?" asked the woman to Trevor. Her thick eastern European accent stirred Larkin's sensibilities.

"I know," said Trevor. "Doesn't she sound just like a James Bond villain?"

"Yes," said Larkin as he walked toward the golf cart. He was caught in a 5'10" blonde tractor beam.

"Bianca Valamova," said Trevor, "this is Larkin, one of our town's greatest legal brains."

"Hello, Mr. Larkin," said Bianca as she extended her hand. Like a European duke from a day time television show, Larkin gripped her hand delicately and kissed the area just behind her knuckle.

"Evening, Ms. Valamova," he replied.

"Nice move," said Trevor. "You know she knows we don't do that here."

"I don't care," said Larkin.

"Get in the back. This night is not over."

"There's not really an extra seat," said Larkin as he regarded the golf cart. Dark blotches of mud, sand, or whatever dripped from the wheels and wheel wells. "Did you guys tear up the place?"

"Go where the clubs go," said Trevor as he kept a watchful eye on the clubhouse patio.

"You mean this platform back here?" asked Larkin. An eleven-inch wide piece of plastic jutted out from underneath the cart, in-between the rear wheels. He placed his right foot gingerly on the surface. The plastic felt thick enough to support his weight. With his eyes on the glowing skin of Ms. Valamova, Larkin mounted the cart and immediately slipped, but quickly caught his balance. "What is this? Mud?"

"Bit of a water hazard," said Trevor. "Grab hold, Larkin. I don't want anyone coming out of that building and putting red tape on our fun."

Larkin white-knuckled the waist-high metal bar used as a prop for golf clubs. "I think I'm - -"

Trevor floored it and Larkin nearly flew off of the cart. He bit his tongue as the cart whipped around in a tight circle before shooting out over the nearest fairway.

"What is dis 'red tape?'" asked Bianca.

"It's what we use to tie up communist spies," said Trevor.

Larkin's jacket buffeted behind him like a poor man's cape while his collar flitted about like a wounded animal. "Given the neighborhood we're in, don't you think they'd have some security around the course?"

"Who?" asked Trevor. "You mean Sam and Dennis? Allies."

"Nice work," shouted Larkin before ducking as a nearby tree branch sailed overhead.

"Maybe you should remain on the path, Trevor," said Bianca. "You do not want to injure Larkin."

"I love the way she says my name," said Larkin.

"I know, isn't it awesome?" asked Trevor. If the golf cart had been going any slower, they would have high fived.

"Yes it is. Now do what she says."

Larkin braced himself as Trevor cut the wheel and the golf cart swerved sharply to the right. After a few bumpy seconds, the tires connected with the thin paved trail that carved a smooth path through the course. As the ride became considerably less insane, Larkin took a moment to look about. They had left the lights of the clubhouse behind them. A nearly full moon blanketed the course in pale blue. The grass glowed an unearthly color and Bianca's finely sculpted back looked ethereal.

"You are so naughty," she said. She smacked Trevor's left leg. A large exotic gem stone marked her ring finger. "It is the same in any country."

"What?" asked Larkin as he leaned closer. "Are smart asses common in Russia too?"

Bianca turned; her eyes easily outshone her ring. Larkin nearly fell off of the cart. "In my country," she stated, "they are not asses. They are roosters. And they strut around like this one here," she said as she pointed to Trevor. "They walk around small tables that are too high to sit at with strong drinks. That is how they show you their feathers."

"I'm the cock of the walk," said Trevor.

The cart hit an unseen bump and Larkin was launched into the air. His fingers grasped for a golf club railing that was already far from reach and he yelped like a child as he landed squarely on his backside. Perhaps it was his karma for striking the nurse. Fortunately, the golf cart had been turning at the time they hit the bump. Inertia had sent him onto the ninth green and not the pavement. As he laid back and looked at the stars above, he realized that ultimately he was fortunate that he would not have to return to the hospital for treatment.

"The nurses would poison my IV," he said quietly to himself. His voice was easily drowned out. The night was filled with a symphony of insects, frogs, and other unseen critters. As he counted the stars in what he believed to be the handle of the big dipper, the golf cart returned and came to a stop not a yard from Larkin.

"Good place as any," said Trevor as he set the parking brake and kicked his feet back over the front dashboard. "You okay, good buddy?"

"Fine."

Bianca stepped out of the vehicle and approached Larkin. She extended her hand and wrapped her long fingers tightly around his.

"Jesus," said Larkin as she pulled him quickly to his feet. "Are you wonder woman?"

"What would I wonder?" asked Bianca, but Larkin heard, _Vat vould I vonder_.

He grinned. Bianca was in on the joke. "We have comic books as well," she smirked. Larkin began wiping grass off of his pants when he noticed that Trevor had pulled a joint seemingly from the night air.

"Superheroes don't smoke," said Trevor as he fished in his coat pocket for a lighter.

"No, but the best heroes smoke. Like Bruce Willis in Die Hard."

"She loves action movies," said Trevor. "All Russians do. She's hung out with Steven Seagal."

Bianca also began swatting at clods of dirt and grass dotting Larkin's pants. He spread out his arms like a scarecrow and remained transfixed on the glowing orange tip of the joint as a calming frame of reference. "Is she cool with that?" he asked.

"How else do you think he was able to convince me to go with him?" asked Bianca as she smacked Larkin's rear end. It still stung from the fall.

Trevor passed the contraband to Bianca. "Well," he said as she pressed the tightly rolled paper to her lips, "I was also promised a good story."

"Oh?" asked Larkin. He casually approached Bianca to send her the unspoken signal that he was also part of the cool kids club. "Am I going to hear about the time you ruined the Big Lick Symphony's spring concert because you hijacked the violinist with the solo?"

Bianca exhaled and a thick cloud of sour smelling smoke wafted over the green. "No," she said as she handed the contraband to Larkin. "He said that you would tell us a wonderful story."

Larkin regarded the joint for a moment and briefly considered whether his lack of temperance was a result of nature or nurture before placing it to his lips.

"You did just get boosted from jail," said Trevor. Bianca laughed and clapped her hands.

"So I have," said Larkin. He tried to speak while holding in the smoke, but the effort gave his voice a pronounced Kermit the frog effect. He passed the joint back to Trevor thus completing and perpetuating their little circle of mischief. Bianca sat in the passenger seat and reclined a bit. She crossed her legs and both men stared at the four inches of exposed skin above her right knee. Trevor shook his head.

"Here's to hot blond Russians who smoke weed," he said. He held up his lighter like a concertgoer begging for an encore. As the glowing orange tip of the joint cycled amongst them, Larkin recalled and recounted the last several hours of the evening to his audience. It was not an easy tale to tell. The image of Larkin in the morgue was particularly difficult to articulate without doubling over and surrendering to the throes of laughter. In fact, it seemed all Larkin needed was a bit of time and a Schedule I drug for him to see the humor in the situation. When he reached the point where he discovered Alex Jordan's secret, Bianca gasped and kicked a high heel across the green. Trevor was crying.

"I can't . . . I can't," stuttered Trevor as he wiped at his eyes. With the joint still in his hands, he grazed his left nostril with the burning tip. He cursed and dropped the remains of the contraband. It disappeared in the pale blue grass as surely as if it had been dropped in the lake.

Larkin hustled to the edge of the green looking for Bianca's shoe. "Got it!" he declared as he held her shoe high in the air.

"Bravo!" clapped Bianca. She extended her leg and allowed Larkin to play Prince Charming. "I can't believe that she - -" began Bianca before Trevor began beating his fists against the steering wheel.

"She's a he!" he shouted. He yelled so loudly that he must have woken half the neighborhood. "Unbelievable. Un-fucking believable."

Bianca turned and smacked Trevor on his leg. She did it with enough force to demand everyone's attention. " _She_ was murdered," said Bianca. "It is a sad, sad thing. And do not interrupt me."

Trevor smiled. Even in the dark, it was evident that his teeth were damn perfect. "Yeah, but come on," he said, "she was a guy. I mean can you believe that?"

"I do not believe you, Rooster," said Bianca.

"What does that mean?" asked Larkin.

Bianca smiled. "I do not know." She turned back to Trevor and her expression flipped. "It is the taking of a life. You must respect the seriousness of this. And yes it is amazing that this woman was born a man, but it is brave thing for her to be herself. It is very sad, Rooster."

"So sad," agreed Trevor.

"What is this job?" asked Bianca. "What is a law clerk?"

"A law clerk," began Larkin, "is typically a young attorney who graduated high in her class. Or was politically connected to the court for some reason."

"His class," said Trevor as he clutched a wine bottle in his right hand. He continued to rummage through the basket.

"Where did you get that?" asked Larkin.

"I went all the way to Eagle Scout. Always be prepared. I got my vice badge."

"Quiet," snapped Bianca. "Do you not know how not to interrupt?" She faced Larkin. "Please continue."

"So he or she is a young attorney," continued Larkin. They typically work for a judge for a year and help the judge research and write the opinions. It's supposed to be a funnel to high-paying jobs with big law firms."

"So," said Bianca as she leaned back in her seat. A distinct popping sound to her left signaled the uncorking of the wine. "She could have been murdered because of her profession."

"What do you mean?" asked Larkin.

"Well, most murders result from personal relationships, like scorned lovers."

"What's to say that didn't happen here?" asked Trevor. He turned up the bottle and took a swig before passing it to Bianca.

"Is this cabernet?" she asked.

"Yes," said Trevor. Like Trevor, she placed the bottle to her lips. Unlike Trevor, she drank more than a few sips. She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, managing to look somehow delicate in the process, and held out the bottle to Larkin.

"God bless mother Russia," said Larkin.

"That is not cabernet," she said. Her accent sounded threatening and sexy at the same time. "What I am saying," said Bianca, "is that she worked for a very important person, a judge. She could have been killed because of a case."

"Oh, I like it," said Trevor. "There was some big case, like a power company that wanted to put a dam somewhere . . . or a power plant or a wind farm, whatever. She wants to protect the environment - - no!" He slapped his knee. "She wants to protect an endangered squirrel that lives in the trees about to be torn down."

Larkin laughed lightly but Trevor's theory, half-baked as it was, did not sound utterly improbable. The Supreme Court of Virginia regularly decided big cases. It was not unusual for millions of dollars to change hands with certain rulings. "So it was the power company," said Larkin, "or an oil company, a huge corporation discovers that she's been assigned to help her boss with a particular opinion. They're scared. She's from California, hell, she even went to Berkley. With a well-crafted argument and a sweet smile, she was going to convince the judge to protect the Blue Ridge pygmy squirrel."

Bianca laughed. "It is like _Pelican Brief_."

"What?" asked Larkin.

"Like Jim Grisham?" asked Trevor.

"John Grisham," corrected Larkin.

"No," said Bianca. "He was not in _Pelican Brief_. Denzel Washington and Julia Roberts."

Larkin drank some of the wine and handed the half-empty bottle to Trevor. "Good Lord," said Trevor as he lifted the surprisingly light bottle. "Did you . . . ?"

Larkin pointed to the inebriated Russian goddess.

"Nice."

"You know," said Larkin, "it might be crime related. Suppose there were some illegal shenanigans. This girl is going to screw them."

"What?" asked Trevor, "like the mob?"

"That is Tom Cruise," said Bianca as she raised her hand high in the air like a good student. "I mean, _The Firm_. That is _The Firm_."

"There you go," said Trevor.

Larkin shook his head. "She's right. This isn't movie magic. None of those things ever really happen. We're missing the obvious."

"Such as?" asked Trevor. "She fell off a dock?"

"She's a guy!" shouted Larkin. "Come on, Trevor. This ain't San Francisco. Notwithstanding her package, this was a hottie."

"I love," said Trevor in a deep and very serious tone, " _love_ that you just said that."

"Shut up, Rooster," snapped Larkin. "It makes more sense. Let's say she's out for a romantic moonlight cruise on the lake. One thing leads to another and all of a sudden her good 'ole boy date discovers that he just made out with a boy named Sue."

"Now we're talking skinemax," said Trevor. "I bet it was the judge."

"Justice," said Larkin. "On the Supreme Court of Virginia they're called justices."

"Did her boss have a house at the lake?"

"He does," nodded Larkin.

"So he's out there," said Trevor. He gave the bottle back to Larkin and spaced his hands apart as he set his scene. "He's a big powerful man in society on his boat, which probably has some god-awful lawyer name like _Habeas Corpus_ or _Black Acre_ or something. Anyway, he's out there on his boat and he discovers that he should have asked Ms. Jordan a few more questions during her job interview."

"Doesn't she - -" began Larkin as he looked back to Bianca. Her head hung against the back of her chair. Even in the dim light, it was clear that she had shut her eyes and abandoned her efforts to hear the remainder of the story.

"That layover in St. Petersburg is a bitch," said Trevor, scanning Bianca's still form.

"This is making sense," said Larkin. "Justice Byrd is one of the most conservative judges in the state. He's got an eye on the Fourth Circuit bench too."

"How do you know that?"

Larkin shook his head. "Just rumor. But think about it for a second. If it ever came out that this guy was involved in such a relationship, his career would be sunk. No self-respecting conservative would associate with him after that kind of PR nightmare."

"Yeah," nodded Trevor, "but being convicted of murder can also kill your career. And any relationship with another woman would likewise kill a career. Forget the part about . . . about her part"

"True," said Larkin. He gave the bottle back to Trevor and indicated that he wanted no more. "I just can't figure out how she got my business card."

"Your business card?" asked Trevor.

"She had it in her pocket."

"When she died?" asked Trevor, stopping mid-swig. "Are you a suspect?" The surprise in his voice was unmistakable. The story was no longer particularly humorous.

"A detective talked to me. I think I convinced him that I'm not a murderer.

"Why the hell did she have your business card?"

"I have no idea."

The words had barely left his lips when a loud hissing sound nearly made Larkin jump out of his shoes. A full second passed before they realized that the golf course sprinkler system had activated and they were getting soaked. Trevor howled with laughter as the men scrambled into the cart. Larkin tried to mount the rear of the cart, but Trevor smacked his hand.

"Hold her!" he shouted. After a very few awkward moments, Larkin and Trevor were seated in the golf cart with a beautiful, semi-conscious Bianca sprawled across their laps. The cart accelerated rapidly from the green. Larkin tried to point through the blinding curtain of water toward the paved path, but as he raised his hand, he nearly dropped Bianca's head. Water sprinkled on her forehead and she opened her eyes for a moment.

"Adam Sandler," she murmured. " _Happy Gilmore_." Her eyes shut.

"What did she say?" asked Trevor as he aimed the cart in the general direction of the club house.

"She watches way too many movies, I think."

"You know," said Trevor as the cart escaped the splash zone, "we might want to check out this whole penis thing, in case it might be contagious."

Larkin did not need to turn to know that Trevor was staring at Bianca's revealing dress. "Shut up and take me the hell home, Rooster."

A plume of WD-40 mist surrounded the dogwood tree as the can emptied itself onto the silky tent caterpillar nest. The strong chemical smelling cloud swirled around Larkin and drifted toward the big green lawnmower that sat motionless in need of a sparkplug for over a month. Two spent cans of the lubricant lay scattered around the trunk of the tree. This exterminator was not messing around. Larkin tossed the third empty can down among the others. Standing on his tiptoes, he peered through the lower branches.

Lubricant beads covered the large nest like small pearls of morning dew. The hundreds of caterpillars inside squirmed over, into, and under one another. The constant inner struggle slightly shifted the nest in slow sways. Larkin pictured the figure of an attractive woman stretching under sheets.

Backing his face away, he gingerly raised the hissing blowtorch. The thought that he had used far too much lubricant crossed his mind immediately before the nest exploded and a small fireball enveloped the center of the dogwood tree.

Blasted by the sudden heat, he dropped to the ground as the sky rained blackened and charred caterpillars. Some landed dead on the ground like cooked tidbits of meat. Others writhed and wiggled in the grass.

"Good gracious!" shouted a feminine voice. "Are you okay?

Larkin opened his eyes and despite the brightness of the mid-morning sun, he could make out a familiar silhouette. As his vision adjusted, he watched a growing look of concern cross Madeline's face. Though his back hurt, especially after having been hurled from a golf cart and a three-foot step ladder all within about ten hours, Madeline's worry warmed him. Pity. Delicious, semi-nurturing pity. Maybe he was reading too much into the slight furrow of her brow, but he didn't care. He did not want to say anything. If he did, he knew he would ruin the moment and it was perfect.

"What did you do? Larkin, can you hear me?" She looked at the seared dogwood. "Oh it smells. What is that?"

"The tree exploded," he said. "Sap leak. Boom." The moment had expired. He extended his hand. Though Madeline continued to regard the tree, she gripped his fingers and pulled. Unlike Bianca, she struggled to bring Larkin to his feet.

"I thought I saw fire," she whispered. She spoke as if Larkin's statement had just been validated.

"Barbecued caterpillar," said Larkin as he flicked charred pieces of the bugs off of his clothes. After straightening himself, he asked the question that he did not wish to ask. "What are you doing here?"

"Why aren't you at work?"

"It was a long night."

"Hmmm." Her big brown eyes squinted, but not at the sun. "Did you have to bail Trevor out of jail?"

"Not exactly. So were you planning on breaking in and stealing my golf clubs?"

"No," she said with an eye roll, "I wanted to see Rusty."

"Oh. You mean before the Sheriff comes and seizes him for auction? He's inside."

Madeline stared at him before crossing her arms and quickly pivoting. She stepped toward the house.

"I didn't mean to sound like a jerk," he shouted. "But you are suing me for my goddamn cat." He looked down at his feet. "Fare thee well," he whispered to the scattered dead. He wanted to run after her, but a smoldering bunch of leaves near the dogwood trunk demanded immediate attention. As he stomped out the cinders, he surveyed the damage. The tree was scorched. For a moment, he considered whether the abject hatred of all things caterpillar that had struck him upon waking that morning had actually worked to the tree's detriment. He had begun picking at the blackened bark when a scream from within his home got his feet moving. He crossed the yard in less than a second and flung open the screen door. "What's wrong!?" he asked, already out of breath.

"Larkin," spat Madeline as she turned. Rusty was clutched tightly to her bosom. "What is this?"

Larkin was silent and clueless. He had no clue what she meant. She knew it and it made her even angrier. "He's fat, Larkin. Obese. Look at this." She wiggled her left arm and a blob of orange fur oozed out from the crook of her arm.

"I feed him well. He's a cat of leisure."

"He's going to die, Larkin." Rusty purred like a well-oiled husqvarna. "Won't do." Larkin mouthed her catchphrase just as she uttered it, but he made sure she could not see him. Madeline placed Rusty on the beige kitchen tile.

"You left him with me, Madeline."

"Won't do," she repeated as she retreated into the hall closet. She flicked on the light and began hunting through Larkin's accumulated chaos. "Where is it?" Again, Larkin remained silent. He knew that she would fill in the blank spaces. "The leash," she continued. Unknown items crashed onto the closet floor. "Tell me you didn't throw it out."

"I should have," he mumbled. He eyed the freezer and imagined that x-ray vision permitted him a view of the frost-covered bottle of gin next to the ice trays. Rusty meowed. "Sorry, buddy," he whispered. "It's in the blue cookie tin," he said. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Yes!" she shouted. Madeline exited the closet and literally pounced upon Rusty. With one deft maneuver, Rusty had been leashed. He looked to Larkin with wide glimmering eyes, each one like a glowing votive candle.

"Real sorry," he said.

Madeline snapped her fingers like she had done ten thousand times before in that same room. And like the last five hundred or so times, Rusty summoned his girth and plodded slowly to the door.

"Dead cat walking," said Larkin. "You know he hates this."

"You hate it," said Madeline. She placed her hand on the door knob and paused. Her doe eyes trained on his and hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. "Will you come?"

More silence. Was this really going to happen?

"To the theatre and back. Thirty minutes." She looked down at Rusty and immediately sniffed. Her face turned away for a moment and it was obvious that she was trying to wipe away a tear. "He . . . he," she said, her voice cracking. "He doesn't know that we're separating." She refused to look at Larkin. He studied her ponytail. A single gray hair was finely woven into the honey brown. They had been separated for years, but the statement somehow still had some punch left in it.

With a gentle push, Larkin held the door open. Rusty ambled outside with Madeline in tow. Larkin brought up the rear. Though Madeline did not turn back, Larkin knew that she smiled at least once.

For a while they walked without speaking. They both watched Rusty because that was the easy thing to do. Though portly, Rusty still managed to walk with a smooth and somewhat graceful gait. Like all cats big and small, he kept his head low and bobbed while his orange and white striped shoulder blades protruded, giving him the appearance of having bad posture. They passed homes that they had passed hundreds of times before. The Raleigh Cross neighborhood was about as old as industrialized Big Lick itself. Years ago, a rail-based trolley would take the middle and upwardly mobile working-class citizens on a six-minute ride over the sloping hills that filled outer Appalachia to downtown Big Lick.

As they made their way toward the quaint Grandin Village area, Larkin could hear Madeline humming softly to herself. His heart felt like it was swelling in his chest.

"It's a beautiful day, right?" he asked, keeping his eyes glued firmly on Rusty's tail.

Madeline stopped humming. In fact, she stopped walking altogether. Larkin looked up. A woman in her thirties sat upon a nearby porch swing clutching a fat healthy pink baby to her chest. Her fingers ran through her child's black curly hair and patted his diaper. Larkin's heart sank.

"Come on, honey," he said.

Madeline continued to stare.

"To the theatre and back. We can make it."

Madeline closed her eyes as she breathed rapidly. Even Rusty seemed concerned as he turned to see why his minder had paused.

"It's here," she said, her teeth still clenched. "It's always here. I'm fine when I'm away. I can see this," she nodded toward the mother and child, "and I can go about my day. But when I'm here . . . when I'm where I should be with my baby." She shook her head.

"Honey," said Larkin. He dared to put his hands on her shoulders and she did not flinch. He was the happiest and saddest he had felt in a year or more.

"Hey!" shouted a voice surprisingly close to them. A Chevy pickup rumbled in place at a nearby stop sign. A man in a camouflage baseball hat leaned out of the driver's window. Larkin recognized him. He had sued the man three years earlier after the pickup driver had broken a barstool at Marty's. The case was successful and Larkin was able to momentarily bottle his bar tab.

"I guess it takes a pussy to walk one," the man yelled. Tried as he could, Larkin could not remember the man's name. The man's lips curled back into a yellow-stained smile.

Larkin clinched his fists. Madeline dropped the leash and quickly pivoted on her heels. She began walking at a brisk pace back toward the house. Larkin stooped to pick up the leash.

"Awww," said the man in mock sorrow. "Did I upset your squaw?"

Larkin pointed at the man. It was his toughest stance. He sucked up his chest, squinted his eyes, and jutted his finger toward the man's truck like a rapier. But appearing foreboding while holding a cat on a leash was nigh impossible.

"Don't scratch me with your kitty cat!" shouted the redneck as he punched the accelerator. Tires squealed and Rusty leaped behind Larkin's legs to shield him. The terrible sound must have alarmed the baby because he wailed in his mother's arms. The mother looked at Larkin with venom in her eyes as if he and his stupid cat had somehow harmed her child. When the truck disappeared in the distance, Larkin scooped up his cat and began double-timing it to catch up with Madeline. She steadily shuffled down the sidewalk, her head hung low.

"Are you okay?" he asked when he reached her.

"I want you to sign the papers," she said, her eyes not leaving the sidewalk.

"How do you know I haven't already?" He struggled for a moment to get a better grip on his cat. It was like cradling a greased and jiggling bowling ball.

"I know. I . . . look, Larkin. I could really get into this with you. We could have it all out in the street right now, but that's not going to happen. I was strong yesterday. Now I'm not. Now I'm just beat."

"Please stop running," he said.

She stopped and turned. If tears had been welling, they had turned to steam. Flames blazed within the depths of her brown eyes. "How dare you say that? I am _not_ running away." She looked away. "Maybe it's been you the whole time. Maybe it's your fault we could not have a child."

"I meant," said Larkin as he placed Rusty back to the sidewalk, "please stop running away from me right now." He tried to make his voice sound as soothing as possible. "He's damn heavy."

It was Madeline's turn to point as she stuck her index finger directly in his face. "That's because you're overfeeding him and not taking care of his needs!"

Larkin closed his eyes and sighed. He listened to the clip clop of her shoes as she retreated. When the sound had diminished somewhat, he led Rusty down the sidewalk. He cursed and spat on the ground. Man and cat made their way back to the house. He picked up his blowtorch before opening the side door and entering the kitchen. Madeline took her time. She walked slowly, her face a mess of worry.

Rusty seemed pleased as punch to be finally released from his leash. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the tile kitchen floor and became an indiscernible blob of orange fur. Larkin waited a moment for the kitchen door to swing open. His fingers nervously fidgeted with the blowtorch nozzle.

"I'll sign the papers," he said without looking her in the eye. "I'll get them to you. I have a bit of a mess on my hand right now, but I'll get them to you." He paused. Madeline said nothing. "I'm going to take a shower," he said. Without even thinking to find a proper place for the blowtorch, he waited for another awkward moment to pass before turning and heading down the hallway and up the stairs to his bedroom.

He rushed to turn on the faucet. With the water roaring, he would never hear the door slam. He placed the blowtorch on the back of the toilet and twisted the bathtub faucet knob. He made sure the water was blazing hot before stepping in. Steam rose around him as he began scrubbing his body. But no matter how hard he worked his bar of soap, the small and powerfully painful moments of the morning would not fall away and sink into the drain.

Suddenly, the shower curtain was pulled aside. Larkin gasped and covered himself. Madeline held onto the edge of the curtain. Before Larkin could even register that she was fully disrobed, she was standing in the shower with him. With a flick of her wrist, the shower curtain slid along its rail and closed them off from the rest of the world. Steam swirled and collected inside the shower. Larkin instinctively wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. Hot water dripped over them.

As the water slid over Madeline's small and fit body, so did his fingers. With a very slight gasp from Madeline, they were making love. She turned in the shower, and allowed him to take her. Her fingers curled around the towel bar and Larkin closed his eyes. The hot water nearly burned his skin, but he paid no mind. Madeline groaned. Larkin squeezed her hips. Words of affection waited impatiently upon the tip of his tongue but he said nothing.

After they had finished in the shower, they dried and silently moved to his bedroom. They passionately made love a second time on Larkin's tousled bed. Afterward, they lay atop wrinkled sheets, his hand upon hers. Her cinnamon skin intoxicated him. He twisted in bed and delicately caressed her cheek. She closed her eyes.

Suddenly, both of them shifted as they heard the kitchen door open and close downstairs. Larkin sat upright.

"Larkin," whispered Madeline. Her bright eyes widened. Larkin pressed his finger to her lips. He quietly turned and placed his feet on the floor. The sound of footsteps on kitchen tile was easily audible.

"Larkin!" she said in her loudest whisper. "Someone's in your house."

His stomach flipped. Perhaps it was a bit of pot residue from the night before, but his paranoia crescendoed. He imagined corporate hitmen stalking through his home planting just enough evidence to nail him for the law clerk's murder before double-tapping the trigger of a silenced nine millimeter Glock pointed at his forehead. He must have broadcasted these thoughts fairly clearly because Madeline gasped.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice a hissed whisper. "You know something," she said. "What is it? What's going on? Should I call the police?"

Larkin shook his head too emphatically.

"You're in trouble, aren't you? What did you do?" Her voice rose. He lifted his hand in a gentle halting motion, but one head shake too many had jumpstarted her anger. "What did you do, Larkin?"

"Madeline," snapped Larkin in a hoarse whisper. "Just stay here for a minute. I'm going to check this out."

He threw on some clothes and silently stood in the hallway. He wished his only gun was not sitting uselessly in his law office. Thinking quickly, he snatched the blowtorch from the back of the toilet. He opened the medicine cabinet and found a pack of matches used for lighting the scented candle behind the toilet. His heart was doing its hardest to beat right out of his chest and scuttle away like something from a horror movie.

His fingers shook as he turned the valve and fumbled with the matches. As one of the matches finally hissed to life and lit the blowtorch, he exhaled.

He had no plan. His mind raced but reached no conclusions. The blowtorch emitted a persistent low growl as the bluish flame pointed from the nozzle like an arrowhead. How long had it been since he had replaced the gas tank? Fearful that his weapon of choice might fizzle at any moment, Larkin sucked in a breath, counted to three, and entered the hallway. It was now or never.

He bounded down the stairs and leaped into the hallway connected to the kitchen. "I got you!" he roared as he lifted the blow torch.

A tall slender black woman in a glittery gold dress screamed. A small plate bearing two muffins fell from her hand to the floor where it promptly shattered. She clutched at her heaving augmented breasts and stared at the small flame pointed in her direction.

"Melody?" asked Larkin. "What the hell are you doing?"

Melody said nothing. Her painted eyes stared at the blue flame.

"Sorry," said Larkin. He turned the valve and the flame sputtered before disappearing.

Melody shook her head. "Heavens, Larkin!" Her husky voice hinted at her secret. She looked down at the plate fragments and muffins. "I had just warmed them in the microwave." She returned her gaze to the blowtorch. "Did you think I was a crème brulée?"

"No, I . . .," he placed the blowtorch on the kitchen table. As he regarded it, he realized that the tiny torch would have been nearly useless in a fight. He should have grabbed the spade. "What the hell are you doing in my house?"

"Well I was trying to be sweet and warm you up some muffins, but I am not eating anything off the floor." She reached down and with the same dramatically feminized flare that she used for nearly every action, she picked up the muffins. "Banana nut," she said. "One of the new girls made them. I think she's trying to carb me up so I get even more junk in my trunk." She placed the muffins on the kitchen counter. As she turned back to Larkin, she leaned forward and peeked over his left shoulder. "My word. Is that your cat? Speaking of junk in the trunk."

Madeline stood in the doorway. She held Rusty tightly to her chest. "The cops are on their way," she said. She had hastily dressed. Her hair was a wet tangled mess. "Larkin, what's going on? Who is this person?"

"Melody Saint Vincent," said Melody Saint Vincent as if her name was more than a name, but a brand.

"Melody," repeated Madeline to herself. "That voice . . ."

"Everything's fine, Madeline. I know her." He faced Melody. "I don't know what the hell she's doing in my home, but I know her."

Melody put her hand on her hip. "I was making us up some fine muffins when he came all up in here with a flamethrower. You know how much product is in here, Larkin?" She ran her fingers through the lower strands of her blonde highlighted dark hair. "I would have lit up like the Fourth of July." She looked back at Madeline. "Gave a girl a heart attack is what he did."

"I know that voice," said Madeline. She crossed her arms and glared. "Larkin, is that Melvin? Melvin what's his name?"

"Oh, please, sister," said Melody. "Ain't no one been calling me that for years now."

Larkin nodded at Madeline. Melody Saint Vincent had left Melvin Hughes, sometime auto mechanic and fulltime pot dealer in the past. Looking at her now, if she had not dressed like a post-operative transsexual _superstar_ , you would never have guessed that she was a post-operative transsexual. Clearly she was a superstar.

"You told me you didn't buy drugs anymore, Larkin," said Madeline. Her voice was saturated with spite. She had reopened herself to Larkin just moments ago. It had been quite a reach for her, a sign of trust and understanding. That understanding was over. There was no hope of going back, especially with a six-foot transsexual pot dealer breaking dishes in the kitchen. "You told me that before and I believed you. Get this person out of my house."

Larkin raised an eyebrow but it was Melody who spoke the exact words that glowed like hot embers in his mind. "Your house?" Melody's other hand found her hip and she adopted her best "bitch, please" stance.

Madeline gasped. "The police are on their way. I bet that they'd just love to see what illegal substances you have with you."

"If a fine man in uniform wants to search my body, I'll be happy to oblige him," said Melody.

"I'm leaving, Larkin. Rusty is coming with me. We'll sort out the details in court."

Larkin held up his hand. "Madeline, wait" he said, "I did not invite her over here. Tell her, Melody."

Melody crossed her arms. Madeline turned and stomped down the stairs with Rusty struggling to keep pace. He turned to glance back at Melody as Madeline hurried across the yard and disappeared from sight.

"Christ, Melody! What are you trying to do to me?" Melody waved her arms over the broken plate as if it was all the explanation she needed. "Don't give me that shit. What are you doing in my house?"

Melody sighed and fanned herself with her right hand. "This is too much damn hostility." She took a few deep breaths. Her breasts threatened to burst through her dress. "You weren't at your office," she said. "I even called the courthouse and Theresa said you weren't on the schedule or docket or whatever they call it today."

"Give me a break. You need a lawyer so you come bursting in here without a warning? I have a phone, you know."

"I don't burst through anywhere, Larkin." Her chest indicated otherwise. "And calm yourself a bit. Your tone is so bothersome. You want to see a tranny cry on your counter?"

Larkin sighed. "Look, whatever it is, whatever you need done, I can't do it right now. I'm in way over my head right now. Why don't I just give you the name and number of a good attorney I know and we can talk later, okay?"

Melody's brow furrowed and a sheen of tears washed over her eyes. "But I don't need another lawyer, Larkin. I need to speak with you. I knew you wouldn't want to see me at your house, so I thought a little treat might cheer you a bit. Oh, it's so important, Larkin."

Larkin ran his fingers over his scalp. "How many women am I going to make cry in my kitchen today?" He closed the front door and pulled a chair out from under the table. He sat down and crossed his arms. "You have one minute."

"I knew that girl, Larkin. The one on the news."

Larkin sat up straight in his chair.

"She had been reading my blog."

"You have a blog?"

"I run a full-service transitioning support site. I supply information to those who need it. It ain't easy getting this going when you don't know the first step. About two months ago, that lawyer started to post things up on the message boards. Really intelligent. You could tell the girl was a writer or did something smart for a living. The girl could write."

"That was bold of her," said Larkin. "What with her job."

"She had a screen name, dodo," said Melody. "No one knew who she was. After I read a couple of her comments, Ms. St. Vincent just had to reach out and touch someone. I set up some private chats and we became very familiar. You could just tell so much about her. Arrogant and smart as hell, but sad too. She had transitioned in college on the West Coast. When she moved out here, she just lived as herself. Didn't have too many close friends or relationships. It's like she was testing the waters. She was living her new life, but all on the down-low." Melody stared at the window. "Poor thing just wanted to step out and be honest about who she was."

Larkin nodded. "She wanted to let others know."

Melody nodded. "Yes. But she didn't know how or when the right time would be. Who knew what the high-fallooting legal people would have made of a young transgender attorney amongst them?"

"Working for one of the most conservative, Republican-backed judges in the state surely did not help. How did she find you on the internet?"

"She said she saw my ad at a club. I'm dancing again."

"I see. But she doesn't strike me as the kind of person who would be seen at any club that would have a picture of you. No offense."

"None taken," she honestly said. "But you'd be surprised where some birds will fly in order to find a flock."

"So did you ever meet in real life?"

"Never," she said.

"Well then how did you know - -"

"We were just about to," she said with all the drama she could muster. Even after knowing her for the better part of five years, he still could never tell when Melody was exaggerating for dramatic effect or genuinely bothered. "She sent me her picture the night before we were going to meet. I waited for her and she never came. A few days later, I saw the news footage."

"Holy shit, Melody. You realize that this probably makes you a suspect?"

"Does it?" she said clutching her hands tightly to her chest. "Oh, I just thought it might. You got to help me, Larkin. I don't know what I should do. I didn't know whether to tell the cops anything or what. Some of the stuff she said . . ."

"What did she say?"

"She was upset. She said she was going to confront somebody with something that she had discovered at her job. Something she wasn't supposed to know, but had just found out. She said someone else's whole life was in her hands."

"Did she ever confront that person? Did she ever talk about it again?"

"I don't know. Most of that was all in her last message to me. We were going to meet at a coffee shop and talk all about it the next day. It was going to be nice, just us two girls in the bumfuck mountain city."

"She never showed," said Larkin.

"She never showed."

Larkin rubbed his eyes. His mind rocketed through modified conspiracy theories. Most of them led to the same conclusion. The judge looked more and more like a chief suspect. A sudden high whine in the distance caught his ear.

"Jesus," said Larkin. "Didn't Madeline say she was going to call the cops?"

Melody bit her lip. "That was too quick."

Within twenty-five seconds, four police cars had come to screeching halts in front of his house. "Well, you're not the only one who likes the dramatic," said Larkin as he peered through the window. Detective Kincaid stepped out of one of the cruisers and walked steadily toward the front door. Two uniformed cops hurriedly took their place behind him. Their hands firmly clasped the holsters at their hips.

"Christ," said Larkin as he ran to the living room. He opened the front door just as Kincaid's fist had swung down to give his best threatening knock.

"Mr. Monroe," said Kincaid, "I have a warrant for the arrest of Melvin Hughes, also known as Melody St. Vincent." Two of the officers brushed by him and stood in the foyer, scanning the room for any sign of a six-foot goddess.

"She's in the kitchen," said Larkin. "Melody," Larkin called, "the cops are coming to arrest you. Don't do anything stupid."

"I appreciate that, Larkin," said Kincaid. "You've got some taste in women," he said as the officers led Melody silently through the foyer. Her hands were cuffed and secured behind her back. She looked briefly at Larkin and then stared at the floor. "You know," said Kincaid, "while I'm here, I think I'll just go ahead and arrest you too."

"Lovely," said Larkin. "Do I need to be cuffed?" He raised his wrists.

"Just follow me."

Great, thought Larkin. To them, Melody was more of a threat. He followed Kincaid toward the backdoor of the detective's car. "Aren't you going to . . ."

"You have the right to remain silent," said Kincaid. "You have the right to an attorney."

As Kincaid continued listing his rights, Larkin gave him a big thumbs up for acing criminal procedure. Kincaid finished and pointed toward the backseat. "You got any weapons?"

"Just my wit," said Larkin.

"Get in." Just as Kincaid started the car, Larkin caught a glimpse of an older man with gray hair and eyes like a hawk. He gazed at Larkin from behind the windshield of a long dark Cadillac. Larkin only saw the man's face for a second before, Kincaid put the car in gear. He had easily recognized the face.

"Justice Byrd is taking a peculiar interest in this case, isn't he?" asked Larkin.

Kincaid smiled. "As are you, apparently."

Larkin reached into his unsearched left pocket. He had downed the entire airplane bottle of rum before Kincaid could stop the car and perform a slow and thorough search of his prisoner.

"Directly in front of the board, Mr. Monroe," said the cop with the small digital camera. The cop's right hand buried the tiny camera like a golf ball in a catcher's mitt. Larkin risked a smile. He had fought it for over a minute. He had even faked a yawn to mask his somehow unstoppable lower cheek muscles from ascending. But it was simple physics. The camera's size and the fact that it was _lavender_ created a potent force. The urge to laugh was simply an equivalent mathematical reaction. The camera should have been handled by a Penelope or Princess Patricia, not Deputy Stuckey.

The poor cop seemed to understand his predicament. Larkin's smirk telegraphed a lot and the cop knew that he held a camera slightly larger than a deck of cards and encased in lavender plastic. It was the kind of camera a thirteen year-old girl kept tucked next to her sparkly lip gloss in her Hello Kitty clutch. Written just below the lens were the words, "Hot Pix." Larkin stifled a laugh. It bubbled up like baking soda to vinegar. Perhaps if the police still used one of the big clunkers, the criminal would have received the message: "We've got you. Your ass is ours now." As it was, the tween camera broadcasted a different message, a tacit advisory that confinement would not last.

"Mr. Monroe," snapped the deputy. Larkin recognized the man's face from court.

The deputy crossed his arms and the pubescent camera was engulfed by his meaty limbs. "In front of the board. Now."

"I was in here the other day," said Larkin. "Disorderly conduct or drunk in public or something. A bloody Vice Mayor showed up and paid . . . somebody. What the hell happened to the camera you used that night?"

"Chuck broke it," said the cop. He pointed to the board.

Larkin turned. The "board" was a large rectangle of poster board with numbers and hash marks denoting the heights of the criminal standing before it. Given his head injury and alcohol consumption the other night, he had not given the board a closer look. "Those measurements are off," stated Larkin, though he only half believed it.

"They are?" The deputy squinted at the board. Larkin was pleased. In the courtroom, the lawyer dealt the cards. Some of that authority had carried over, even on the deputy's home field.

"Yeah," said Larkin. "If I stood in front of this, it would say that I'm 5'10" or maybe even 5'11". I'm clearly six feet tall, from top to bottom.

"I'm six feet tall," said the cop. He stood at attention. He towered over Larkin.

"Yeah," said Larkin, "but did the board tell you that?"

"Stand in front of the goddamned board."

Larkin complied, though not after complaining about the fact that cops could have just used his earlier photo, that is, unless Chuck broke that too. He gave a slight smile as the camera flashed. Five minutes later, he was led into a perfect cube of a room. It had a peculiar smell, as if it had been scrubbed with steaming water and sea salt. Sound-dampening foam covered the walls. The insulation reminded him of a cheap bed covering that he and Madeline had purchased at a department store. She enjoyed it while he broke out in a rash because of his overly sensitive skin. A broad and presumably, two-way mirror was affixed into the plaster of the far wall. Detective Kincaid and Supreme Court of Virginia Justice Lloyd Byrd sat at one end of the table. Kincaid gestured toward the single empty seat across from him and Justice Byrd. Larkin sat.

"Detective," said Larkin as the door was behind him was shut. "Your Honor," he said with a slight nod to the Justice. The Justice studied Larkin just as Larkin studied the Justice. Though he was seated, it was easy to see without the aid of any board that the Justice was tall, well over six feet. His attractive suit, wrought from a midnight blue fabric, hung a bit loosely off of his frame. The famous jurist still had some filling out to do. After a few seconds of moderately uncomfortable eye-to-eye, Larkin theorized that the anger he perceived was only an illusion. The Justice's white and wiry eyebrows cut across his brow like lightning strikes. Whatever emotion the Justice may have been feeling, his eyebrows showed an immediate seriousness. His expression reminded Larkin of a show on the History channel about ancient religions. What was the name of that Egyptian god with the eagle head? Horus? Bast? He could not remember. Larkin shook his head. "All right," he said. "So what's the deal?"

Kincaid leaned closer. "Mr. Monroe, we need - -"

The Justice raised his hand. Kincaid bit his lip. Larkin stared at the Justice's long, moisturized and manicured fingers. Could they have been the same fingers that held Alex Jordan under water or strangled her in a rage?

"Has this man been read his Miranda rights?" the Justice asked. His words sounded proper in the right Southern sense of things, as if he had spoken with his lips still touching the chilled glass of a mint julep.

Kincaid glanced at Larkin with wide eyes and Larkin grinned in response. Only an appellate lawyer far removed from the law as practiced on the street would have asked that question. "We made him aware," said Kincaid. He folded his arms across his chest. The Justice nodded.

"I'm an attorney, you know," said Larkin. "I've got a bar number and everything."

"I am aware," said the Justice, with particular emphasis on the last word. "I'm sure we all want proper criminal procedure followed."

"Proper criminal procedure," repeated Larkin. "I can't say that any of my clients have ever been interrogated by the Supreme Court of Virginia."

"This is not an interrogation," said the Justice as he prevented Kincaid from speaking once more. It was very clear that despite the numerous and convoluted levels of local and state bureaucracies, the Justice was the boss.

"It isn't?" asked Larkin. He spread his arms to indicate his surroundings. "What's that mirror for? Shaving? If it's not an interrogation, what is it? An interview? I think I'm a bit old to be a law clerk."

The Justice's eyebrows sank further. "We just want to ask you some questions," said Kincaid.

"Hmmm," said Larkin. "I would ask if I needed a lawyer, but I already know what you might say. Besides, I couldn't afford anyone other than myself anyway." He nodded. "And just to throw in my two cents for the benefit of you fine gentlemen and whoever might be standing behind that mirror with the tape recorder, I'm in police custody and this is an interrogation." He rapped his fingers against the plastic table. Kincaid sighed loudly. Larkin looked at the Justice. "Just out of curiosity, where did you learn criminal procedure?"

"We are asking the questions," said the Justice.

Larkin smiled at Kincaid who looked about as pleased as a scolded dog. "If this is an interview," said Larkin, "even in an interview, the interviewee can ask a few questions."

"Mr. Monroe," started Kincaid, but this time it was Larkin's turn to cut him off.

"No, no," said Larkin. "If this is going to go down, I want a few questions answered. Where did you learn criminal procedure?"

"Hamblen," spat the Justice. "Harvard."

"I'm assuming Hamblen is a name? A professor at Harvard? I like how you say that, as if everyone should know who or what you're talking about. Do you do that in your judicial opinions?"

The Justice did not respond. He crossed his arms and stared gravely, looking like an etched profile on a Confederate note. With those eyebrows, it was unlikely that the man could do anything _not_ gravely. "Why do I doubt that you read very many of the Court's opinions? There's been a death, Mr. Monroe. Let's get on point."

"Your doubts would be fairly justified. Do you know where I learned criminal procedure?"

"I know that you never attended any law school; that you learned by reading for the bar."

"Wrong. I learned crim pro from an old con named Randall Calloway. He wasn't my first case, maybe my second or third. The guy had seen - - hell, he had _lived_ criminal procedure, virtually every aspect of it, for the past fifty or sixty years. He knew everything. The real knowledge, the practical nuts and bolts. Not that phony baloney theory that Hamburger fed you."

"This is pointless," said the Justice as he raised his hands in disgust.

"Mr. Monroe," snarled Kincaid, "I can keep you in a holding cell for as long as you'd like. I'll make you intimately familiar with nuts and bolts of criminal procedure that even you've never seen."

"Just a second, Detective." Larkin looked to the Justice and matched Kincaid's pointed finger with his own finger pointed squarely at the Justice. The Justice raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. "Do you know what Randall Calloway taught me about criminal procedure? He said that if you're ever being questioned by a dirty cop that you should let him know that you know he's dirty. But you shouldn't say it outright. That would be the worst thing you could ever do. But you make sure that there's an understanding between the two of you. You let him know that you ain't stupid, that you get it. Let him know that you know, but you keep the tape recorder dumb to that fact." Larkin held his finger toward the judge for as long as his confidence would allow. The room grew hotter.

Kincaid stared at Larkin's finger and then at the Justice. For a moment, Larkin truly believed that he had rattled the older man's cage. But then the Justice simply straightened his tie and leaned forward.

"When did you first meet Alex?" he asked.

"I've never met Alex Jordan."

"Is that the truth?" asked the Justice. He leaned in. Larkin could smell his aftershave. It smelled nice and overpriced, like something you would buy at the Greenbrier gift shop.

"Yes."

"I think you're lying."

"You don't want to know what I think."

"Fine. Let us operate under the false assumption that you never in fact met Alex. What did you know of her?"

Larkin shrugged. "Not much."

The Justice clenched his right hand into a fist and raised it as if to pound the table. He brought it down swiftly, but paused just before striking the surface. He instead tapped the molded plastic and relaxed his hand.

Larkin looked to Kincaid. "Rage issues," he said. "Heat of passion."

White eyebrows descended. The Justice's mouth chewed on words that Larkin assumed would be akin to the four-letter variety. Larkin doubted that the Justice could truly curse a blue streak. He probably used antiquated utterances like "balderdash" or "drat." The Justice swiveled in his seat and directed some of his ire toward Kincaid. The detective seemed thankful to be handed the reins.

"Mr. Monroe," started Kincaid, "we've already talked about the fact that Ms. Jordan had your business card on her person when she was found. Twelve hours later, you're standing over her body in the morgue. Half a day after that, you're hosting a known felon who - -"

"Marijuana possession," said Larkin.

"A known felon who had a number of private conversations online with Ms. Jordan immediately before her death."

"That was quick," said Larkin. "Did Melody tell you that?"

"I wouldn't worry about Mr. Hughes' cooperation at the moment."

"How can you honestly look at that body and call her Mr. Hughes?"

"It's what's written in the file," said Kincaid.

"Does it say that I killed Alex Jordan in the file?"

The Justice audibly cleared his throat. "

Larkin snapped his fingers. "Come on, guys. Didn't you talk to her? Did you read the messages?" He looked to the Justice. "I'll break this down into very simple sentences that even Hamburger could understand. Your clerk was having gender identity issues. Melody was trying to help. I had helped Melody in the past. Maybe Melody thought that since I was a lawyer, I could help Alex too, or listen to her, or maybe I could buy her a goddamn drink, who knows? You should really ask Melody."

"We know more than you may think," said Kincaid.

"Damn," said Larkin. "Where's the Law and Order ringtone when you need it?" He crossed his arms and half-remembered the half-baked conspiracies from the prior evening. "Was Alex working on a significant opinion before she died? Maybe something controversial?"

The eyebrows raised a bit before lowering right back to bird of prey setting. "All of the opinions at the Supreme Court are significant. And you're being absurd merely for the sake of absurdity."

"That's not a denial," said Larkin, although he spoke directly to Kincaid.

"This is getting nowhere," said the Justice. "We're asking the questions, here." It was then Kincaid's turn to raise his eyebrows. "What exactly was your relationship to this Mr. Hughes person?"

"If you cooperate now, Mr. Monroe," said Kincaid, "it will only help you out later."

"You can't make any deals, only the prosecutor can." He turned to the Justice. "What exactly was _your_ relationship to Ms. Jordan?" he asked.

The Justice's body language gave no hints. "Are you aware that the rules of professional conduct in Virginia prohibit a lawyer from asserting that impropriety even _may_ exist in the judiciary?"

"Seems a pretty paltry consideration when I'm being framed for murder."

"Notwithstanding your opinion or your inane behavior," said the Justice. He spoke like he should have been bound in old leather. "But Ms. Jordan and I enjoyed a professional relationship. She was an incredibly intelligent woman and - - "

"And you're worried," said Larkin, "that since she was found floating belly up in Smith Mountain Lake that this will in some way affect your chances of getting that seat on the Fourth Circuit. Not to mention the fact that she pissed while standing in heels."

"Rubbish," said the Justice.

Larkin nodded. He had forgotten about 'rubbish.' "That part ain't false, buster." He looked to Kincaid. "What was his reaction when you told him about Jordan's secret? I bet he acted surprised. Come on, Detective. You've probably been up with six cups of coffee by now, but don't tell me you couldn't read him. He knew the whole time. He probably found out about ninety seconds before she was dumped in the lake."

The Justice stood slowly. He carefully buttoned the bottom two buttons of his coat and stepped away from the table. With his right hand, he pushed the plastic chair back beneath the similarly constructed table. The metal capped feet scraped against the floor not unlike fingernails against a chalkboard. This action seemed both deliberate and oddly pleasing to the Justice. When the screeching had finished, without a look toward anyone in particular, he said "Show him the e-mail," before leaving the room.

Larkin raised his eyebrows. "What e-mail?"

Kincaid rifled through the papers in the folder before him and withdrew a single sheet of paper. He then handed the e-mail to Larkin.

"Shit," said Larkin.

The detective nodded.

The email was sent from larkinmonroelaw@gmail.com. It was addressed to a Jordan.Alex@vawd.uscourts.gov. The body of the email read as follows:

Dear Alex,

I had such a time last night. I've always dreamed of meeting someone just like you. You have shared something with me that I will never forget. I will now share something with you. If you're never going to love me like I love you, I'm going to have to end it once and for all. It will be done.

\--LM, Esq.

"Wow. I really am being framed for murder," said Larkin. For the first time since entering the room, he began to perspire. He then knew exactly why the room smelled the way it did. "I didn't write this. This isn't even my e-mail address. Did he give it you? Come on, Kincaid! He practically has the words 'chief suspect' tattooed on his pompous forehead. You've seen my business card. It has my real e-mail on that. This," he waved the sheet. Kincaid snatched it from his hands. "This is garbage, a fake. I don't even know how to open an e-mail account. My wife had to set up my last one and half of the time I still can't get into it. Shit. You've got to be smarter than this. You've got to understand that I'm being set up here. He's making me the fall guy because he doesn't want to ruin his goddamned civil fucking servant career. There are red flags popping up all over the place. Don't tell me you can't see them. I never wrote that. When does it say I wrote it? I bet you I can prove I was elsewhere. Check my damn computer. Get your ass out of this room and go get a blasted warrant. There's nothing on my computer close to anything like that e-mail. There's data on there that your guys can check, right? Didn't you see how mad the guy got at me when I started probing? Couldn't you see the way I was pushing his buttons? I had him squirming in that goddamned thousand dollar suit. I'm innocent, Kincaid. I didn't do it. I'm not capable of murder. I'm incapable of almost everything. I did not do it." Larkin would have said more, but he was out of breath. His hands appeared blanched and he wondered if he would pass out again.

"What was it you said about the Law and Order theme song?" asked Kincaid.

"Am I going to be charged with murder?"

Kincaid rubbed his beard. "Murder, manslaughter. Maybe a few others."

"With absolutely no forensic evidence whatsoever. No opportunity to kill her if you cared to look. You can't really believe that I would kill her, Kincaid. The charges won't stick."

"I think you can appreciate the gravity of the situation." His eyes glanced toward the chair that the Justice had neatly and loudly tucked beneath the table.

"Does the gravity of the situation outweigh reasonable doubt? The Fourth Amendment? And what about common sense?" He leaned back in his chair. "God I need a drink."

Kincaid made a curious gesture with his left hand, a quick lateral movement of his index finger across his neck.

"Ahhh," said Larkin. The conversation would continue off the record. "I mean, I knew you were recording me earlier, but shouldn't you have told me?"

Kincaid leaned back in his chair. He stared at the foam insulation affixed to the ceiling. As the seconds ticked away, Larkin was half-convinced that Kincaid was counting the panels.

"You know what's a great word?" he finally asked.

Larkin remained silent.

"Bupkus. You don't hear that much down here. It's a bit Yankee, maybe even Midwestern. My wife's family is from Illinois. Her father used to say it. He loved the Bears too. Maybe he liked saying it because it sounded close to Dick Butkus."

"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?"

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?"

"Well, you know how the Commonwealth's Attorney's Office always wants to consider that interest in every case and - -"

"Good," said the Judge. "This case would be included in 'every case.'" He nodded at Larkin. "You may proceed with your bond hearing, Mr. Monroe. The Court will entertain argument on your oral motion. Anything from the Commonwealth before I hear Mr. Monroe's motion?"

"I . . ." The poor prosecutor sifted through the folders. The audience was stunned into complete silence. "Um." The prosecutor glanced at the full house.

"I could short circuit this, your Honor," said Larkin.

"Oh?"

"Your Honor, I proffer to the Court that I'm a licensed attorney and that I work as an attorney on a fulltime basis. I've never been convicted of any crime and I'm currently not on probation of any kind. I grew up in this area and I still have family here." Madeline's hurt face flashed in his mind. "I am fully aware of the necessity of returning for the next proceeding in my case."

Judge Wallace nodded.

"And I might also add," said Larkin, "that I don't believe I've ever been late for a hearing in front of you, your Honor."

"Well that's good," said the Judge. He turned to the prosecutor. "Any objection?"

"Yes, your Honor," said the prosecutor. He puffed out his chest a bit as his second wind buffeted his sails. "We object to the very scheduling of this hearing. It has not been placed upon the docket today and – -"

"Any objection to the defendant's proffer?" asked the Judge. "I've already ruled as to whether we'll be having this hearing."

"Your Honor, I do not have a sufficient basis to form an opinion as to the veracity of Mr. Monroe's - -"

"I don't give two figs about your opinion. Overruled." He made a shooing gesture with his hand before picking up his pen. "I'm going to set the bond amount for Mr. Monroe at ten thousand, secured." He began writing, but paused and peered over the rim of his glasses at Larkin. "You won't be going anywhere, will you Mr. Monroe?"

"No, sir."

The Judge nodded. A ten thousand dollar secured bond meant that with the assistance of a bail bondsman, Larkin would only have to cover one thousand dollars in order to be released. Fortunately, he knew just the man to help him with the funding. The only difficulty would be in getting Trevor on the phone.

"Thank you, your Honor," said Larkin as he nodded to Judge Wallace. The Judge nodded again and Larkin returned to his table. Wendy McAdams, eat your heart out.

"Hot damn, Mr. Monroe," whispered Terry. His reddened eyes could not have opened any wider. "That was impressive as all get out."

"Thanks," said Larkin. He had left himself half-impressed at least. But five minutes later, after he had made an about-face, grabbed the podium, and successfully argued as Terry's attorney for a $500.00 bond for his fellow bondsman, he felt like king of the world. The reporters flipped through their spiral bound pages filling them with excited scribbles. With Judge Wallace allowing him such a long leash, Larkin had become the star of center ring, or at the very least, General District Courtroom Four. Wendy McAdams raised her eyebrows and Larkin imagined it was due to the onset of sudden sexual attractiveness traditionally coupled with such acts of alpha male awesomeness. He also knew what a loser this thought made him, but he didn't care.

He nodded to the sad mess of a prosecutor and headed toward the door that led to the holding cell. His city's Vice Mayor, and hopefully bail money, was only a phone call away. Soon, he would be back on the street.

Terry smacked his attorney approvingly on the shoulder. "That was something. I'll get you back for all of that."

"Sure you will, Terry."

"Now are you going to need help on getting out of the murder fix'n?"

"I'm sure of it."

"There she is," said Trevor with a grin as large as a billboard, "the prize." He set a large foam cup overflowing with shaved ice upon the bistro table and slid it toward Larkin. The limeade looked damn good, especially after eighteen hours in jail. "You drink that," said Trevor, "and you'll be right as rain, so they say." He sunk into the metal and plastic chair across from Larkin. Like Larkin, he was a bit worse for the wear. Trevor had neither shaved nor washed the Jim Beam out of his shirt. "It will keep you free from scurvy too."

Larkin nodded and Trevor smiled. "You know," said Larkin, "when you're hungover, you look like Miami Vice."

"I know." A revolving rack of postcards sat immediately behind Trevor in the Star City Pharmacy. The post card closest to his half-closed eyes depicted a fat cat dangling by his paws from a tree limb. It probably had a line inside like, _hang in there_.

Larkin's right hand darted for the limeade while his left lowered the rim of a Hokies baseball hat on sale for $5.99. "You see that?" he whispered after sipping the limeade. He pointed through the glass of the pharmacy's storefront window to some obscure shadows that lurked across the street. "That stretch of darkness by the stairs has grown. I bet we've been here for forty minutes now."

"Who the hell cares?" said Trevor, although he also found himself staring at shadows. "I'm telling you," he said after a few more minutes of surveillance, "we can do this with a two-man infiltration." He took a gulp of his nearly finished limeade and wiped his chin. "Right now."

"No."

"Right, bloody now." Trevor's cell phone rang but he quickly silenced it.

Larkin sipped again. "What did you add?"

"Two Grey Gooses. Grey Geese, I guess. Why do you think I took our drinks to the bathroom?"

"I wasn't paying attention." He continued to look out the window.

Trevor followed his gaze. "Hey," he said as he squinted. He placed his hand at his brow to block ambient light. "That bench across the street . . . is that?"

"Yes," said Larkin.

Trevor's jaw dropped. He nearly tipped over his shaved ice. "You mean to tell me that your wife's face is plastered to the bench right across from your office?"

"She's a realtor."

Trevor shook his head. "I know," he said, "and believe me, I hear she can move some properties, but I mean, her face . . . _her face_ , man, is right next to your office."

"I know."

"I mean, she's looking at your office. Her picture is literally staring at your office. Isn't that odd? There are other benches. Look at her eyes. Look where they're looking. Who even poses for a picture like that?"

"You acquisition tax dollars to fund a giant neon star on top of a mountain that everyone can see from anywhere in the city."

"So the hell what?" asked Trevor. "We're the Star City of the South. Don't change the subject, counselor."

"I'm just saying that there's a lot of quirky things happening in this town. That bench is no different."

Trevor shook his head. He stabbed his straw repeatedly into his shaved ice and vodka. "I tell you what," he said after a quiet moment. "If my ex-wife had a giant permanent poster of her face right next to my office, I'd probably go batshit crazy."

"Too late," said Larkin as he stared at the front door of his office. It was closed and presumably locked as it had been since the stakeout began. There was no real reason to fear exploring his home turf. Despite this, Larkin had ducked into the pharmacy across the street with visions of car bombs and gun men dancing in his head. Conspiracy theories of corporate-sponsored hit men and covert federal agents had sounded fairly absurd a day ago, but that was a day ago.

As Larkin drank his limeade, the voice of reason/vodka became clear. This was his _own turf_ for crying out loud; he held the upper hand. He nodded. He felt confident, emboldened even. And yet, he had barely touched his fritter.

"I meant to ask," said Trevor as his fork slid steadily toward the plate near Larkin. "Are you going to finish that?" Without waiting for a reply, he stabbed the pastry and violently dug out a heaping mouthful of flaky, gooey, cinnamon goodness. "You've got to taste that," he murmured with his cheeks bursting with pastry. His words were barely discernable.

Larkin studied a man carrying a small brown package walking his dog. "They've been there too long."

"The dog's sniffing the hydrant," said Trevor. "Wait." Trevor leaned closer to the window. "Who's that guy?"

Larkin spun. "What guy?"

"That little chubby guy there."

A pear-shaped young man in a tweed suit stood directly in front of the office door. He turned and checked over his shoulder. The man wore large thick glasses that obscured his face. A sentient pair of spectacles bobbing down the sidewalk.

"Young guy," said Larkin. "What do you think? Twenty-three?"

"He's got a briefcase," said Trevor

They watched the man return his gaze to the office. He leaned in close and put his face to the glass. The man's left hand rose and wiggled the locked door knob.

"Another lawyer?" asked Trevor.

"Maybe. Never seen him before."

"Right now," said Trevor. "He's not knocking. He's trying to get in."

"Shit," snapped Larkin. The last shot of adrenaline in his body electrified his limbs.

The two men stood. Though tired, Larkin's legs were resolute.

"Right now," Trevor repeated, this time with his mouth full of food.

"Yes." Larkin stormed through the pharmacy. His shoulder struck a counter top and a bottle of ibuprofen fell from a cardboard display. Trevor caught it and watched Larkin march toward the exit.

"You read my mind." Trevor caught up with his friend. As they headed toward the door, Trevor held up the bottle of pills to the cashier and gave him some sort of nod.

Larkin pushed open the double doors. The man across the street continued to peer into his office. He had placed his briefcase on the sidewalk and began bumping the door with his shoulder.

"He's testing it, I think," said Trevor as they stepped quickly through the pharmacy parking lot. "To see if there's a deadbolt. Watch out!"

The driver of a red Volvo wagon slammed on her brakes as Larkin bolted in front of her on a direct path toward his office. A young teenage girl, rolled up her window as the man with the Terminator gaze and baseball hat with a large visible price tag still affixed to the bill passed by her car.

"Warpath," said Trevor. "I like it. But don't kill my voters."

"That's my home," said Larkin as he stomped through a flowerbed and onto the sidewalk. The man across the street continued to push his body into the door. "So how do we do this?"

"We grab his ass," said Trevor. "Two against one. We grab him, take him into the office."

"Right," said Larkin. "Two against one."

Larkin focused his anger on the man's back.

"A bit hot for tweed don't you think?" asked Trevor from a few feet behind. Neither man knew why this made him even more suspicious. Their hearts beat hard and heavy.

Trevor whistled. "Now you are going to look both ways before - -"

Larkin entered traffic. Trevor dove ahead of his friend. As he spread his arms to halt oncoming cars, a half-finished limeade and vodka flew from his right hand and sailed through the open sunroof of a nearby SUV.

"Shit!" shouted Trevor. First the SUV, and then other vehicles, slammed on their brakes as either Larkin and/or limeade gummed up the works.

The tweed man in front of the office turned to view the commotion.

"He's turning, Trevor!" shouted Larkin. "He's sees me."

"Two against one!" yelled Trevor.

A car door slammed. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?" asked the driver of the SUV as he headed straight for Trevor. The driver's bicep muscles bulged from beneath a tight white t-shirt. A snake sat coiled on his license plate. Don't tread on me. "Hey, asshole," he shouted as he pointed to Trevor.

"Sorry, I uh . . ." began Trevor. "It was an accident and I - -"

"You're going to come apologize to my wife for ruining her goddamned new three hundred dollar purse. You can come right now, or I'll drag you."

"Trevor!" screamed Larkin. "He looks like he might run!" Larkin reached the sidewalk and held out his arms and legs like a football player on defense in the 1950's.

"Sorry, Larkin," shouted Trevor. "I've got to handle this."

"What?" cried Larkin. The man in the tweed suit shuffled frantically. He made a quick step to the right, but Larkin scooted laterally. "I'm boxing him out, Trevor!"

Trevor did not reply. Larkin suddenly realized that if the man in the tweed suit was to be captured and questioned, it would not be two against one.

The tweed suit shuffled left, but Larkin was on it. The man looked frantic. He was young, no older than twenty-five. His short dark hair was perfectly parted in that Clark Kent style. Sweat glistened from his broad forehead in the midday sun.

"I'm going in!" shouted Larkin, though he knew Trevor was MIA.

"Wait," said the tweed man as he dropped his briefcase. He fanned his stubby fingers and flashed the universal sign of 'please don't tackle'.

Larkin bit his lip. "I'm going in!" The narration was self-serving at this point. Bolstered with his own false confidence, Larkin lunged.

Both men screamed. Larkin wrapped his arms about the man's mid-section and they tumbled to the ground. A button of the man's tweed vest pressed against Larkin's left eye as he buried his fist into the man's side.

"Oh!" the man shrieked. It gave Larkin pause. He pushed himself off of the sidewalk. His Hokie hat flew from his head. Despite the fact that he was embroiled in a fight, he suddenly wondered if he had committed petit larceny by not paying for the hat.

The man's hands struggled to center his glasses. The lenses seemed an inch thick. His flushed cheeks puffed in and out as he struggled to breathe. Though he had the stylings of an older man, upon closer inspection, he appeared even younger.

"Don't hit me!" the young man shrieked. Even through the thick glasses, Larkin could see that his eyes were squeezed shut.

Larkin looked at his fist. His knuckles ached. The adrenaline surged higher than ever before. He was either going to pass out or leap into orbit. "Who are you working for?" he growled. Spit smacked the man's glasses.

"No one!" he cried. He straightened his glasses and blinked. "I'm not here to do anything!"

"Who are you? Why were you trying to break into my office?" Larkin raised his fist.

"I'm Anthony," the man gasped. "Anthony Swain. I'm . . . please lower your hand."

"Why were you trying to break into my office?"

"I wasn't. I just wanted to see if you were in there."

"Why?" Larkin shouted. "You don't look the type who just happens to need a good fender bender lawyer."

The man's breaths came out in quick succession. His cheeks bloomed red and as he breathed, the redness spread over his face. His right hand swatted at his coat, but Larkin kept his knee firmly planted.

"What the hell are you doing?" asked Larkin. "You got some sort of gun in there?"

"He's having an asthma attack," said a booming voice in Larkin's ears. Arms that might as well have been attached to a forklift extended below Larkin's armpits.

"Huh?" asked Larkin as he was suddenly picked up like a child and tossed to the ground. He landed on his shoulder and whelped like a scolded dog. With his teeth gritting away the pain, he rolled onto his back and swiveled his head. The hulking beast that had threatened Trevor over a limeade-covered purse was assisting the man in the tweed suit.

Someone tapped Larkin's foot and he looked up. The man standing over him blocked the sun, but Larkin only knew one man who looked handsome even dark and featureless. A shadowy hand reached out. Larkin grabbed hold. "I thought you were getting your ass kicked," he said.

"Are you kidding me?" asked Trevor. He pulled Larkin to his feet and nodded toward the bison-sized man. "I don't fight . . . ever. That can be dangerous. Everything okay, Roy?" Trevor called to the large man.

"What about two against one?" asked Larkin.

"Well, that's just a show of strength," said Trevor. "You know, deterrence and for morale."

"He's okay," said Roy as he stood. The man in the tweed suit sucked on the end of a small plastic inhaler. "Probably didn't help that your buddy used him as a punching bag." Roy smiled at Trevor. "I tell you what, Mr. Meeks, it's true what they say about you."

"What do they say about him?" asked Larkin.

"You know," said Roy. "He's a wild man."

"Right."

"Did I hurt your shoulder?" asked Roy.

"No," Larkin lied.

Roy enveloped Trevor's hand in a firm handshake. "Take care, Mr. Meeks."

"You too, Roy," said Trevor. He looked to Larkin.

"What? He's a fireman. It helps when you personally spearhead more funding for fire and rescue salaries. Roy got a bonus last year. I think I bought his wife that purse. Nice punches by the way. What's his name?"

Larkin glared at the man in what was now clearly a much used and drab tweed suit who had just tucked his inhaler back in his pocket. His knees bent as if he was about to stoop to retrieve his briefcase, when he noticed Larkin and Trevor approaching.

"Two against one," said Larkin to the man. His words were tough, but his shoulder ached and he worried that he had broken a finger.

"Please," said the man as he again held up his hands.

"Please my ass, Pillsbury," said Trevor. "Why the hell were you breaking into this building?"

"I wasn't!"

"Bullshit," said Larkin. "We both saw it. You were striking the door with your shoulder."

"I did do that," said the man. "But - -"

"What's your name, doughboy?" asked Trevor. The tag team stood less than a foot away.

"Anthony," said Anthony. "Anthony Swain." Perspiration glistened on his pink face. His puffing cheeks looked like small glazed hams. "I was trying to see if the door was, you know, jammed. It is office hours."

"Sure you were," said Trevor. "Unlock your office, Larkin. We're going to take Tony for some interrogation."

"It's Anthony," said Anthony. He eyed Trevor nervously as Larkin unlocked the door. "The sticker on the door said that it was open. These are business hours."

"Sure, kid," said Trevor. "Interrogation will get the truth." Once Larkin had unlocked the door, Trevor grabbed Anthony by the collar and pushed him into the office. "Duct tape and screw driver time," Trevor shouted as Larkin closed the door behind them.

Anthony again reached for his inhaler. "Dear, Lord, please no! This is all a great misunderstanding!" Anthony pressed his back against the wall of the hallway that led to the lobby and secretary's desk. He perspired heavily.

"Get his wallet," said Trevor.

Larkin took a step toward Anthony, but rather than be pummeled or forced to suffer the pains of duct tape and a screw driver, Anthony grabbed his wallet from inside his jacket and threw it toward Larkin. Larkin caught it and handed it to Trevor.

"What's in the briefcase?" Larkin asked.

"Just my things," he said, "some things I was working on. I carry it with me. I'm a lawyer, Mr. Monroe, I'm - -"

"He's Anthony Swain," said Trevor, "and he works for the Supreme Court of Virginia." Trevor held up an identification badge. A picture on the badge showed Anthony smiling like an eighth grader in a yearbook photo. The seals of Virginia and the Supreme Court were printed about half an inch above his neatly combed hair.

Larkin raised his eyebrows. "That's right," said Anthony, "I'm - -"

"Byrd," said Larkin. "Your Justice Byrd's other law clerk."

Trevor continued digging through the wallet. "I thought Justice Byrd's law clerk was a hottie. For a guy anyway. And dead too."

"Every Justice on the Supreme Court - -" began Anthony before Larkin held up his hand.

"Quiet," he snapped. "We're talking here. We're asking the questions." Anthony nodded. "Every Justice on the Supreme Court gets two law clerks," said Larkin. "Anthony is the surviving law clerk."

"Hmmm," said Trevor. "He's got a discount club card in here from Yankee Candle. What kind of guy has a discount card at Yankee Candle? Like scented candles do you now, son? Scented candles? Is that your thing?"

Larkin squinted at Anthony.

"Should I answer that?" asked Anthony, "or was it intended to be rhetorical hyperbole?"

Larkin shook his head. "This is going too fast." Despite the adrenaline surge that had accompanied street fighting, his tired brain was processing things barely above idle speed.

"All the limeade's gone, right?"

Trevor nodded.

"Get the Bowland's."

Trevor whistled and shook his head. "Talk about torture."

"It's needed."

"Right boss." Trevor retreated into Larkin's inner office.

"What is a Bowland?" asked Anthony. His glasses fixated on the inner office door.

"Tonic?" Trevor called.

"Sure."

Anthony eyed the two fizzy drinks that Trevor clasped upon his return. "I'm not drinking that," he said.

Trevor laughed.

Larkin took his drink and drank half. The Bowland's did not taste as horrible as he had recalled. Perhaps because he had been jail earlier.

"Ouch my liver," said Trevor.

Larkin drank and thought. "Keep an eye on him, Trevor. Don't move, Anthony. We're going to get to the bottom of this in a minute, but I need to check something first. One thing at a time." He hustled past Charisma's vacant desk and headed into his inner office.

"Refill already?"

"What's he doing?" asked Anthony.

"He's getting pliers to pull your teeth out. Never know who's been bugged, or where they might have stuck the bug for that matter."

Anthony wrinkled his brow, however, given the flat expanse of his forehead, only one long wrinkle formed. "I believe now that you're speaking in jest," he said haltingly.

"Why do you talk like a damn Klingon?"

The line in Anthony's forehead deepened. "I am not broadcasting aggression." He shook his head.

Trevor wiped his nose with the back of his hand and glared. "I think I'm going to have to kick your ass now. Don't take it the wrong way, but it's my . . . what do they call it? My moral compass, that's it. My moral compass demands that I should kick your butt and take your milk money. I'm not responsible, you see. It's just instinct at this point. Maybe even reflex."

Anthony remained surprisingly calm. "I heard you speak earlier outside. Just after Mr. Monroe finished his assault, you stated that you don't fight . . . ever."

"It's not a fight if you don't hit back, junior."

The two men stared at each other. Rhetorical hyperbole was certainly Trevor's stock and trade. Most people could grasp that within five or ten minutes after meeting him. But recent alcohol abuse had bestowed upon him a pair of eyes shot to bloody hell. Coupled with his stubbly beard, Trevor still looked dapper, but also a bit batshit. Like Mickey Rourke in 1989. Anthony seemed unsure of his next move.

"I knew it," shouted Larkin. He pounded his fist upon his desk and headed back to the hallway. "It's all bullshit."

"Precisely put," stated Anthony. "You have most likely concluded - -"

"Stuff it," said Trevor. "What is it?"

"This whole thing is bullshit," said Larkin. He lifted his arms in exasperation as he walked by Charisma's desk. His left hand grazed a picture frame and knocked it a bit askew. He quickly straightened the picture of the three large black women smiling beneath three huge and nearly identical yellow hats.

"Well didn't we already kind of know that?" asked Trevor.

"Yeah, but now we can prove it."

"How's that?"

"It was the evidence that Detective Kincaid showed me at the police station. He showed me an email that he and the Justice claimed I had written and sent to Alex Jordan. It was the bit of evidence that alleged that I had known her for quite a while. I didn't write it."

"Okay," said Trevor, though it was clear that he was not fully on board. "We knew that already, right?"

"It was from a bogus free email account that just so happened to have my name in it. Larkin dot Monroe at H-Mail dot com or something. I just checked my internet history. My computer has never surfed to that site. If they were going to doctor my computer, they haven't. Not yet anyway."

"How in the hell were you able to find that out?" asked Trevor.

"Ever surf to a website you didn't want your wife to know about?"

"Yes," said Trevor, "I see."

"I do know the basics."

"Mr. Monroe," said Anthony as he dabbed his forehead with the cuff of his right sleeve. "I do believe that if - -"

"Zip it, junior," said Trevor. "So they busted you with an email that anyone in the world could have written from any computer in the world?" Larkin nodded. "Now that's what I call solid police work. What the hell kind of evidence is that?"

"The fabricated kind," said Anthony.

Larkin crossed his arms. "Okay, Anthony. What is it? What do you know?"

Anthony exhaled as his shoulders sagged a bit. "Finally," he said. "You know, before I begin, might I trouble you for a sip of water?"

"What?" asked Trevor. "You kidding me, junior?"

"I was just assaulted and battered on the sidewalk. My sides hurt, my throat is dry, and I have frankly lost much of my composure."

"Jesus Christ," said Trevor, but Larkin had already returned from his office bathroom with a half glass of water.

"Thank you," said Anthony as he gripped the glass and put it to his lips. As soon as he took one sip, his body trembled and he nearly dropped the glass. "Goodness," he said as he stared at the glass. "What is that?"

"It's water," said Larkin. "The glass may need to be cleaned a bit."

Anthony cautiously sipped again. He immediately coughed into his closed hand and handed it back to Larkin. "Did you clean it with vodka?"

"It was gin. Now start talking."

Anthony nodded. He moved away from the wall and headed toward the secretary's desk. The many pictures on the wall gave him pause before he sank into Charisma's chair. He wrapped his fingers upon her desk before clasping them neatly in front of him. "Mr. Monroe," he said as if he had begun a well rehearsed speech, "you are being framed for the murder of Alex Jordan."

"Jesus, he's a sharp one," said Trevor. Anthony unclasped his hands and squinted with displeasure.

Larkin approached Charisma's desk. "What do you know?"

"Well the email is new," said Anthony. He nodded slowly. With his shabby tweed suit, re-clasped hands, and ruddy cheeks, Anthony looked like a kid playing dress up. He was the neighborhood nerd who wrote wills and codicils in crayon for fun. "And to be honest, I'm unsure of why you were selected to be the fall guy, but that analysis is really immaterial. The conclusion is very clear."

"What did that email say anyway?" asked Trevor as he returned. He held a glass filled with several inches of what was presumably Bowland's gin.

"It doesn't matter," snapped Larkin. "Speak, Anthony. Tell me everything you know. What's the conclusion that you're talking about?"

Anthony cleared his throat. "I believe that Justice Byrd, my boss, killed Alex. And I believe him to be working in concert with both the police and other individuals to conceal this fact."

"Knew it," said Trevor as he swallowed half of the liquid in the glass. He winced. "Oh, God," he said as he held the glass far from his face and examined its contents. "This is terrible." His eyebrows raised and his hands shook as the liquid seared his throat. "Like trying to swallow something that hates you."

"How do you know?" asked Larkin.

"It was evident from the start," said Anthony. "Justice Byrd is known - -"

Anthony was interrupted by a ringing cell phone. "It's Carol," said Trevor. "Excuse me," he said as he answered his phone and stepped away. He slammed his empty glass upon the counter as if to signal the barkeep that it was time to leave the saloon.

"Justice Byrd is known," continued Anthony, "for consistently hiring one male and one female law clerk. During the clerkship application process, I did my research. I spoke with past Byrd law clerks to determine if this would be the right fit for me. You know, to gauge my eligibility and also to weigh the advantages and disadvantages of aligning myself professionally and perhaps politically as it were with Justice Byrd. These are important considerations lest you paint yourself in a corner of the political spectrum."

Larkin slowly shook his head. The kid was lucky that Trevor had busied himself with a shouting contest on his cell phone outside of the office. Anthony was pompous and arrogant, but no more so than his peers. He seemed a perfect fit for a penthouse in the ivory tower. "Right," said Larkin, "you checked it out."

"Correct. I ultimately determined that I was a perfect fit for the office. This conclusion was predicated upon a number of facts, a full litany of which I shall omit at this time."

"Thank you," said Larkin.

Anthony seemed unsure of why he was being thanked, but he gave a slight nod. "Chief among these bases was my experience working with the Federalist Society. I was president of my law school's chapter and I organized a symposium featuring a lecture from George Will."

Larkin ran his fingers over his scalp. He wanted to tackle Anthony again. As Anthony paused to clear his throat, the office door opened and Trevor stepped into the lobby.

"Is he still talking?" asked Trevor.

"Yes," said Larkin.

"So who did it?"

"Excuse me?" asked Anthony.

"Who killed the clerk, junior?" asked Trevor.

"I believe it to be Justice Byrd," said Anthony. "I already said that. You replied that you knew this already."

"Right," nodded Trevor. "And we can prove this?"

"I was explaining to Mr. Monroe that I had researched the position by meeting and discussing former Byrd clerks. I also informed Mr. Monroe that my experience as a staunch federalist also assisted - -"

"Jesus Christ," shouted Trevor. "My ears are bleeding. What the hell is he saying?" Larkin opened his mouth to answer, but Trevor waved his hand. "You know what? It doesn't matter. He can talk in the damn car."

"Car? Where are we going?"

"Carol can't pick up Ryan at soccer. We've got to go right now."

"Soccer?" Larkin balked. "You know I'm being framed for murder."

"I know, I know," said Trevor. "It's something to do with her damned acupuncturist or aroma therapist or something like that. Essentially, my spousal support check has funded someone to keep her ass pain-free or moisturized or waxed or whatever for the next ninety minutes and Ryan's practice ends in five. Just bring junior along and he can tell us all about his participation in the renaissance fair in the car."

Larkin nodded. Trevor was a bit of a mess, but so was he, and he surely needed backup. "Alright. Anthony, you're coming with us."

"But, I - -"

"Look," yelled Larkin, "it's my ass on the line here, not yours. I'm the one staring at life in prison. Can you tell me in the car? After we talk, Trevor can drop you off wherever you need to go."

Anthony looked at Trevor. The single line in his forehead formed as he studied the man whom moments ago had threatened to extract his teeth with pliers. He bit his lip. "Okay."

"You're sitting shotgun," said Trevor to Larkin as he unlocked his white SUV. "I'm not driving next to junior."

Larkin nodded and opened his door. Anthony stood several feet away from the car. "Come on, Anthony," said Larkin, "no one's getting kidnapped."

Anthony opened the door and skeptically viewed the backseat. Trevor gripped the steering wheel as tightly as one could as he watched Anthony dust off the leather seats with his hand before carefully selecting the perfect spot for his briefcase. As soon as he stepped inside the vehicle, and before he could shut the door behind him, Trevor gunned the accelerator and the SUV launched into the mid-morning traffic.

"Goodness," cried Anthony as he fell back onto his seat. His left hand worked at straightening his tie and next his hair, although neither had moved. His right hand groped for a seatbelt.

"All right," said Larkin. He swiveled in his seat and eyed Anthony. "What do you have to tell me?"

"And give us the Wikipedia version," said Trevor, "not the Oxford English Dictionary."

After he was situated, Anthony quickly lowered his window several inches. The interior did have a bit of an odor. The earthy smell of the dark leather upholstery was accented by lingering whiffs of smoke that had snuck down into the seat cracks. But there was something else in the air, something acrid that floated here and there. Larkin could not place the odor in his mind, but it just smelled _naughty_.

"Like I was saying," began Anthony, "I was highly involved in the Federalist Society in law school."

"What's he talking about?" asked Trevor.

"The Federalist Society is a very right wing, very conservative group," said Larkin. "They get together in law school to sip drinks, compare trust funds, and extinguish personal freedoms. Think Antonin Scalia and the second amendment and so forth," said Larkin.

"Abortions are evil," said Trevor.

"You got it," said Larkin.

"That's really not the ethos of the Society at all, I - -"

"Whatever," said Larkin. "I just nailed it. Move on."

Anthony sighed. A breeze from the window moved a narrow lock of hair near his right temple and his hand instantly swatted it back into place. It seemed a subconscious move, like a cow whipping its tail about to ward off flies while its face was buried in clover. "Essentially, I did my homework. You could pair up my resume along with the vast majority of Byrd's prior clerks and scant differences emerged. And then there was Alex."

"Finally," said Trevor.

"She was completely unlike the prior clerks,"

"That's an understatement," said Trevor.

Larkin punched Trevor in the thigh. "I swear to God, if you don't let him finish," said Larkin.

"She was from Berkley of all places. Berkley. And not to mention, she had been president of the American Constitution Society."

Larkin raised his hand before Trevor could ask. "Think the opposite of the Federalists. An evolving constitution, gun control and the ACLU."

"Gotcha."

Larkin swiveled back to meet Anthony's gaze. "So Alex didn't fit the Byrd profile."

"Exactly," said Anthony. He slapped the meat of his thighs as if he had just revealed the winning hand. Larkin stared at him with such a focused glare it could have started a brushfire.

"And?"

Anthony raised his hands palms upward. He raised his eyebrows and motioned with his hand as if to coax a response. "Don't be so goddamned Socratic," Larkin snapped. "Just tell me."

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 handling 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 wrongfully 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.

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.

Eventually, he met Trevor. His friend had insisted on driving his James Bond car, but Larkin refused. This was his life on the line after all.

Now, as the green glow of the digital keypad seemed to grow brighter and brighter with each passing second, all he could do was think of the law. It was a defense mechanism, something almost as automatic as a reflex. When cornered in court, his mind would race through the law. He found that when he mentally recited the elements of the crime du jour, his nerves calmed. A strange mantra perhaps, but it had worked before. Larkin never attended law school. His legal education had been boiled down to passing a test.

"Did you forget the code?" asked Trevor. The cicadas hummed so loudly, Trevor had to raise his voice to be audible. He drummed his fingers against the dashboard. During the forty minute moonlit drive from Big Lick, Trevor had actually sung along to a few tunes on the radio. He seemed to regard home invasion like other men regarded going to a barbecue. "Come on," he whined. "Let's get in there."

Larkin had not forgotten the pass code that Anthony had divulged. In fact, those particular buttons on the keypad glowed the brightest.

"Breaking and entering," Larkin finally said. "That's a class three felony. Minimum is five years, max is twenty."

Trevor lunged across Larkin's seat in an attempt to reach the keypad. Larkin pushed his arm away. "Come on!" snapped Trevor. "He might have cameras on us right now."

"He doesn't," said Larkin. "Anthony said there was no video surveillance."

"Yeah, well then why are we waiting here for the local Sheriff to drive by and ask some questions? Come on, Larkin." Trevor reached into his pocket and withdrew a large buck knife. The blade was still tucked in the sheath. Moonlight reflected off of Trevor's face and Larkin knew instantly that Trevor was just waiting for the perfect moment to use the knife.

"Burglary with a deadly weapon," said Larkin. "That will get you life."

"Jesus, Larkin. Is it even breaking and entering when you know the code to the damn door?"

"I . . ." Larkin chomped on his lip again. "I don't know," he finally answered.

"Remind me to never hire you again." He flipped the knife around his fingers and sighed about as loudly as one could. "We agreed on this Larkin. The whole plan. It's the best way out for you."

"Agreed," repeated Larkin. "That's criminal conspiracy, its own separate charge."

"Knock it off. I knew we should have taken my car."

"Just give me a minute," said Larkin. His eyebrows sunk. This was his goddamned life after all, not Trevor's. If he wanted to pause and rethink the plan, that's what was going to happen.

"Stop trying to pause and rethink everything. If that was your intention all along, you picked a piss-poor place to do it.

Larkin nodded. Half of him wanted to belt Trevor in his perfect picture-in-the-frame smile, but the other half knew he was just reflecting his anxiety.

"What is it?" he asked. He rolled his eyes. "You know, I had just enough alcohol in my system when we left to carry this mission through completion. You're point man is losing his vim and vigor."

"The onset of sobriety is nothing to be feared," said Larkin, even though he despised his own words. He took a deep breath, the kind a deep sea diver takes before the plunge. He shut his eyes and tried to calm his mind. "I still love Madeline."

"Well of course you do."

Larkin opened his eyes. "I didn't see that one coming," he whispered. He thought his words were lost to the hum of the cicadas, but Trevor had hearing as sharp as his buck knife.

"What did you think I was going to say?" asked Trevor. "You're a fool? A loser?"

"No," started Larkin, "I . . . I guess I just don't know why I said that just then." He turned to his friend. "Am I that transparent?"

"Like Bianca's panties."

Larkin grinned and shook his head. "Now that's a sight."

Trevor laughed. "I mean, look at it. You two will have been separated for a while now. You haven't even considered dating anyone else."

"Well I . . . um."

"Shut it," spat Trevor. "Don't even start degrading yourself. Sometimes when we speak I feel like I'm talking to Eeyore. Every chance you get, you give yourself a good knock. You've still got years left in you and you're not half bad looking. And don't forget that you're a lawyer in a mountain town. Chicks dig that."

"Why? What can I offer? Stability? Money? Those ships have sailed."

"You can still offer those things if you just pull your damn head out of your ass. And I think you just did. You can offer those things to the right woman, and now you know who that is."

"I do." Larkin hoped the green glow from the digital keypad did not illuminate his face. He was certain that his eyes had moistened a bit. "I need to get her back."

"And you will."

"How?"

"You'll find a way. You're very smart."

"Right."

"Well for starters," said Trevor, "I don't think she's going to fall back in love with a murderer."

Larkin nodded.

"So we're doing this, right?"

Attempt. A criminal attempt occurs when a person, with the intent to commit an offense, performs any act that constitutes a substantial step toward the commission of that offense. In no event shall the punishment for an attempt to commit an offense exceed the maximum punishment had the offense been committed.

Larkin swallowed. Even if the mission resulted in utter failure, both he and Trevor would have certainly acted with sufficient criminal intent to ruin both of their lives. "But it's the only way," he said, grasping for even a thimble's worth of confidence.

"Bolstering yourself?"

"Just stating the facts." He took another deep breath and pounded Anthony's code into the keypad. The huge metal gate made a number of loud mechanical clanks before sliding open to reveal a dark driveway that disappeared as it wound its way around a stand of tall pines.

"I'm going to get her back," Larkin said softly as he tapped the accelerator.

_Trespass_. _Misdemeanor and civil liability. One is subject to liability to another for trespass, irrespective of whether he thereby causes harm to any legally protected interest of the other, if he intentionally (a) enters land in the possession of the other, or causes a thing or a third person to do so, or (b) remains on the land, or (c) fails to remove from the land a thing which he is under a duty to remove._

Without the headlights engaged, Larkin was forced to drive barely above engine idle. The road was narrow and the trees blocked most of the moonlight.

"Always wanted a home at the lake," Trevor whispered, his voice uncharacteristically hushed. The thrill of the adventure coupled with the darkness around them demanded silence. The outrageousness of the situation required a modicum of respect for their circumstances. Both of their hearts pounded. Larkin was a sweaty mess. Trevor smiled.

"If this plan works," said Larkin, "this house might be on the market in a year or two. And then - - Jesus!" Larkin shouted as he stomped on the brake pedal. A large doe, glared at them from no more than two or three feet from the front of Larkin's car. Both men breathed heavily, their eyes wide. The deer stomped her front right hoof, apparently unafraid. She repeated this movement as if to declare something of great import. Though the light was dim, the form of her - - nutmeg fur wrapped around lean powerful muscles - - was evident by her silhouette.

"Thank God you saw that," said Trevor.

"Thank God my tires didn't squeal against the pavement."

"Too slow," said Trevor. "Too slow."

"Why isn't she moving?"

"I don't know, but I don't recommend honking your horn. Maybe if you just turned on the lights."

"Don't headlights freeze deer?"

"This one's already frozen. Maybe it will un-freeze her."

Larkin bit his lip. "We haven't even made it to the house and we've almost already failed." Larkin engaged his fog lamps.

The deer's nostrils flared. She cocked her head and stared straight _through_ Larkin. The glare was intense. He turned from the animal's gaze and followed the simple strong curves of her body. Her back legs appeared both powerful and graceful. This was an animal of purpose, thought Larkin. It did not meander or wallow in pity. It simply acted.

She opened and shut her long mouth as if she chewed something. "I can't drive around," said Larkin. "There's no room on this road."

"I could step out and," began Trevor, but the deer had made her decision. "There she goes!"

Appearing so shortly after making such a major decision, Larkin considered the significance of the deer. His right foot hovered above the gas pedal. "Why do I feel like nature just judged us?"

Trevor extended his tongue and made a crude noise. "Please. I'm not doing metaphors. Deer in the road means watch out for deer shit. Let's move."

Larkin nodded, although down deep, he humored himself. If nature had judged him, he felt fairly secure that he had passed the test. He tapped the accelerator. They remained silent as a large home appeared and quickly hogged the horizon. With a simple clapboard exterior coupled with half a dozen spacious balconies, the home was rustic farmhouse by way of seven figures and Savannah. The driveway looped and Larkin parked his car in front of a massive door framed by two tall off-white columns.

"This guy's entire life is spent between columns," Larkin muttered.

"I guess he wanted to feel as equally important while off the clock."

"I'm sure of that." Larkin and Trevor exited the car and stood before the door. Larkin glanced over his shoulder. He half expected to see the deer watching him from the edge of the wood giving further encouragement. He saw nothing but shadows and trees.

He turned and regarded the door. Larkin studied the fish-eye peephole. Anthony had been correct about the code. This gave him a bit of confidence. Hours ago, it had seemed too good to be true.

With alcohol flowing through his system, Larkin had easily believed Anthony when the law clerk had said that no one would be in the house. Alcohol still tickled his blood but standing face to face with a door that was likely worth more than his office, skepticism struck him. He looked up. The windows above and adjacent to the balconies showed only darkness. It was all falling perfectly into place. According to Anthony, just inside the home, after taking the first left beyond the foyer, they would come across the Justice's private study. There, within the center drawer of the desk, he would find letters written from Alex Jordan. Scintillating letters. Letters indicating an inappropriate affair. Letters that would implicate the Justice, save Larkin's ass, and allow him to pursue Madeline. The letters would be enough for Detective Kincaid to fix things. That is, if the cop ever got some sleep.

There it was. His path to freedom. He only needed to break about a dozen or so laws in the process.

He looked down at the painted brick patio. Allegedly, one of the bricks on the left side of the stoop would be loose. Its removal would reveal a key to the unalarmed front door. Unalarmed. The hubris of the Justice knew no bounds. But what if the key wasn't there? Could they break down the door? A window?

Destruction of Property. If any person unlawfully destroys, defaces, damages or removes without the intent to steal any property, real or personal, not his own, he shall be guilty of a Class 3 misdemeanor. (B.) If any person intentionally causes such injury, he shall be guilty of a Class 1 misdemeanor.

Larkin dabbed the perspiration with the back of his hand. His mind raced, scattered, regrouped and raced again. "Will you look?" he asked Trevor. No one's home, he thought. No one's home.

Trevor nodded.

Larkin closed his eyes and listened to the chalkboard sound of brick scraping brick.

"Got it," said Trevor. He had lowered himself to one knee to examine the brick and now held the key out to Larkin. It was a gesture that demonstrated more than a simple offering. Trevor's wild eyes telegraphed much. _This is the key that will allow me to break into this mansion and cause havoc,_ _and I'm giving it to you_. Trevor was being polite.

"Cause I'm the one framed for murder, right?"

Trevor shrugged.

Larkin took the key and slipped it into the door. With a swift turn, the deadbolt slid back. Larkin pushed, counted to three and crossed the threshold.

"No alarm," Trevor confirmed.

The foyer floor was a sea of slate. It appeared to stretch to infinity as the ashen tiles disappeared in the shadows where the moonlight flooding in from the open door could not reach. The tiles were evenly spaced squares, a chessboard after team black had reigned victorious and painted the white squares to memorialize the win. A chandelier, blooming in the space above their heads like a glass carnation, seemed to hover as the tall ceiling was barely visible. The house smelled of leather, hints of pipe smoke, and half a dozen other expensive things.

Trevor nudged the door to close it. Larkin held up his hand as if to prevent him from doing so, but he did not know why. As soon as the inner latch clicked into place, the din of the cicadas disappeared leaving the home as quiet as a tomb. But when Larkin stepped forward, his heel clicked against the slate tile. The sound ping-ponged from shrouded wall to wall.

"This way," said Larkin. The Justice's house echoed with their footsteps.

"This house is quiet," said Trevor.

"And loud," added Larkin.

Past the foyer, Larkin entered a hallway. The passage was dark. Even looking out of the corner of his eyes, Larkin could not spot where the hallway led. His left hand felt upon the wall and seized the glossy painted crown molding. Inch by inch he followed the molding through the passage. Floorboards groaned.

Suddenly the hallway was flooded with light. Larkin squinted and turned, his heart racing.

"No one's here," said Trevor as he leaned against the wall, his fingers resting upon the light switch. Larkin opened his mouth to object but Trevor raised his hand. "It isn't visible to the outside. I checked."

Larkin nodded. Trevor caught up and they proceeded to the Justice's office. The floor creaked loudly as they made their way to a closed red-stained oak door.

"It costs a lot of money to build a house this new and make it sound so old," said Trevor. "Reclaimed wood."

Larkin barely nodded. He focused on the copper-colored doorknob inches from his fingertips. His heart beat like a gatling gun. Salvation.

"I have certain unalienable rights," whispered Larkin.

"Damn right."

"Among those are life," his fingers clutched the knob. It felt cool. "Liberty," he said as his wrist turned. "And the pursuit of happiness." The door opened.

The room was larger and made larger by the bare cedar plank walls. Larkin had half-expected the Justice to have peppered the walls with enough diplomas, awards and the like to fill a U-haul. Instead, the room was kept simple. A modestly sized roll-top desk rested against the left wall. The blue leather office chair had been attractive in 1982. Each crack in the scratched hide may have been borne of a particularly difficult judicial decision. It was a chair that demonstrated great productivity. Larkin had a similar such chair.

Four tall windows on the opposite side of the room looked out upon a beautifully landscaped lakeside lawn. In the blinking green glow from an offshore channel marker, Larkin could see a boathouse protruding into the dark still water. Nothing else seemed remarkable except the attractive globe at the back of the room,

"My office is nicer than this," said Trevor.

"It is what it is," said Larkin, "a room to get things done." He approached the desk. According to Anthony, handwritten notes implicating the Justice as more than a suspect were inches away. Larkin rolled the tiled wooden covering back into the recesses of the desk. The desktop work area was dominated by two neatly stacked piles of documents. The top page on each stack appeared to be the beginning of a judicial opinion. The rest of the desktop was littered with a few pens, mostly red, and two or three legal pads. Larkin reached down and tugged at the center drawer. It did not budge.

"He's got a brand new Chaparral," said Trevor as he stared at the boathouse. "Twenty footer. Maybe three hundred horse power or more."

Larkin slid both his right and left index fingers into the small hinged brass hoops dangling from the face of the drawer. He tugged. The drawer moved less than a quarter of an inch before some internal bolt or metal clip prevented anything further.

"Shit," said Larkin.

"Stuck?"

Larkin nodded.

"Let me have a go."

Larkin shook his head. He tugged again. Fruitless. "My uncle had one of these," he said as he lightly smacked the face of the drawer. "It has an odd locking mechanism. You pull the right drawer out and then the center drawer gets unhitched."

"Ahh," said Trevor. He wandered to the far end of the room. "Well if you want me to break it, I'll be over here." His finger grazed the surface of the globe.

Trespass to Chattels. One who commits a trespass to a chattel is subject to liability to the possessor of the chattel.

"I know what this is," said Trevor as he fingered the Azores.

"What?" asked Larkin as he began opening and closing various combinations of desk drawers. He turned to see Trevor open the top half of the globe. As the world north of the equator descended on its hinge, the lower half of the world revealed a small elegant bar top complete with a bottle of scotch and a single high-ball glass.

"Glen Livet," said Trevor. "Now that's worth journeying to the center of the earth." He grasped the glass and quickly filled it to the near brim.

"I can smell that from here," said Larkin as he lowered himself to his knees to examine the underside of the desk.

"I'm kissing the devil," said Trevor. "Let me know when you want me to break that."

"Right," said Larkin. His fingers probed beneath the desk but felt only the scratch of wood in need of some sandpaper. He cursed again.

"I can break it."

"Give me a minute."

Trevor raised his glass. "Take all the time, my friend. What does he have on his desk?"

"I don't know." He stared at the knobs attached to the smaller drawers. Did they turn? Perhaps one of them rotated and unlatched an inner lock. "I think he has two judicial opinions up there." His fingers pressed against the brass. "Maybe some of the research to go along with it." None of the knobs moved.

A drop of scotch whiskey landed on Larkin's shoulder as Trevor leaned in to investigate. Larkin could smell the drink. He almost swiped the glass from Trevor's hand. Part of him wanted to drink it, while a separate voice cried out for him to hurl it through the tall expensive windows.

"I've never seen one before," said Trevor. "What am I looking at?"

"Well," started Larkin as he jiggled the center drawer. With each jostle he could see slivers of open space around the drawer. It was maddening. He spoke to calm his nerves. "The top part is the caption of the case. That'll tell you what court you're in and who's suing who. Then you've got the case number over to the side and below all of that you'll find the name of the Justice who wrote the Court's opinion."

"Uh huh," said Trevor. "Both of them are by our guy. Old Birdie Bird."

"Gotcha," spat Larkin. His battle had reached a fever pitch. He knew his fingers would hurt for hours but still he tugged at the handle. He released his grip and exhaled like a steam engine. "Godammit," he muttered. He looked beneath the desk again, struck his head, and repeated the curse.

"Let me break it."

"No."

"Let me break it."

"Fine."

"Here," said Trevor as he handed the opinions to Larkin. "Get current on the law." With a long seer-suckered arm, he steered Larkin clear. He set his drink upon the desktop and studied the target. "This is nice wood," he said in a strange, deep voice just before quickly grabbing the center drawer and tugging with all his might. Larkin was quite surprised. Trevor really put his back into it. As Larkin watched, he pictured his tool box at home filled with a number of items that could have proved useful.

Eventually Trevor released and he fell back against the fat wooden planks of the floor. "I'm going to do it," he panted.

"Yeah," said Larkin as he caught himself eyeing the scotch before glancing down at one of the opinions. He looked at the top page of the opinion in his right hand and then briefly studied the top page of the opinion in his left. Trevor kicked the desk. A brass knob clanked against the floor and rolled beneath the desk.

"They have the same case number," said Larkin, although he knew Trevor did not care. "Same parties too," he mumbled. He flipped to the last page of the opinion in his left hand. Page thirty-two. He next looked at the last page of the second opinion. Thirteen pages. Was one of them just an earlier draft? He flipped back to the top page and noticed a timestamp of sorts on the upper left corner of the document. "It says, submitted to JB, June first." He looked at the other one. "This one was submitted June tenth."

His curiosity was piqued, but the sound of splintering wood was music to his ears. The center drawer swung low, ripped from its wooden frame. Trevor had somehow given the desk a Glasgow smile. The contents spilled onto the floor. Larkin rolled up the opinions and stuffed them in his jeans pocket. His fingers lunged for the evidence in the accumulated pile beneath the desk.

Trevor stood back and caught his breath. He eventually retreated to the globe and watched his friend dig for a lifeline.

"Staples, rubber bands," said Larkin as his hands swatted items over the floorboards. "Blank memo paper, envelopes, pens, pens, more blank paper, boat keys - -"

"Let me see those," Trevor blurted from across the room. Larkin tossed them over his shoulder without a thought. He concentrated on sifting through the mess. But as the items were eventually spread over a wider section of the floor, his heart sank.

"It's not here," he said, even before he had finished digging. He knew his lot in life. Finding a 24k get out of jail free card inside of a desk did not really fit the pattern. His hands lost their ambition. He slowed his search. Trevor poured another drink and the glug-glug sound of the brown liquid leaving the bottle seemed to last forever.

"Nothing," he finally said. "No letter. No pictures. Anthony was wrong. The Justice must have anticipated a search. He either moved them or most likely destroyed them." His fingers grasped a corner of the last unseen piece of paper and he pulled. It was only an attractive invitation to an event to which he would never be permitted to go.

"Larkin," said Trevor, "you're innocent, right?"

Larkin stared at the floor. He could not even admit it to himself. Despite his innocence, his failure only made him feel guilty. In his mind he had already tried the facts and determined the sentence. He would be put away for life, guilty of unabashed idiocy.

"Larkin," snapped Trevor. "Innocent, right?"

Larkin nodded.

"Well that's good," he said. "It will make this easier."

"Make what easier?"

There was a pause. "Damn that's good scotch," said Trevor. "I'm taking the bottle. You know, Larkin? You're one sharp fucker despite what you think. I trust you. So I'm going to trust you to save my ass."

"Save your ass"? Larkin turned. "What are you \- -"

The room had turned into a collection of stutter-stop images from the intense flashes of blue light bursting from the nearby police cars. The strobe effect made everything seem to move incredibly fast yet frozen in place at the same time. With each flash, Larkin watched still images of Trevor in action. In one flash Trevor had tossed the leather chair aside before appearing suddenly adjacent to the globe in the next flash. Trevor gripped the globe by its wooden frame, swung it back like a baseball bat, and hurled it through the window. Glass exploded outward. For a moment Larkin was caught off guard, half-expecting that the sound of the shattering glass would also beat with the staccato rhythm created by the blue light. He got to his feet.

"There has to be a side door," said Trevor, "some other exit. Find it. I'll buy you a minute or two to get your ass out of here. Tobacco farms and cow fields parallel the road. Don't get caught." Stepping through his portal, Larkin could see a smile on Trevor's face. He prayed that the cops would not shoot first and ask questions second.

Larkin headed toward the office door when he heard Trevor shout. "Hey! This didn't break!" Without slowing his momentum, Trevor scooped up the bottle of scotch. He looked one last time at Larkin and dangled the set of keys he had acquired only moments earlier. "Cheers, mate," he said. "Now haul ass."

The flashes of light grew brighter. Police sirens and Trevor's whooping drowned out even the cicadas. Larkin ran.

It was nearly an out of body experience. His legs pumped. His arms pawed at the air as if he could grab hold of an exit and pull it closer. He tripped many times and stumbled into a number of objects. He felt no pain and only winced as one might while watching a pratfall on television.

Even deep in the house, Larkin heard the throaty, gurlgly roar of the engine. Trevor had made it to the boat. Though landlocked, Trevor was now armed with a half-bottle of fine scotch and a three hundred horsepower ski boat. He could keep the cops occupied for quite some time as long as he did not crash into a pier. Larkin prayed he did not crash into a pier.

Presuming he could somehow escape, Larkin did not know where to run or whom to seek. All that mattered at the present was fleeing the house. He flung open a door and bolted into the night. The glimmer of hope brightened as he cleared the expansive yard and reached the thick stand of pine trees. He risked a look behind him half-expecting a SWAT team with dogs. He saw only the looming silhouette of the Justice's house outlined by flashes of blue light. The growl of Trevor's boat diminished as his friend shot out of the cove on his midnight ride.

Larkin worked his way through the woods. Though free for the moment, he knew his chances of proving his innocence had just plunged. Without Trevor and with the law on his tail, his flight was most likely pointless. Still, he raced through the trees as quickly as he dared in the darkness. He had no true thought or plan of action. It was pure survival mode. Legs run. Heart pound. Breathe.

He may have run for just a few minutes or ten times that when he exited the woods and began striding across a wide open field. Federal tobacco and corn subsidy programs had turned what would have been excellent nighttime cover into a fugitive dartboard with Larkin at the bull's eye. Years earlier, he would have been shielded by shoulder high plants with leaves nearly the size of palm fronds. Now with a large moon and only calf-high perennial grasses batting against his jeans, he was the most visible thing for miles. He could run far in any direction, but he could not shake the feeling that he was trapped.

He ran as fast as the moonlight would allow. Stones, cow pies, divots, and the occasional stick - - some of which looked just like rattlesnakes in the dim light - - littered his path. He slowed a bit so as to not stumble and break an ankle. His legs went into cruise control and his mind finally began to wander. Was he simply destined to be the fall guy? Had all of his plans only been the thrashes of an animal fighting to stay alive when it was too dumb to know it was at death's door?

As he reached the top of a small hill he imagined how comical his silhouette must have been. It was a sad loping affair: the Wolfman by way of Quasimodo. Soon his lungs began hacking up all of the spores, dander and whatever else might have been floating in the night air. He slowed his pace further and coughed and spat onto the ground. Eventually, he had to grab both of his knees and just breathe. His stamina was gone. He strained to hear sirens in the distance or even the sound of passing cars from a nearby road, but the cicadas sung their songs loudly and dominated the evening.

Larkin wondered just how far off the beaten path he may have strayed. The question was a swiftly falling domino. How had Anthony been wrong? Would the world come to hate him for sending Trevor to prison? Had they triggered some silent alarm? Perhaps the house was under surveillance due to a perceived threat against the Justice. Hell, a neighbor walking his dog could have seen the lit office light or even Larkin's car before phoning the cops. It could have been any of those things or none. Ultimately it would matter little. Trevor the Gallant had acted bravely, but he had not saved Larkin. Trevor had only prolonged the worry and suffering before imminent doom.

Alone and dry heaving over an anthill, Larkin could do little to save his skin. Within the next thirty minutes his house back in Big Lick would be raided. Within the hour, every cop west of Charlottesville would be looking for the pissant attorney that had, at one time or another, heckled each of them on the witness stand. It would be blue collar badge payback.

Larkin opened his eyes and tried to discern his spittle against the dirt and the ant mound beneath him. "I need help," he whispered.

Madeline was a thought. But getting to her would be nigh impossible. His phone would be tapped and at least one unmarked police car would be idling not twenty yards from her front door. Impossible.

Larkin's breaths slowed as his body finally regained some pep. The adrenaline that had sent him rocketing from the Justice's house had apparently worn off. His limbs ached. Being a fugitive was exhausting.

He stood and looked around him. Perhaps he was ignoring the obvious, some ally in the immediate area. His brain raced as he thought of everyone he might know in or around the Bedford area. A name eventually surfaced, but he chose to proceed through his mental rolodex a second time. Again, he ended with one name and a heaping scoop of trepidation. Using the dark ridges of the mountains as a guide, he headed for a notch in-between two of the taller slopes.

The road leading to Terry Woolwine's driveway was certainly less than a typical road. Despite the condition of the path, it gave Larkin great hope to be near _someone_. He stumbled and bumbled his way up the mountain. Occasionally, he wandered from the path, but he was eventually able to discern where other passersby had worn down the land by both boot and truck tire traffic. Grabbing a narrow dogwood trunk for stability, he suddenly considered Terry's deceased grandfather and whether or not the old man would have performed barrel rolls in his pine box upon seeing the current condition of his property. In the heydays of Appalachian moonshine, Pappy Woolwine was rumored to have never entered his land from the same point twice. Though his large family lived upon his mountain, Pappy Woolwine worked damn hard to hide that fact from anyone who might be curious. No paths marked the mountain in his day. The revenuers were ever vigilant in their hunt for shiners. High speed car chases leading into the mountains were not unheard of. More than one shiner had told Larkin the tale of Pappy Woolwine, pursued by T-men, taking a hidden turn and literally disappearing in the Blue Ridge. Terry had spent half of his adult life trying to locate a cave that supposedly concealed Pappy's souped up old Ford.

Now, with booze nearly as legal as a cup of coffee, the shiners had lost all of their business to state run liquor stores. Later, methamphetamine stole from the shiner those customers who wanted something stronger than store bought booze.

Despite the seeming lack of any identifiable market for the stuff, shiners still littered the hills. It was cultural. Like a bee keeper taking great pride in his honey, so too did the contemporary shiner put pride in his product. Moonshine had transcended the shelf life of a mere marketable business unit to become something that represented a people and a way of life. Families trained younger generations in the practices of good stilling. Though revenuers no longer pursued them into the mountains, the federal laws against shining remained draconian. Mountain men like Terry Woolwine might have been torchbearers to an obsolete and nearly harmless craft, but the risk of federal intrusion was still very real. Knowing Larkin's luck, he'd reach Terry three minutes before the first liquor raid in twenty years.

The path steepened. He fell more than once. As he fumbled in the dark he remembered an article he had read some years before about booby traps laid by marijuana growers. Burmese tiger pits. Poisonous and starving snakes chained to stakes buried beneath the ground. Spring guns. Surely Terry was not so paranoid.

"No snake traps," Larkin mumbled. He soon began repeating the statement as he fought against loose dirt, gravity, and a hundred aches and pains. "No snake traps."

He gritted his teeth as he again fell. A sharp rock sliced open the left leg of his jeans just below the knee. The sensation of warm liquid seeping down his calf let him know just how clumsy he had been. "Please, no snake traps," he whispered as he reached his feet. Pain shot through his leg and soon he was back on the ground. Reaching forward with both hands, he continued for a moment on all fours before realizing he would never reach the top of the mountain. He growled in anger as he made his way to his feet.

Suddenly, movement in the corner of his left eye caught his attention. What could only be described as a ghost chicken ambled through the nearby underbrush. Pale white under the moon, the animal glowed with an eeriness that, before that night, had rarely been seen in poultry. Larkin stared. It almost appeared as if the bird was completely devoid of feathers, a revenant of a thousand chicken dinners, and as awkward and as off-putting as a hamburger patty with fur.

The bird paused as it eyed him. Not a single feather marked its skin.

"Very creepy," said Larkin.

The heart-stopping sound of a pump-action shotgun preparing to fire nearly pulled Larkin right out from his skin. He froze, but allowed his eyes to dart. He saw nothing but thin saplings dotting the steep hillside and the ethereal bird rooting about his feet. The unmistakable sound of the gun could have come from anywhere.

"Please don't shoot," said Larkin.

Twigs snapped and leaves rustled behind him as the person with the gun drew closer.

"I don't have a gun," Larkin said. He tried to raise his hands in the air, but was forced to remain gripping a tree limb due to the steepness of the terrain.

"Who are you? What's your business?" asked a voice so rough, he or she may have had a piece of birch bark in place of a tongue.

"Larkin Monroe. I'm a lawyer. I'm – -"

"Now what in the sam hell is a lawyer doing crawling up my property?" Though the voice was guttural, Larkin could now discern that a woman stood behind him.

"I'm Terry's attorney. I need to see him."

The woman with the gun did not reply. Larkin risked a swivel of the head to see that the double barrel of the gun was pointed straight at the ground. The woman's face remained shrouded in shadow, but the silhouette of her body was clearly defined. She was all shoulders, as stooped and seemingly as strong as the mountains themselves. She would take no gruff from a smart-mouthed ambulance chaser from the Star City.

"So you're a lawyer," the woman repeated. "Terry's lawyer."

"Yes."

"And anything you see up here, you can't tell no one right? Privileges or something, right?"

"Not a word. Client-attorney privilege,"

"Would they put you in jail?"

Larkin stared at the gun. "Worse."

The silhouette cocked her head to the right. "What's worse than that?"

"I'd lose my license."

"Your license?" The woman laughed. "I don't see how that's exactly worse." She laughed again. "But I suppose it only matters if _you_ think it's worse, right?"

"Right."

"No license, no big money, right?"

"Bingo."

"Lawyers," said the woman. "Leaping lawyers." She smacked her knee. "Well come on then."

She reached her free hand toward Larkin. Larkin grasped it. Her fingers were strong and her skin felt like worn canvas. Yanking on his hand, she forcefully directed him toward the ghost chicken.

"Go on and grab that bird yonder," she said.

"Excuse me?"

The woman smacked Larkin in the shoulder and pointed to the ghost chicken haunting the nearby tree stump.

"You're serious?"

"It's what I was fixing to do until I found lawyers crawling round my trees. Once I saw you, I went back and grabbed the gun, figured you to be trouble. You ain't that are you?"

"Not at all."

"I thought so. Now just go and grab that bird and I'll lead you back to the fire."

"I could hold the gun," offered Larkin. The chicken stepped into a shaft of moonlight revealing the featherless hide. Dozens of small divots pockmarked the chicken's flesh where the plumage had once taken root.

"I ain't letting some city lawyer hold my gun," said the woman. "You'll trip and kill us both."

"You have a point there."

"Oh I have my points. Don't try none of that arguing with me, lawyer. I always get right to my points. Sides, if I go back to the house to set down the gun, that bird will be halfway down the mountain or some mountain cat's dinner."

"Right. Did it get out of your stew pot or something?"

"Just grab it round the breast. She won't peck you or nothing."

"Jesus," whispered Larkin as he approached the bird. The chicken regarded him for a moment before stumbling over a stick. Sad featherless wings flapped for balance as the bird continued to falter.

"What's wrong with it?" asked Larkin. "Is it sick? Bird flu?"

"Nah, the poor thing's drunk. Come on then. She'll be easy to get."

"Right," Larkin repeated.

"Don't you like picking up drunk chicks?" asked the woman. She cackled at her joke all the while sounding like a backfiring lawn mower.

Larkin approached the bird. Though he lumbered and made plenty of noise, his quarry seemed somewhat oblivious. It regarded the dark world through the same glassy eyes that Larkin had sometimes viewed the courtroom.

Holding his breath, he lunged. Surprisingly, he was able to get his hands around the chicken's torso without much difficulty. He immediately felt that he was gripping the bird too tightly and relaxed just a bit. The skin felt warm and smooth. A tiny heart furiously beat beneath his fingers. The fragility of the small animal gave him pause. It was much lighter than he had imagined.

"There you go, lawyer man," said the woman with satisfaction. "On with you," she said as she pointed the gun up the hill.

Rather than blaze the trail with a chicken, Larkin waited for the woman with the gun to begin her trek up the hillside. He held the chicken's warm and wiggling body as far from himself as his arms would allow. To prevent another fall, he carefully studied the woman's steps and tried to mimic her footstep placement. Eventually, they reached the top. Larkin was squinting at his surroundings when a large dog leaped at him from the shadows.

He screamed and held his chicken high in the air. The dog, an ugly mix between a Rottweiler and a large chainsaw bared its teeth and struggled to extend the length of rope that had prevented the dog from mauling Larkin.

"Hush up!" cried the woman to the dog, but it just ignored her command and continued to bark at Larkin and gnaw at the empty air. The poor chicken's heart beat so rapidly, Larkin was certain the poor ghastly thing was about to go into cardiac arrest.

"He won't be a bother," said the woman. "Come on then."

Larkin made a wide arcing turn around the dog and followed the woman to the rear of a log cabin. As soon as they turned a corner, the bright orange light of a bonfire blinded him. He had been in the woods for hours.

As they neared the fire, Larkin made out five or six men sitting on split log benches. He could not immediately see if Terry was among them.

"Over here," said the woman with a wave. Larkin followed her voice to a chicken wire circular enclosure that appeared to have been hastily constructed. Seven equally bald chickens stumbled around the inner perimeter of the fence. They bumped into each, clucked insults or drunken salutations, and staggered on their way. Larkin gently placed his catch into the pen.

"That'll be the last of them," said the woman as she crossed her arms and stared at the sad flock. "Say, why did the chicken cross the road?"

"Why is that?"

"Because she wanted to show that old fool the possum how it's done that's why."

"Ha," said Larkin without really considering what her punch line could possibly mean.

"Millie," said the woman with an extended hand.

"Larkin," he said as he shook it.

"Mr. Monroe!"

Larkin turned. Terry galloped toward them from the bonfire. "How in heckfire did you know where I live?"

"I've been sending you unpaid legal bills for three or four years now."

"But I don't have a mailbox."

"I know."

"So is this visit for socializing?" asked Millie. Her rough voice didn't so much as pierce the night as it sandpapered it to the death. It was quite obvious that she was getting a bit of a kick from Larkin's presence.

"This is my aunt Millie," said Terry.

Larkin smiled. "We've met. I picked up a chicken."

Terry skipped to the side and looked through the fence. "Well good for you. Did you get them all?" His pointer finger bounced up and down as he counted heads.

"All of them," said Millie. "Though, it should have been your dumbass out scooping them up that's for sure. Should I be setting up a plate or coffee?" she asked.

Terry turned. "Well, I'm supposing that Mr. Monroe is here because he's in some sort of hot water over something. Maybe we should ask him."

"That's who I was asking," spat Millie.

"Me?" Larkin thought. His needs transcended anything the woman could provide. But his throat was dry. "Maybe something to drink? Water?"

Terry grinned. "She'll go on and get you fixed up with some water, Mr. Monroe. Come on over here and you can sip on something with a kick in it."

"You in hot stew, lawyer?" asked Millie.

"You could say that."

"And what kind are they cooking you in?"

Terry banged the butt of his palm to the side of his head and rolled his eyes. One of the chickens fell on its face. "Ain't you been up on the news?" asked Terry. "I thought you read the paper."

"Last week's," said Millie. I get last week's from Ms. Higgenbotham down in the holler."

Terry grinned. "Well you're going to enjoy reading about Mr. Monroe next week--he's wanted for murder."

"Murder?" Millie squawked. Her fingers tightened about the stock of her weapon.

Larkin raised his hands, palms outward, in the universal sign of _I'm too pathetic to kill anyone_. He was about to speak when Terry cut him off.

"He's done been framed," he said.

"Framed you say!" Millie shouted. "Framed by who?" She looked earnestly to each man. The orange spark of the fire in the distance glowed brightly in her bifocals. Her eyes remained hidden behind the bright reflection, but Larkin knew she stood wide-eyed and curious as hell.

"The government," said Larkin.

Millie nodded slowly as if in agreement. "The government." She clucked her tongue and more than one of the chickens answered in kind. She reached out to shake Larkin's hand for a second time. Apparently, being pursued by Uncle Sam and Aunt Virginia was all Millie needed to hear. She shook vigorously.

"I'll go on and fetch you some water and maybe a towel to clean up," said Millie. "You look like you been hanging out in a tree all night. I sure hope everything works out with you being framed and all."

"You can read all about it next week," said Larkin.

Millie shook her head and sighed before turning back to the log cabin.

Not even waiting for Terry, Larkin began lumbering toward the benches by the fire. The thought of sitting down overrode everything else. He dropped himself upon a vacant spot next to a shirtless man covered in tattoos. The night was not cool, but the fire was still comforting in a way. Five men, in various stages of grizzle turned to inspect the new addition.

"This is my lawyer!" Terry shouted. He reached the periphery of the fire and literally skipped in the air before pointing to Larkin. "Larkin Monroe."

The men responded with head nods and mumbled greetings.

"Come again?" asked the older man with the attractive ebony pipe perched at the corner of his mouth.

Terry cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "This here is my lawyer, Uncle Donnie," Terry bellowed. "His name is Mr. Monroe."

Uncle Donnie scowled at Terry. "You yelled like a damn fool the first time, and now you done deafened me the second time."

"It's his lawyer," said the man next to Larkin. "Monroe."

"That's what I thought he said."

Larkin rubbed his aching calf muscles. He ran his fingers down the length of each shinbone but winced in pain. He grazed a laceration set deep beneath his left knee. With a curse caught in his teeth, Larkin pitched his head back. The stars shone bright and clear overhead, but his watering eyes quickly blurred them all away. He counted to ten before lowering his head and returning his attention to the fire to see Uncle Donnie pointing directly at him from across the flames.

"I know you," said Uncle Donnie.

"Oh?" asked Larkin. "Speeding ticket? Public intoxication?"

"Nah, nah. This was back, oh, maybe ten years ago. You was handling that case for those brothers . . . the Wolford boys."

"Wolford," said Larkin. "Can't say I recall."

The man to Larkin's left leaned forward. Clear liquid splashed from his half-full mason jar. "You mean, Billy and Jarrett Wolford?" the man asked Uncle Donnie.

Uncle Donnie nodded.

Larkin wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. When he opened them he saw that someone, most likely Terry, had placed a mason jar filled to the brim with a tan liquid right in front of his feet. "Don't recall," said Larkin as he gripped the jar in his right hand. He held the jar to the fire and noticed that a cinnamon stick and two apple slices bobbed in the liquid.

"That there's apple pie," said the tattooed man. Larkin looked at the man's right arm and had trouble discerning whether the man had a really large bicep, or just a really large tattoo of a confederate flag on his bicep.

Larkin sipped his drink. It tasted like Fourth of July and burned like a sparkler in his gut. "Goddamn," said Larkin. He held the drink away from him in an act of caution.

"That might be the best one," said the tattooed man. "There's a peach cobbler too, but the apple is the best."

"Since when is moonshine made from the dessert menu?" gasped Larkin. Though masked by concentrated apple pie flavoring, the drink still burned in his stomach.

"Careful you don't get that too near the fire," said one of the other men. "She's a bit high octane," he said with a grin.

"Damn, Mr. Monroe," said Terry. "It looks like your legs done been cut up pretty good. Did someone do that to you?"

"Myself," said Larkin. He raised his jar to Terry. "This is incredible. How strong is this stuff?"

"Strong. You want me to go tell Millie to get some bandages and first aid?"

Larkin took another sip. It tasted exactly like a slice of apple pie followed by napalm. "Sure," he said with a cough as his limbs warmed. Terry took off toward the cabin.

"Don't treat it lightly," said the man in the red baseball hat. He raised his jar and swirled the contents with a cinnamon stick. "It will knock your dick in a creek."

Larkin nodded, slightly confused. He sipped it again. He felt a bit of energy return to his limbs, but he knew it was false energy. The devil's vim. While he still had most of his wits, he reached into his pants pocket and retrieved the two folded judicial opinions that he had swiped from the Justice's home. The firelight cast the documents in a golden light and he could clearly read the two timestamps at the top of the pages.

"What you got there?" asked Uncle Donnie.

"Judicial opinions," said Larkin. "Decisions from on high."

"Just like a lawyer," said Uncle Donnie. "Never stop working even round fireside."

Larkin half-smiled and scanned the pages. The opinions were complicated. The case, the same for each opinion, seemed to involve a large freight rail station to be constructed just north-east of Big Lick. Bedford County had apparently contested the station and the right for the railroad to use the land. The opinions were crammed with land-use legal gobbledy-gook that even he had a difficult time understanding. But when he finally reached the end, one thing was clear. The opinions contradicted each other. The longer opinion found for the railroad. It reversed the trial court's decision and allowed the railroad to build the multi-million dollar station on a plot of land currently used as an apple orchard. The language was dense, but even Larkin could see that the author had performed some judicial acrobatics to reach a reversal. The shorter opinion was coherent and logical. More significantly, it affirmed the trial court's decision and seemingly prevented the railroad from going anywhere near that apple orchard.

"What's it say?" asked Uncle Donnie.

Larkin shook his head. He took another sip.

"If it wasn't clear before, son," said Uncle Donnie, "more of that ain't going to help. He done defended them Wolford brothers after they got caught by the feds," continued Uncle Donnie to everyone and no one. "They was arrested and no bail. They had to stay in for four months until their trial. They had no criminal record mind you."

"That ain't Billy and Jarrett," said one of them. Larkin folded the opinions and placed them back in his pocket. He shrugged his shoulders and took another sip.

"This was years ago," said Uncle Donnie. He made a swatting motion with his left hand before gripping his pipe and drawing slowing from the mouthpiece. A smoke ring popped out of his mouth but disappeared somewhere above the flames. "It was before all that mess with the knife out at the Snuggery."

"Isn't Billy dead?" asked one of the men.

"So how did you tear up your leg?" interrupted the man in the red hat.

Larkin took another sip. He raised his right leg and held it before the fire. His jeans clung to the wound, but the bloodstain was huge. Fortunately, the apple pie had already begun chasing the pain away. "I was escaping a bunch of cops. I had to run in the woods for hours trying to find this place."

"For real?" asked the tattooed man.

Larkin nodded. "I fell down . . . more than once." Larkin took another sip. With a fire now burning in his chest, perspiration dotted his brow. He gazed at each man for a moment. "Yep. This place is my last bastion of hope." He turned to the tattooed man. "You can ask Millie all about it next week."

"So the cops are looking for you?" asked the tattooed man.

"Afraid so." He lightly elbowed the confederate flag to his left. A few drops flew from the open mouth of Larkin's jar and into the fire. "So what the hell is with the chickens, anyway?"

The men laughed softly and shot knowing glances to one another but Uncle Donnie crossed his arms and frowned as if he had just swallowed horseradish-flavored shine. "Terry knocked over a barrel of mash," he said. "Idiot didn't clean it up in time and the chickens done pecked a good amount away."

"Mash?" asked Larkin. "You mean like the stuff used for fermenting?"

Another soft round of laughter complimented the crackling of the fire. "You darn right," said Uncle Donnie. "Corn mash. Chickens loved it. By the time he done remembered to clean it up, the chickens was all down for the count. He thought they were dead. Truth is, that was some potent mash because not even Millie could tell they was still alive. They was just sleeping it off you see."

Larkin nodded. "And because you thought they were dead already . . ."

"You got it, counselor," said one of the men, grinning sideburn to sideburn.

Uncle Donnie cleared his throat. He was obviously a man who demanded center stage. "They thought the best thing to do would be to pluck and clean them. Maybe cook a few and freeze the others. So Millie hung 'em on the clothesline and set to plucking them and was nearly done with the lot when they started rousing. They woke up still drunk and bald as a trailer hitch."

Two of the men erupted in laughter. Larkin's neighbor laughed so hard he nearly shook him off of the log.

"They got away when Millie's back was turned," said Uncle Donnie. He shook his head, but it was unclear whether this was because of his displeasure with Terry or the simple absurdity of the situation. Perhaps neither. "The two of them have spent half the evening hunting naked chickens."

Larkin turned and gazed in the direction of the chicken coop. "Will they survive?"

Uncle Donnie leaned back and chewed on the end of his pipe. He seemed disinterested in answering Larkin's question. His tale had finished and that was that.

"Maybe," said the confederate. "It's better that it happened in warmer weather. Poor things would have died of cold in the winter. Feathers won't grow back neither."

"Sure will," said the man in the red hat to Uncle Donnie's right.

The tattooed man shook his head.

"Hell yes they will," said the man across the fire. He shot an angry look.

"Feathers don't grow back," the tattooed man insisted. "They got plucked. It ain't hair you know."

The man across the fire stared at Larkin and his log mate in silence for a moment. "I know it ain't hair," he finally said. "But that shit will grow back."

"Bullshit."

"Fuck you."

The tattooed man crossed his arms. The southern flag curled and stretched as the bicep flexed. "Shut your mouth, Randy."

Uncle Donnie blew a smoke ring into Randy's face. "Knock it off."

Loud footsteps signaled Terry's return. "She's going to fix you up, Mr. Monroe. Now," he sat onto a bit of bench next to Uncle Donnie, forcing him to slide closer to Randy. "How can I help you?"

Larkin swirled his drink. "You're actually doing it right now. Other than this, I don't know. I'm pretty much just screwed."

"That's a shame," said Randy.

"Who here ain't been screwed before?" asked one of the men. Randy smiled. "Not that kind of screwed," said another.

"Did he say he was screwed?" asked Uncle Donnie. He leaned in from his spot on the bench. "Why do you feel like you're screwed? Can't you do your lawyer thing and get out of it?"

Larkin stared at the fire.

"He'll work his way out of it," said Terry. "Mr. Monroe is the smartest man I know."

"Did you know I'm not even a real lawyer?" asked Larkin. "I didn't even go to law school."

"For real?" asked the tattooed man.

"I read for the bar. That means I worked for a guy who signed off on this thing that Virginia allows that . . . it was a paper that . . ." Larkin took another sip. "I just never went. No law degree."

"So how can you practice law?" asked Uncle Donnie.

"I have a law license," said Larkin. "I don't have a degree from a law school, but I have a license. It's like this loophole thing in the state law regarding lawyers."

"Huh," said Uncle Donnie with a nod. He puffed on his pipe and nodded. "How long you been practicing law?"

"Twelve years," said Larkin, "maybe thirteen."

"Huh."

"Ain't that something," said Randy.

The man with the long beard who had quietly sat in between Randy and the confederate shook his head. "Tomorrow I'm going to go and get my own law license," he said.

Randy laughed. "Who you going to sue?"

"I'll start with the post office," said the man.

"For real?" asked the tattooed man.

Randy laughed. "He's been drinking for hours."

Uncle Donnie spat his pipe into his hand, flipped it over, and smacked it against the heel of his palm. He then blew through the mouthpiece. A high-pitched whistle punctuated the night. "So you never went to law school," said Uncle Donnie as he inspected the empty bowl of the pipe.

"Right," said Larkin.

Uncle Donnie reached into his chest pocket and withdrew a small tightly wound plastic bag. He unfurled it with a flick of his wrist and withdrew a pinch of dark material and stuffed it into the pipe. "You didn't have to pay for none of that schooling."

"No."

"You've been practicing law for over a decade," said Uncle Donnie as he flicked his lighter. "Legally. And all because you found some loophole. That sounds like smart lawyering to me."

Randy chuckled and nodded his head. "You know, that's making some sense there," he said.

"Not everyone has an eye for that stuff," said Uncle Donnie.

Larkin raised his jar of fire water in appreciation and Uncle Donnie reciprocated. The man's little comment had truly and surprisingly made him feel good inside.

He took another sip and as the now familiar heat subsided he noticed that Millie had silently appeared next to him. She peered at his leg and shook her head as if what she saw just would not do. "I think it stopped bleeding," he said.

"Got ourselves into a fight with a good sharp rock did we?" she asked with a cluck of her tongue.

"You don't win those fights," said Randy. He stood and stretched. "Anyone up for some food?"

"Paper covers rock," said the bearded man.

"You going to cook those burgers up?" someone asked.

Terry pointed to Larkin's drink as Mille kneeled to the ground. She pulled some items from her apron pocket but Larkin could not see what she had brought. "You're going to want to sip that faster," he said to Larkin. A smirk appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"Why's that?" he asked. "And I don't like your face right now."

Millie spat into her left hand and appeared to knead something dark and soft. "Because when I put on this poultice," she said, "it's going to hurt like all get out for about twenty seconds before the oils set in."

"Poultice? You're going to put a poultice on my leg?"

"It will stop the bleeding, disinfect the wound, and knock that pain right away. Course Terry is right. Drinking helps."

"Amen," said the man in the beard. He raised his jar and saluted the fire.

Randy nodded and turned. "Shout if you want a burger before I come back," he said.

"I want two," said the bearded man.

"Done and done," said Randy as he disappeared from view.

"No!" shouted the bearded man. "Medium! In fact, make that medium rare." He looked at Uncle Donnie. "Rare for the blood you know."

"But what for the brain?" Uncle Donnie asked the fire.

"So what's in the poultice?" asked Larkin. "Other than your spit."

"Cayenne to clot the blood," said Millie as she worked the poultice furiously with her fingertips. "Valerian for the pain. Some other things."

"You're going to put cayenne pepper on an open wound?" His hand brought the mason jar to his lips as if in reflex, but he did not move his leg. It could have been exhaustion or sheer apathy. He was at the bottom of a deep well of misery. Given his circumstances, what was the point in complaining about someone seasoning him up a bit?

"That'll sting like a son of a bitch," said Uncle Donnie.

"Mmm hmmm," nodded Terry. "Like a bunch of little ole bee stings. Drink up, Mr. Monroe."

Larkin obliged Terry and swallowed a large gulp of apple pie.

"Also, some other things," continued Mille. "Some extracts, some mushrooms I thought I'd done used up, and some other things." She looked up and gave him a wink. "Don't worry your tail off. I've been making poultices for a long time." She held up her hand. In the center of her strong outstretched fingers lay a mound of dark moist material. "Take a smell of that."

"I think the apple pie burned out my nose." His rejection was of no use. Millie forced the poultice upon him, her fingers nearly in his nostrils. Larkin fought against it, but the mound of dirt and spit was just too pungent. "Jesus," said Larkin.

"What's it smell like?" asked the tattooed man.

Larkin's eyes watered. "I don't know. Fear?"

Mille shrugged and kneaded the poultice just a few more times before gripping Larkin's right ankle with the strength of an iron manacle. "Don't you go and kick me in the fire now."

Larkin held his breath and closed his eyes as he waited for the pain to begin. A strange metallic squeaking noise became audible and then increased in volume. His curiosity got the best of him and he opened his eyes to see Randy pushing a beaten up, wire framed shopping cart literally onto the fire. He was about to ask when Millie slapped the poultice onto his leg. She pressed the moist clod deep into the wound and refused to lessen the pressure despite his screams begging the contrary. Eyes streamed tears and teeth gnashed. He did try to kick Millie into the fire, but the woman was made of strong and sturdy stuff. She did not budge.

"What did he say?" asked Uncle Donnie.

"I don't know," said Terry. "But I bet it's that cayenne pepper talking."

"Don't get tossed in the fire now," said Uncle Donnie.

"Shit," said Terry. "Mr. Monroe is a badass but he ain't got an inch on Millie."

Close to twenty seconds later, the flesh-eating sensation subsided followed by a sudden burst of cooling as if he had just dipped his leg into a mountain stream.

He opened his eyes, but the world swam behind an inch of tears. Millie stood, clapped her hands with a bit of dramatic flair and stepped back to consider her work. "That looks like it will hold. You keep your leg upright like that for at least thirty if not forty-five minutes. When it's all said and done, you won't be bleeding or feeling a thing."

Larkin wanted to ask what the hell was wrong with a band-aid and an ibuprofen, but he merely wiped the tears from his eyes. As his vision cleared, the bizarre scene in front of him took shape. Randy stood atop the log bench and stretched his left arm over the shopping cart.

"Watch yourself," said Uncle Donnie as he grabbed the back of Randy's belt. Randy leaned further and liberally sprayed the blackened center of the shopping cart with cooking spray. The fire flared and Randy leaned back as the heat threatened to singe more than just his fingertips.

"Dumbass," said Larkin's log-mate. "You're supposed to spray the cart before putting it over the fire."

Satisfied with his performance, Randy hopped off of the log and stooped low to the ground. He picked up a plate stacked with ground beef patties. A long spatula protruded from his front pocket. With great precision he began placing the patties onto the wire-frame center of the cart. "You want a burger, counselor?"

"Is that a Weber grill?" Larkin asked.

"Big Lots," said Uncle Donnie.

"Burger," repeated Larkin, though he did not know why. He stared at the fire. His muscles felt unusual. He was exhausted, that was obvious. But an energy flowed through him. Though he had run for most of the night, he suddenly felt as if he could vault the shopping cart grill if he really wanted. His skin tingled. He repeatedly stroked the fabric of his jeans.

The energy reached his brain and quickened his thoughts and played with his vision. Where the fire had earlier seemed merely a blend of oranges and reds, he now saw small sparks of gold and silver twinkling between the flames. "What's that?" he asked, transfixed by the light. "Did someone throw something in the fire?"

"Randy's just cooking up some burgers on the cart," said Terry.

"No," said Larkin. "Right there," he said as he pointed to the fireworks display beneath the cart. "It's getting brighter." Several of the sparks flew into each other, coalesced, and then burst into copper-colored carnations of light. "Wow. Did you see that?"

Terry squinted and peered into fire. "I don't . . ." He shook his head.

"Damn!" shouted Larkin as he elbowed the confederate flag to his left. The sparks showered as if a demon welder was hard at work at the base of the fire. "My God, that's something to see right there."

The scene went quiet except for the sizzling of the burgers and the sounds of grown men scratching their heads and beards. Somewhere in the distance, a naked chicken clucked.

Larkin was hypnotized. The fire had come alive, a swirling slurry of exploding lights and small indescribable objects that must have been torn from heaven. It seemed so radiant, everything that surrounded it had no life, no importance. It was just the fire. "It's just the fire."

"How much of the shine did the lawyer have?" asked Uncle Donnie.

"He's hardly had half," said the bearded man.

The men continued to speak, but Larkin paid no mind. He was away, far away. His heart thumped like a drum and his muscles were electrified. A light in the distance shimmered.

"Hope," he whispered as he stood. He would find the light.

"Aw hell," said Uncle Donnie.

The office phone rang. Larkin re-scattered the mountain range of documents on his desk.

"Phone," Larkin called, projecting his voice toward his office door and the hallway that led to Charisma's desk. A manila folder poked out from beneath a stack of Virginia Lawyer's Weekly newspapers. He gripped the corner with his fingers and pulled. The periodicals tumbled to the floor. The folder was bare. The phone rang.

"Charisma, phone!"

He picked up his expired edition of the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure and tossed it aside revealing a fifty-page judicial opinion from the Court of Appeals. He stared at it for a moment. When he felt convinced that he had already seen it, he discarded it on the floor.

"Christ," he spat. The phone rang. "Phone!"

"Don't be taking his name like that," snapped Charisma. "He heard it and he don't like it." Her frame took up the majority of space in the doorway.

"I'll say or not say whatever the hell you want if you pick up the damn phone," said Larkin.

"It ain't ringing, Larkin," said Charisma.

Larkin looked up. "What?"

"Check your desk."

Larkin straightened himself and then took a step away. The documents appeared to have multiplied. The newspapers had seemingly reappeared. "The Franklin case," said Larry. "I need the Franklin case. I also had a motion to compel here too . . . somewhere."

"No you do not. That was a case you needed years ago. You filed the motion too. Over and done with, dear. Dead as Tuesday. Don't you remember?" The phone rang.

"Just get the phone, would you?

"Stop!" Charisma clapped her strong hands together. She appeared as she always did: an ample blouse of flowery fabric to cover her curves, a head full of store-bought curls - - but the expensive kind - - and vivid brown eyes that could hug you at twenty yards. "You don't have a phone."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"Show me where. Where is your phone, Larkin? Find it for me."

Again, Larkin looked down at his desk. He stopped thinking of the case and his motion and tried to identify his familiar gray office phone among the ruins of his desktop filing system. He shifted enough papers to be sure. "It's not here."

"That's because there isn't a phone, honey."

"Then what the hell is ringing?"

"I don't hear any ringing." Charisma raised her eyebrows and cocked her head. The office was silent. She smirked. It was the same expression she made every time she knew something that he didn't. It was a face he had often seen.

"That's . . . odd," he finally said. His fingers ran through his hair.

"That's all you've got to say?"  
"What would you have me say?"

Charisma rolled her eyes. "How about, 'Hi, Charisma, the greatest secretary I've ever had, it is so nice to see you,' or, 'wow Charisma, you look good for being dead these long years.' You know I don't like to break rules, either."

Larkin nodded. "That's for sure. Dotted your I's and crossed those T's."

"Don't you forget it. How long have I been dead anyway?"

Larkin thought for a moment. "Two years."

"Well then you know how good I look." She inspected her blouse and scowled. "But this." She tugged at the fabric. "I never _ever_ wore this."

"You loved that shirt."

"It's hideous. No. Hideous doesn't have enough syllables. It's . . . whatever that word is."

"That's your . . . green and yellow flower shirt," said Larkin. He smiled and pointed to the golden hibiscus blossoming above her left breast. "It's your favorite shirt. Isn't it?" He shook his head. "No. I know it. That's your favorite shirt."

"You crazy. Turn that finger toward the corner."

"What?"

Charisma pointed to the refrigerator. "You poisoned your mind. Wine, both old and new, shall rob my people of their senses."

Larkin nodded. "A poisoned mind is better than a poisoned heart."

Charisma smiled. "Amen. But you don't even know what that means. It just sounds good. Wise as all get out if you knew what it meant. And you don't. But that was always your thing."

"What?" asked Larkin. "Tap dancing?"

"In a way." She cocked her head again and a long curled lock of someone else's hair dangled across her face. She brushed it away as she shook her head. "No. I take that back. That's what you think. A dancer just follows the steps, right? You don't follow anything."

Larkin grinned. "Would you like to waltz?"

"Hush. But that's what I mean. What you do is more than that. It ain't just dancing. You hit just the right words." She smacked her hands together again. "Hammer on the nail. All the time. Never a miss."

"Thanks," said Larkin.

"Oh, don't you give me that tone."

"What tone?"

She crossed her arms.

Larkin crossed his. "I don't need a pep talk, Charisma."

"You're right on that. What you need is pep boot camp. But you ain't going to get it. This is it."

Larkin sat in his chair. Both he and the leather sighed.

"Oh," said Charisma. "I see." Her eyes narrowed. "I'm listening," said Larkin and waved his hand.

"No you're not. You're hearing me out. I ain't one of your clients."

Larkin said nothing. He rocked a bit in his chair.

"It's a blessing, Larkin. A god-given gift. You could talk a snail out of his shell in a salt mine."

"Thanks, Charisma. And I mean that."

Charisma shook her head. "I know. You've heard this before haven't you?"

Larkin shrugged.

"Exactly, you have heard this before, but you never listened. If you had, you wouldn't still be in this place. You just go on hearing people out."

"I thought you liked this office," said Larkin.

"I liked my job. This office . . ." Her eyes scanned the floor, the walls, and even the ceiling. She clucked her tongue.

"It is what it is," said Larkin.

Charisma smirked again. "So said everyone who ever waved a little white flag in the air."

Larkin rolled his eyes. "I'm not giving up."

"You're right about that. You done already gave up." She stomped her foot as Larkin's attention drifted to the window. "Do you even know where you are?" He opened his mouth but Charisma raised her finger. "Drunk, drugged and stupid. That's where you are. You're surrounded by fools and you done did what the Romans do."

"I need help."

Charisma shook her head so emphatically, Larkin thought one or two curls might spring loose and fly freely across the room. "You just need yourself right now."

A woman with red hair tinged with strands of white peeked her head in the inner office. Thick glasses obscured her eyes. She looked at Charisma questioningly and then to Larkin.

Charisma clasped her hands. "Who's that Larkin?"

"That's Professor Newton from college. I was an English minor."

"Why is she here?"

Professor Newton cocked her head strangely as she regarded Charisma before returning her gaze to Larkin. With a quick shake of her head, she indicated whole-hearted disapproval.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" asked Charisma. Her words were kind, even her tone was kind, but her voice boomed.

Professor Newton rolled her eyes, turned and left.

"What was that, Larkin?" asked Charisma.

Larking closed his eyes and rocked on his feet. "I remember . . . a seminar. Southern literature. The mystical minority. Something like that."

"Larkin this is between you and me. And after that, it's between you and the rest of the world and God almighty. I don't care what your critical subconscious English minor thinks of me. I earned every bit of who I am. And your conscious mind better listen up."

Larkin exhaled. He wanted to sigh, _loudly_ , but the sound alone would prompt Charisma to hunt for a hard object to throw at him. He reclined in his chair.

"Do you remember the Murray case?" Charisma asked.

Larkin rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. "Murray . . . Murray." He shook his head. "Not ringing a bell."

Another cluck of the tongue. "Not surprising." She stared at his desk for a moment before a smile appeared. "Here," she said as she reached her hands deep into the mess of documents, "does this help?" She picked up clumps of paper off of the desk and tossed them over her shoulders. Papers flapped through the air as she threw more and more. The desk became the eye of a legal snow storm. "Charisma!" she shouted in her deepest voice, ostensibly portraying Larkin. "Put the phone on hold and get in here." She flung a stack of documents onto Larry's lap. "I need you to help me find this case."

"The Murray case," said Larkin. "Got it." Charisma paused and studied him, unsure of whether or not he truly remembered. "Jacob Murray," he said. "Drug case. Fourth Amendment search and seizure issue. The seized drugs should have been suppressed by the judge. That evidence should never have seen the light of day in a courtroom." He squinted as he attempted to recall how the matter had actually panned out.

"Do you remember what you wanted me to help you find?"

Larkin nodded, slowly, but he nodded. "Yes. There was a case on point. Old precedent from the Supreme Court of Virginia. It mirrored the facts of the Murray case exactly. The reasoning was spot on."

"Bull."

"Bull?"

"Big bull. Huffing, scraping his hoof and with horns the size of bowling pins."

Larkin smiled.

"You can't even remember, Larkin." Once more, she gave the office refrigerator a brief blast of her heat vision. "That case never existed."

"We never found it . . . " said Larkin slowly.

"Because it never happened!" Her brown eyes blazed. "That perfect case with the perfect reasoning was all in your head."

"Was it?" He fumbled with the knot in his tie. The memory of the entire incident was shrouded in a thick haze.

"Yes." Her fist pounded upon one of the few documents remaining on Larkin's desk. "But you did argue from it, remember? You made that case up, a figment of a genius imagination. A stupid genius." Charisma raised her arms and balled her fists. "All of those perfect arguments that your missing case stood for, all of those pitch-perfect points that you needed, came right from your own intoxicated brain. And you shouted those arguments, even if you couldn't pass them off as your own."

She dropped her arms and shook her head. Larkin felt as if the two of them were in a strange fight, with both losing.

"We tore this place apart," Charisma continued. "We even combed the online data bases later. We never found it. Do you remember how the _Murray_ case ended?"

Larkin nodded. "Evidence suppressed and case dismissed."

"Remember why?" She did not let him answer. "It was because you knew it, not some dead judges on some old court. You. You didn't know what the law was, you knew what the law had to be. You called it tap dancing, standing there in front of judge so-and-so without your security blanket precedent. You laid it out. It was you, just you. You needed no one else. And that drug dealing heathen went free."

Larkin studied the tropical flowers bursting in bright colors on her blouse. He scratched his chin. "God, I miss you, Charisma."

She smiled. "I miss you too."

Warm comforting sunlight suddenly beamed through his office window. The room glowed golden.

"I'm in such shit right now," said Larkin.

"Yes. Yes you are."

"What should I do?"

"I don't know," said Charisma, "but you do."

"Are you really a ghost?"

Charisma just smiled.

"I don't think you are."

The golden light intensified.

"I take that back," said Charisma. "I do know what you need to do. Use your words, Larkin. You have everything you need in hand to solve this."

The light was blinding. Larkin shielded his eyes with his sleeve.

Water rushed down Larkin's throat and into his lungs. He coughed, but no air came. He opened his eyes, but saw nothing but a dark swirl. He swallowed more water. He was drowning.

A hand gripped the back of his jacket collar and gave a good yank. Air struck his face as Larkin was flung from the water. He rolled onto his back and then his side. He vomited on the ground. Half of a walnut shell fell from his hair.

"There you go," said Millie. "Get your poison out, Mr. Monroe. Help him up, Terry."

Larkin opened his eyes. The sun shone and the sky spun. Hands curled under his armpits, but he swatted them away. He coughed and spat. "What the hell is going on?" he finally managed.

"You had a bit of a reaction," said Terry.

Larkin wiped the water from his eyes with his sleeve. He scooted up a bit and took his bearings. A goat ambled up to the water trough where he had nearly drowned. The goat looked at him briefly before lowering his furry face into the trough.

"Reaction to what? What time is it? What the hell happened?" Terry reached down to help him a second time, but Larkin again swatted him away.

"It was the poultice," said Terry.

"Hell no it weren't," said Millie. "It was Terry who done put his stash in my herbal cabinet." She crouched down next to Larkin. Her face was a crisscross of wrinkles in the sunlight. "Terry done put his morning glory seeds in my things."

"Morning glories? Like the flower?" asked Larkin. "In the poultice?"

Mille coughed before taking a drag of her pungent menthol. "He got them off the Craigheads. Natural buzz and such."

Larkin looked to Terry. "You put magic mushrooms in that thing on my leg?"

"No, Mr. Monroe!" shouted Terry with the same victimized look on his face that Larkin had seen at least four times in court. "I never bought that stuff. T.J. gave it to me after I gave him my old Playstation. He just thought that Millie's shelf was where we kept that stuff. He saw her bags up there. You can ask, Mr. Monroe. Honest."

Larkin stared at the goat. It turned its long head toward him and stared back. Strange horizontal pupils scanned the scene. Water droplets fell from a wispy beard.

"That's Trinity," said Terry. "Like from the Matrix."

Trinity blinked. Larkin dug his hands into the dirt. "Dear, God," he said. "What did I ever do?" He looked to the sky.

"What's that?" asked Millie. "To deserve all this?" She laughed.

"What time is it?"

"It's about eight thirty in the morning," said Terry. "You talked nonsense for a while. Gave the boys a big treat. And then we let you sleep it off. You weren't rousing though. So we brought you here. You can stay as long as you'd like, Mr. Monroe. I figured you might want to stay a while given that the law wants you."

Larkin spat onto the ground. For a horrifying moment, he imagined himself growing old on the mountain with Terry. His hand rubbed the thick stubble dotting his chin. "Millie? Do you have a cup of coffee to spare? And some Advil?"

"I think we can suit you just fine," she said.

Larkin made his way to his feet. Terry tried to take his hand, but Larkin shoved him in the shoulder. Terry faltered, but caught himself. Larkin's muddy handprint smeared his orange t-shirt.

Millie led him inside the small home. She showed him to a bathroom just to the left of the mud room. The home smelled like cigarettes and bacon. "You go wash up and I'll set you up with a plate of some breakfast."

Larkin did as he was told. His shame prevented him from even glimpsing his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He avoided even a peripheral glance. He cleaned his hands, washed his face and used the facilities and was careful not to step through the hole in the floor directly to the left of the toilet.

When he left the bathroom, he headed toward a card table and chair just off from the kitchen. Millie scurried about with a can of coffee tucked under her arm while Terry quietly watched Larkin from the corner. Larkin seated himself. He took his wallet from his pants and placed it upon the tabletop. He emptied his pockets. Millie set a plate of delicious bacon down next to the judicial opinions.

Larkin first thumbed through the contents of his wallet. He had sixty-four dollars, various credit cards, a cool leather flap that allowed him to flip out his bar card to deputies at the jail as if it were a badge, and some receipts. His cell phone had been smashed and was now a paperweight.

A hot mug of coffee was placed on the corner of one of the opinions. "Mmm," mumbled Larkin as he sipped it. "Wow, Millie, that's rocket fuel." Larkin placed his cup down and stared at each front page again. He looked at the time stamps and thumbed his finger over Justice Lloyd Bird's name as it appeared to the right of the names of the parties. He sipped more coffee and continued to trail his finger down the page.

"Now you eat some of that bacon, Mr. Monroe," said Millie. She hovered behind him and studied his items. "Are them lawyer papers?"

"They are that," said Larkin as his finger ran further down the page. He picked up the longer version of _Bedford County, et al., v. Trans-Appalachian Railways_ and thumbed his way through. He set it aside and picked up the shorter version. He read it again. Millie shoved a piece of bacon into his mouth as he reached the last page. "This one makes sense," he said as he wiggled the shorter opinion in his hand.

"That's the right one?" asked Millie.

"Right one what?" asked Terry. He could not bear to stand silent any longer. He bounded toward them.

Larkin continued to hold the thinner opinion as he glared at the longer one. "This one," said Larkin as he again shook the one in his hand, "is right. The Court nails it in this one."

"Nails what?" asked Terry.

"The case," said Larkin. "In the shorter version, the Court defines the case as turning on a single legal issue. It's really not even a very complicated one. That's why the opinion is so much smaller." He sipped his coffee. "In the larger one, the author went through a dozen other things that I don't think even really matter."

Terry drew closer and grabbed a piece of bacon. "Were they written by the same person?"

Larkin stared at the documents. "No. Actually they weren't written by the same person. One of them wrote this one," said Larkin as he shook the opinion in his right hand, "and the other wrote the one by my wallet."

Terry turned and rested his backside against the table's edge. He craned his neck and studied the papers for a moment. "One of them who?"

"The law clerks. Each one wrote one of these, I betcha."

"Does that mean you can prove you didn't do it?" asked Millie, as she noisily scraped a cast iron pan with a spatula.

Larkin shook his head. He flipped the lighter opinion over on top of the thicker opinion and closed his eyes. His mind both ached and raced.

"Is that the name of the guy who wrote it?" asked Terry.

"What?" replied Larkin. He followed Terry's finger to the back of the last page of the smaller opinion. Handwritten in deep blue ink were the words, "Trans-App Atty's: Havish Cromwell – BIG BNS."

"Havish Cromwell," muttered Larkin. He repeated the name. "Anthony...," he said. Larkin snatched the document and studied the script. The letters were large, smooth and loopy, the kind of hand writing that a girl would have. "Oh my lord," said Larkin.

"What?" asked Millie. Terry ate.

Larkin turned. "Do you have a phone?"

"Only can do texts with mine," said Terry. "And I'm out of minutes anyway."

Millie crossed to the kitchen to her handbook. She dug for a bit before withdrawing the sleekest, most expensive looking piece of hardware Larkin had ever seen. "Here ya go," she said as she handed Larkin the phone.

"This is your phone?" asked Larkin. He flipped the thin cool piece of dark glass over in his scratched palms. "I, don't even know how to use it."

"Just speak the number after you press the green light," said Millie.

Larkin shook his head. He pressed the light and successfully dialed Madeline. He prayed for her to answer.

"Hello?" her voice projected crisply.

"Madeline, it's me," said Larkin. "Don't hang up."

"Oh sweet Jesus, Larkin," Madeline said with a hushed voice.

"Just listen to me," said Larkin. "Trevor has been arrested and it's only a matter of time until I am too."

"Oh, Larkin." She sounded defeated.

"None of it's true," he said. His heart fluttered. "Well," he said, "Trevor and I did both break into a house, but I'm not guilty of murder."

"Murder!" she cried.

"I know how to fix everything," he said. "I really do. But I need you to do something for me. Will you?"

The line was silent. Larkin waited the requisite twelve seconds. "And your answer?"

"What is it?"

"I need you to go over to Carol's and speak with Ryan, Trevor's daughter."

"Okay," said Madeline.

"I need you to ask her if she remembers where Anthony, the man with glasses, was going to work in New York?"

"What? Where some guy in glasses is going to work in New York?"

"Exactly," said Larkin. "Have her write it down."

"Okay. Then what?

"That's it."

"That's it?"

"Yes. Just wait to hear from me."

"Oh mother of mercy," said Madeline. She hung up the phone. He looked to Terry. "She'll do it."

"You got the evidence now to set yourself free, Mr. Monroe?" Terry asked.

"Nope. Not yet."

Millie bumped Terry out of the way with her right hip as she steered another load of bacon and some scrambled eggs onto Larkin's plate. "What do you need?" she asked.

"Three pieces of paper and a pen," said Larkin. He looked at Terry. "Can you get me a ride to downtown Big Lick?"

Terry nodded. "Are you going to Big Lick to get the evidence you need?"

"Absolutely," said Larkin just before chomping onto a bit of bacon.

Terry's truck came to a stop about a football field away from the U.S. District Courthouse, two blocks from Larkin's own office. The brakes squealed and something made a crunching noise as Terry shifted his truck's gears. The wheelchair in the bed of the truck rolled to a stop almost at the tailgate.

"Will this do you for?" asked Terry.

Larkin sighed. He gripped the three pages in his hand tightly, before carefully folding them in half and tucking them in his jacket pocket. "I really wish that you had parked out of sight of the building like I said," said Larkin. "But this will have to work."

Terry gripped the gearshift and yanked. The engine or the transmission, or perhaps the raccoon in the radiator, made the same dreadful crunching noise again. Larkin smacked Terry's hand.

"Just leave it in park," said Larkin. "Enough is enough. Get me the chair."

"The chair?" Terry turned and looked in-between the bands of the tribal tattoo decal applied to his rear window. "You need me to get it for you?"

"That's why I wanted you to park away from the building," said Larkin. "Now you have to get me the chair. Just go."

Terry hopped out of the car and scurried to get Millie's wheelchair from the bed of the truck. Though technically receiving disability income, Millie only used the chair for when she headed into town.

"I suppose this is for heading into town and all," he said as he opened Larkin's door. The two of them performed a not very convincing show of a paraplegic man in tattered stained clothing leaping from a dented rust bucket and onto a wheelchair.

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.

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.

Tiny security cameras buried in off-white crown molding high above honed in on Larkin as he was led by a marshal toward one of the tables. News cameras dotting the front lines of the packed gallery swiveled as he made his way toward his seat. He scanned the audience for Madeline or Ryan but he could not find them among the throng of people who had packed the courthouse that morning. He searched the crowd so intently, he completely overlooked the prosecution's table.

"Mr. Monroe," said an all too familiar voice to Larkin's left. He turned to see Wendy McAdams seated as lead counsel for the prosecution. His face dropped. She clicked the heels of her long black boots in delight. "Nice to see you here this morning, Mr. Monroe."

He shook his head. "This is a federal action," said Larkin. "You have no right to be here. You're state court, Wendy. You're not a federal prosecutor."

She smiled. "Interesting choice of words given that many would argue that _you_ have no right to be here." She straightened her glasses to get a better look at his jailbird duds.

Sweat formed at the top of his brow. He stared at the empty Judge's bench. "We'll see," he said. Larkin gripped the thick fabric bunching up beneath his knees and straightened his jumpsuit. His stomach twisted as it recalled the last time he had tangled with Wendy McAdams.

"All rise," one of the bailiff's bellowed. Larkin jumped from his seat, but a strong hand, courtesy of the U.S. Marshal's Service, clamped on his left shoulder and pinned him to the chair. "Oy ye, oy ye," the bailiff shouted. "Silence is commanded. The Honorable United States District Court Judge Victoria Wexler presiding. Please come to order. This Court is now in session."

Judge Wexler walked briskly into the courtroom, her judicial robe billowing impressively behind her small frame. Quite some time had passed since Larkin had last seen Judge Wexler. He had not attended her son's funeral and his limited law practice never sent him to federal court. Despite the years, she looked just as spry and energetic as she had seemed when Larkin had won his freedom. Not a gray hair shone in her neatly styled short red hair.

"Please be seated," she said as she made her way to her chair. The courtroom was filled with the sounds of shuffling feet. "Will the Clerk please call the case?"

A woman seated at a desk just a bit lower than the Judge's bench stood. She clasped a paper tightly in her hand, but the video cameras must have got the best of her. The document shook in her thin fingers. " _Bedford County and others versus Trans-Appalachian Railways_ , Virginia Supreme Court Case Number, 09954268."

"Is the petitioner ready?" the Judge asked as she looked at Larkin. Her bright eyes showed no pity. Larkin scooted his chair back, but Wendy McAdams was at her feet before he had a chance to stand.

"Your Honor, I'm Wendy McAdams, special appointed prosecutor for the Commonwealth of Virginia. Mr. Monroe is not a party to _Bedford County versus Tran-Appalachian Railways_. He has never been a party to that matter. It is a state civil court action. Mr. Monroe has no standing and this court has no jurisdiction to hear anything that he may say." Two federal prosecutors nodded in agreement at Wendy's table.

"I see," said Judge Wexler.

"His only point to this whole farce is to somehow cast slanderous remarks on high-ranking officials in the state government in order to cause a spectacle. Mr. Monroe is charged with murder and this action here today is a violation of due process."

"I thought due process protected the accused," said the Judge. Wendy opened her mouth as if to speak but then suddenly fell silent. Her mouth hung open for too long as she considered her words. She was a damned fine attorney on her feet, but this was the big leagues.

"Your Honor," she finally said after flipping through some pages on her table, "due process ensures that the accused has a right to the protections of the judicial system. By holding this very hearing, this Court has suspended that right. Mr. Monroe has a right to be heard in the Big Lick City Circuit Court for the crimes of which he has been charged. He does not have the right to collaterally attack due process with these proceedings. The State moves to quash all of Mr. Monroe's subpoenas and end this matter. If he had due process arguments, the state courts have avenues. After he is jailed and sentenced to life in prison, for example, he can file a habeas petition."

The Judge raised her eyebrows. "I get your point, Ms. McAdams." She rotated her chair ever so slightly. "Mr. Monroe?" Larkin stood. Every head to his right turned to view him. "What would you have to say after all of that?" asked the Judge. "Am I violating your due process rights?"

"No, ma'am," said Larkin. "You're going to ensure that they're protected."

"And how will I do that, Mr. Monroe?"

Larkin cleared his throat. "Your Honor, we're here on my Motion for a Writ of Coram Nobis."

"I'm aware of that, counselor," said the Judge. She picked up a copy of Larkin's handwritten papers that he had drafted at Millie's house. "Do you even know what that Motion is, counselor?"

"Yes, your Honor," said Larkin. "I believe it has been referred to as 'the most extraordinary writ.'"

The Judge nodded. "That's right. I've read that too. Those are strong words. Do you realize that a Writ of Coram Nobis has not been granted, as far as I'm aware, since - -"

"The nineteen forties, your Honor," said Larkin. "It's the writ that allows this Court to examine a grave injustice. When there is no other remedy at law, and yet injustice would still stand, the writ must be granted."

"Your Honor," interjected Wendy, "the Writ of Coram Nobis was used for redress after the Japanese internment camps of World War II. This is not the internment camps. Mr. Monroe is not a marginalized people or a political prisoner of the state. Mr. Monroe has a remedy at law. It is to face his charges with all the constitutional guarantees of due process in the Commonwealth's courts. This court can end this hearing and due process can continue. Mr. Monroe will be afforded all of the rights deemed appropriate and just pursuant to Virginia's legal system. He will have the opportunity to prove his innocence in a court of law just like everyone else."

The Judge nodded. "I feel that I understand your position, Ms. McAdams. You've done the research."

"Yes, your Honor," said Wendy, "and furthermore, Coram Nobis is restricted, I believe, to the actual trial court, not _any_ trial court that - -"

"Ms. McAdams?" interrupted the Judge.

"Yes?" Wendy brushed a loose strand of her curly blond hair from her face.

"Will you do the Court the honor of allowing me to compliment the Commonwealth?"

Wendy opened her mouth, but no words came. She finally nodded and sat down.

"Thank you, Ms. McAdams," continued the Judge. "I love when my attorneys come to me with their bases covered. I take it you've researched the Writ of Coram Nobis through and through?"

"Absolutely," said Wendy.

"And would you agree with the Court, Mr. Monroe," said the Judge as she glanced in his direction, "that it is the most extraordinary writ?"

"I would, your Honor."

The Judge's eyes darted back to Wendy. "Then the Commonwealth of Virginia should understand this Court's interest in further inquiry at this time. If it so extraordinary, I must know if Mr. Monroe can demonstrate any basis for the extreme possibility of me granting it."

One of Wendy's black boots stomped on the wooden floor. A nearby bailiff involuntarily gripped his baton. Larkin silently hoped that the attorney for the State was about to get thumped. "Your Honor," she nearly shouted, "you can't possibly \- -"

"Ms. McAdams," said the Judge. She did that amazing thing with her voice where she broadcasted very loudly, yet her tone remained classy and controlled, essentially unchanged. "I didn't say that I would grant the writ. I said I would hear the man out. I don't believe due process would be offended if I permit Mr. Monroe to make his case as to why he deserves such a writ." Again, the Judge swiveled, but only slightly. "Mr. Monroe? Will you please state your case?"

"Gladly, your Honor." Larkin turned and looked though the crowd again. "Uh, your Honor," he said after several moments of frantically searching among the faces, "I believe that I effectively served several individuals with notice to be here today."

"And they may be," said the Judge. "I have excluded all witnesses."

Larkin faced the Court. "You did? There has been no motion."

"I motioned," said Ms. McAdams as she popped back from her chair. She looked to Larkin. "Pre-trial motion," she said. "Ex parte."

"Ex parte?" repeated Larkin. "Your Honor, the Court cannot have - -"

Judge Wexler raised her hand. A pearl bracelet slid down her wrist resting mid-way down her forearm. For the first time in the hearing, she scowled. "Mr. Monroe, notwithstanding any clarification you may provide regarding the merits of your case, Ms. McAdams is far closer to the bull's eye on a number of her arguments than you think. If she wants to protect her client on a number of pre-trial issues, I will allow it. You are asking for something extraordinary, maybe even something impossible." She leaned forward. The fabric of her judicial robe rubbed against the microphone and created an unpleasant noise on the court's audio system. "You ask for the extraordinary and extraordinary measures are taken. I would not deign to afford you a hearing on such a writ without first hearing from the other party." The Judge stared at Larkin. Time passed, but Larkin could not tell how long, only that it lasted. "I just placed my gavel securely between you and the criminal justice system so you can get five minutes of time on that stand. This Court has been lenient enough. You have the floor."

Larkin nodded. He had knocked and Judge Wexler had opened the courthouse door, but it ended there. No more favors. He needed to make his case. "The petitioner calls Trevor Meeks," your Honor.

The crowd whispered on cue and the television cameras panned the room. The door that Larkin had used to enter the courtroom swung aside and Trevor strode into the room as if the opening act had ended and the headliner had hit the stage. There might as well have been a spotlight and theme music. He headed toward the witness stand. If the room had not seemed like an episode of Law and Order before, it did now. Trevor looked like a recurring guest star. When he raised his hand to be sworn in, three members of the audience raised their hands and waived back.

"Good to see you, Judge," he said with the slightest nod.

"Mr. Meeks," said the Judge, "please answer Mr. Monroe's questions."

Larkin began to circle his table, but Uncle Sam's strong grip forced him back into his chair. "Good Lord," said Larkin with an eye roll. He stared at the large hands at his shoulders locking him in place. "Your Honor, may I approach the witness?"

"So allowed," said the Judge.

Larkin stood, unhindered by the U.S. Marshal's service, and approached the witness stand. "Please state your name for the record."

"Trevor Meeks."

"Mr. Meeks, do you know me?"

"I would have to say that I do." He looked toward the nearest camera. "I cannot tell a lie." He winked.

"How do you know me?"

"You're my lawyer and my friend." He again looked to the camera. "I've found in my life that keeping your friends close and your lawyer even closer is the best policy."

"Objection, your Honor," said Wendy. "This witness is being evasive."

"He's my witness, Ms. McAdams," said Larkin, "why don't you let me decide if he's being evasive."

"Shockingly that's my decision," said the Judge. "Mr. Meeks," called the Judge, "why don't you just answer the questions asked of you. Do you think you can handle that?"

"Of course, Judge," said Trevor.

"Proceed, Mr. Monroe."

"Thanks, Judge." Wendy sat down but she rested on the edge of her seat while her fingernails drummed against the desktop. Larkin was going to need to keep his questioning as proper as possible or she would be hopping up and down all morning. "Mr. Meeks, do you recall driving with me just a few days ago?"

"Objection," said Wendy, "leading, foundation."

"I'll rephrase," said Larkin before the Judge had a chance to chime in. "Mr. Meeks - -"

"Still here," said Trevor.

"Do you own a car?"

"Yes."

"Do you, on occasion ever give rides to anyone?"

"Friends and family."

"As my friend have you ever driven a car in which I might be the passenger?"

"Sure have."

"Do you recall such an incident occurring recently?"

"Sure do."

"Who else was in your car?"

Trevor nodded. "Well, there was me, you, and my daughter - -"

"Your daughter?" asked Larkin.

"Yes. Ryan. Ryan Meeks."

Larkin rested his hands on one of the wooden rails encircling the witness box. "Was there anyone else in the car besides me, you and your daughter?"

"Yes, sir. A funny guy. Glasses. Andre or Anthony or something. Real head case. Sad, really."

"Do you know where this person was employed?"

"Yes, sir. He works for the Supreme Court." Trevor winked at the Judge. "Of Virginia."

"Do you remember having a conversation with this individual?"

"Sure do. But not a pleasant one, by any means."

"Do you remember anything else about this Supreme Court of Virginia employee's job?"

"Objection, hearsay," said Wendy.

Larkin turned to the Judge. "Your Honor, I did not ask what this individual said, only if the witness remembered anything further."

The Judge's forehead wrinkled. "Oh, hearsay," she sighed. Her fingers rubbed a spot on the bridge of her nose where the itch of hearsay might be scratched. "I'll allow it," she said after a moment. "But there's thin ice, Mr. Monroe and there's thin ice. Be sure you know which you're on. Please answer the question, Mr. Meeks."

Trevor thought for a moment. "I believe he did, but honestly, I was trying to tune him out."

"Do you remember if he said where he might be working after his clerkship ended?"

"Same objection, your Honor," said Wendy.

"Sustained," said the Judge. "Mr. Monroe, we're wading in hearsay here."

"Yes, your Honor." Larkin nodded toward Trevor. "He's all yours, Ms. McAdams." Larkin walked back to his seat. "Good luck."

"Mr. Meeks," said Wendy before Larkin could even seat himself. "Isn't it true that you assisted your _good friend_ Larkin Monroe in breaking into and entering the home of Justice Lloyd Byrd at Smith Mountain Lake?"

"You got that right," said Trevor. "I like those boots."

"Um," said the Judge, "Mr. Meeks, perhaps I should advise you of your Fifth Amendment right not to incriminate yourself."

"Gotcha," said Trevor. He snapped his fingers. "I will always take free legal advice from a federal judge."

"He's already waived that privilege, your Honor," said Wendy as she drew closer to the witness stand. "His first statement was an admission. He was advised of his rights when he was arrested."

"Your Honor?" asked Trevor.

"Yes?" asked the Judge.

"How come Ms.," Trevor turned to Wendy, "what was the name again?"

"McAdams," said Wendy.

Trevor stared at her for a moment. "Ms. McAdams," he repeated before turning back to the Judge. "How come Ms. McAdams can walk right up to me in those great boots and Mr. Monroe had to ask for permission?" Trevor again turned to Wendy. "Don't get me wrong, Ms. McAdams, you can approach my box any time."

Giggles and nervous shoe shuffling could be heard from the audience.

"Ms. McAdams," said the Judge, "perhaps you should - -"

"Permission to approach, your Honor?"

"Granted," said the Judge.

Wendy approached. "So you freely and voluntarily admit that you and Mr. Monroe both broke into and entered Justice Byrd's home?"

"You heard me, Ms. McAdams. I haven't stuttered since the second grade." A member of a news crew laughed out loud. Judge Wexler shook her head.

"Why were you assisting Mr. Monroe in his felonious enterprise?"

"Enterprise? We weren't going into business."

"Why did you break into the house?"

"I think we were looking for some evidence."

"Evidence? Of What?"

Trevor looked to Larkin.

"He can't answer for you," Wendy said. She gripped the edge of the witness box. "You have to answer my question."

"To be honest," started Trevor, "I'm a bit unsure myself why we were there. I know it had to do with Larkin being framed for murdering this law clerk, and the Justice had a part in it, but any more than that, I really can't say."

"You can't say or you won't say, Mr. Meeks?" She crossed her arms.

"Can't. I really had no clue at the time what we were specifically looking for and I have no idea now."

Wendy raised her arms in dramatic exasperation and looked at the Judge. "So you're telling this Court that you, a wealthy, successful businessman and local politician just all of a sudden decided to break into a Judge's home merely because your friend wanted you to help him?"

Trevor nodded.

"You'll have to answer yes or no, Mr. Meeks," said Wendy.

"It's Trevor," said Trevor, "and you nailed it."

"You realize that there is no logic in that answer."

"Sure there is," said Trevor. "You don't know Larkin. If he told me that he could fix things with a little midnight shenanigans, I trusted him. He's a lot brighter than you give him credit for."

"Oh I know, Mr. Monroe," said Wendy. "Burglary, destruction of property, theft, these are not shenanigans. They are felonies."

Larkin shook his head, but smiled all the same. Trevor was getting under her skin.

"Well you don't know him like I do, ma'am," said Trevor. "And I tell you what, I bet that in under thirty minutes, Larkin is going to not only free himself and me, but that he'll most likely prove who did murder that law clerk."

Wendy laughed. Larkin could not tell if she was genuinely amused or simply laughing for show. The dynamics between examiner and witness had flipped end over end. It was a most extraordinary writ after all. Anything could happen. "That's a bet I would take," she said. People shifted in the gallery. Wooden benches sighed. This was sweeps week material.

Trevor looked to Larkin. He sat wide-eyed and paralyzed. Trevor nodded as if Larkin had suddenly made some intentional gesture to instill confidence in his friend, but he had done no such thing. "Fine," said Trevor as he smacked the wooden railing with the palm of his hand. The press jumped. "If he doesn't fix all of this in the next thirty minutes, I'll plead guilty in state court. No trial. Nothing. Dead to rights."

Wendy paused. She stared at Trevor. With his toothy grin, it was truly impossible to gauge his sincerity. She opened her mouth, but Trevor cut her off.

"And if he works his magic, I get to take you out to Michael's on Friday, say, eight o'clock. We'll meet for one drink at the bar. Your bet is for that one drink. It will be your choice after that drink if you want to stay and have dinner with me, but I'll make an 8:30 reservation for a table for two just in case. "

The courtroom burst into laughter. It took minutes to subside. The Judge pointed to her bailiffs who all raised their arms as if quieting a grade school classroom. "Objection, your Honor," said Larkin as the rolling laughs began to finally subside, "flirting." More Laughs.

"Sustained," said the Judge. "Mr. Meeks? You are in a court of law not the Pine Room at the Hotel Big Lick."

Trevor continued to look into Wendy's eyes. "Or we could go to the Pine Room," he said. "Lady's choice."

"Your Honor," said Wendy after staring at Trevor for a moment too long, "I think I'm done with this witness."

"Do we have a bet?" asked Trevor.

Wendy returned to her table.

"Don't chicken out on me, McAdams. You should feel strongly about your case and such. I know you do. You have passion in your toes. Am I right?"

"Mr. Meeks - -" began the Judge.

"I want an answer," Trevor said to Wendy. "You get quite a headline if he doesn't pull it off."

"Fine," she said. Her head shook in seeming disapproval to what her mouth had just uttered.

Trevor nodded and smiled. "Am I excused, your Honor?"

"Immediately," said the Judge. "Bailiff?" The nearest bailiff hurried to the witness stand. "Mr. Meeks, I am remanding you to the custody of the United States Marshal's service. They will be returning you to the city jail."

"Thanks, Judge," said Trevor as he headed unescorted to the holding cell door. Larkin felt that if one person \- - one single brave soul - - clapped their hands together, a social dam would burst and the whole courtroom would applaud. What an act.

"Your next witness, Mr. Monroe?"

Larkin stood. "Your Honor, I would like to call Ryan Meeks."

The Judge whispered something to the deputy clerk who in turn whispered something to a bailiff. Not a minute later, the back door of the courtroom opened and Ryan Meeks, escorted by Trevor's ex-wife, stepped into the courtroom. Despite being dressed in her Sunday best, no amount of pink lace could conceal the nuclear energy wound tightly within that child. Ryan gazed with wide-eyed excitement at every angle of the courtroom. She smiled broadly and literally ran toward the witness stand. She was in Disney Land.

"Can I testify?" Ryan asked as she leaped into the witness stand.

"You Honor," said Wendy. "How young is this girl? She can't possibly - -"

"I'm eight," said Ryan. She grinned at Wendy. "Are you going to ask me questions now?" Though seated, she managed to still hop up and down repeatedly on her chair. Her excitement was too great to contain.

"Please raise your right hand, Miss Meeks," commanded the Judge. Ryan did as she was told and the Judge swore her in. For a moment Ryan stood, eyes misted with tears at her good fortune. She jumped from foot to foot until sitting back down in the witness stand. Her little blond head barely peeped over the wooden railing.

"Your Honor," said Wendy, her voice weakened by her very public defeat in _Meeks v. McAdams_. "I'm going to object to this witness being called at this time. I have concerns for her best-interest, I have concerns regarding her capacity to testify, and I renew my objection that all of this is merely to act as some spectacle."

"Mr. Monroe?" asked the Judge, "what do you say?"

"Hello, Mr. Monroe!" Ryan shouted.

"Please be still, young lady," said the Judge.

"Oh," said Ryan. "Sure thing, your Honor."

Larkin stood. "Your Honor, Ms. Meeks is an integral fact witness. She certainly has the capacity to testify and the Court can look out for the child's best interests."

"Your Honor!" shouted Wendy.

The Judge waved her hand. "You can voire dire her as to capacity, Ms. McAdams. The Court will look out for her best interests."

Wendy shook her head. She pointed to the witness stand where Ryan bobbled and wiggled like a champagne cork in a shaken bottle. "May I?"

"You may," answered the Judge.

Wendy approached the stand. "Ms. Meeks," Wendy started, "are you related to Trevor Meeks?"

"He's my daddy," said Ryan. She looked back to Larkin. "This is _so_ cool."

"What grade are you in school, Ms. Meeks?"

"I'm in third grade. I love your hair. It's big and curly and blonde. My hair's straight. Are you the prosecutor?"

"Yes, I am. Now, Ms. Meeks - -"

"Did you get your man? Because if it's him," she pointed to Larkin, "it's the wrong one. And just say, 'Ryan.' Are you going to object?"

"That depends, Ryan, if I - -"

"Objection!" Ryan shouted. She melted on the stand in a pink pile of lace and giggles.

"Your Honor!" said Wendy.

"Ryan?" asked the Judge.

"Yes?"

"Can you do your best to answer everyone's questions and only the questions that are asked of you?"

"Oh, sure," she answered.

"Do you know the difference between the truth and a lie?" the Judge asked.

"Of course," said Ryan. "Doesn't everybody?"

"Can you make sure that your answers are only truthful?

"They always are," said Ryan.

The Judge shook her head and smiled. "I'm going to allow her to testify, Ms. McAdams. The Court is both aware of the witness' age and the fact that the acorn does not fall far from the tree. Please continue, Mr. Monroe."

"Thank you, Judge," said Larkin. "Ryan, do you remember having a soccer game late last week?"

"Yep. I got yellow-carded. But I didn't do it."

"And do you remember riding home after the game?"

"Yes, sir. My daddy and you picked me up."

"Was there anyone else in the car?"

Ryan made a face as if she bit into a lemon. "Oh yeah," she said. "A real stinker. My daddy yelled at him for being mean to me. He said he was a lawyer, but not a real one. Not like the blond lady in the boots." Ryan raised her hands in the air as if to indicate the entire courtroom. "This is real lawyering."

Wendy stood. "Your Honor, I'm going to object to hearsay again."

"Overruled," said the Judge. "I'm going to allow a little latitude with this witness given her age."

"You say that this lawyer wasn't a real lawyer?" Larkin asked.

"Nope," said Ryan.

"Do you remember his name?"

"Anthony," said Ryan. "Anthony the Loser Not Lawyer."

"Do you know where he's going to work next year?"

"Yes! He said he was going to work in New York and I was like, 'all cool,' but he was like not doing real lawyer stuff so it turned out it wasn't cool."

"Do you know where he was going to work?"

Ryan nodded. "I wrote it down on this piece of paper," she said. She withdrew a purple square of construction paper from her pocket.

"Objection," said Ms. McAdams, "this is highly inappropriate and is only meant to slander some poor man and now possibly ruin a prospective professional relationship. And Mr. Monroe is drowning in hearsay."

"Your Honor," said Larkin, "the truth will out today. Ms. Meeks is allowed to refresh her memory with her note. And though this might be hearsay, it falls under the hearsay exception of excited utterance."

"Excited utterance?" asked the Judge, "how so?"

"Allow me, your Honor," said Larkin. He pointed to the witness stand and the Judge nodded. "Ryan," said Larkin, "was this stinker, this Anthony, was he upset when he talked to you?"

"Oh yeah. Like all red in the face. A big tomato face with glasses."

"How mad was he?"

"Super mad."

"And did he tell you where he was planning to work?"

"He more or less screamed it at me," said Ryan. "He was so mad. My daddy slammed on the brakes and yelled at him because he got so mad."

Larkin looked to the Judge and raised his eyebrows. "Excited utterances," he began, "survive the hearsay rule with credibility intact."

The Judge nodded. "I'll allow it," she said, "for what it's worth. Please read your note, Ms. Meeks."

Ryan smiled. "It says, 'Havish Cromwell'." She placed the paper back in her pocket. "And I looked that up on the internet, your Honor," she said. "There's never been a lawyer from that firm on Law and Order. Not one."

"Thank you, Ms. Meeks," said Larkin. He looked to Wendy. "I have no further questions for this witness."

"Ms. McAdams?" asked the Judge. "Questions?"

"None." Wendy scribbled some notes on her legal pad.

"Aww!" said Ryan as she made her way down from the stand before the Judge had even excused her. "You could have asked me _something_!" She winked at Larkin before heading back to the gallery to sit with her mother.

"Your call, Mr. Monroe."

"I call . . . Justice Lloyd Byrd, your Honor." The courtroom buzzed with excitement.

"Calm down, everyone," said the Judge, "or I'll remove every single person from this room." Judge Wexler had more or less allowed the tittering during the Meeks family revue, but with Justice Byrd entering the show, a new tone was needed. She whispered into the deputy clerk's ear again and after a full minute, the doors opened and Justice Byrd walked briskly into the courtroom. His countenance appeared deadly serious, his face carved of granite.

"Please approach the witness stand, Justice Byrd," said the Judge. "Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God?" The Justice gave the federal Judge a peculiar look before answering "yes." He took his seat.

"Please state your name for the record," said Larkin.

"I am Lloyd Harrison Byrd, III, Justice of the Supreme Court of Virginia."

"As a Justice of the Supreme Court," said Larkin, "are you appropriated a staff?"

"Yes."

"Can you describe your staff to the court?"

The Justice sighed. "Yes. I'm presuming that your question was not engineered to provoke a list _seriatim_ of my support staff, but rather that of my judicial clerks."

Larkin raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Uh, yes, your Honor."

"I have, or I had, two law clerks. Each Justice may select two law clerks to assist in legal research and so forth. This year I had been working with Anthony Swain and Alex Jordan."

"And Ms. Jordan was killed recently, isn't that correct?"

Wendy stood as if to object to Larkin's leading question, but the basilisk glare from Justice Byrd sent her back to her seat. She leaned forward from her chair and stared at the Justice, utterly confused.

"Yes," he said sadly. "She was murdered. Her body was found at the lake. A beautiful and talented young person."

"A tragedy," said Larkin.

"The greatest kind," said the Justice.

"Are you familiar with the case of _Bedford County v. Tans-Appalachian Rail_?"

"Yes. It involves the creation of a large train terminal in Bedford. The court," the Justice turned to Judge Wexler, "the _supreme_ court," he said as he looked at Judge Wexler, "was split on this case."

"Who was charged with writing the opinion?"

"I have that charge," said the Justice.

"Did you have your law clerks help you with this case?"

"Initially, the case was sent to Alex for a draft opinion. She drafted an opinion and provided it to me for my review. But she was killed before we ever discussed her work. I then assigned the work to Mr. Swain."

"Your Honor," said Larkin, "at this time I would like the bailiff to publish to the witness the two draft opinions that have already been filed with this Court." The Judge nodded and handed the draft opinions to the bailiff. The bailiff placed them in front of Justice Byrd. "Are these the opinions that your law clerks created?"

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

"Because you stole these from my house. You smashed my Stickley roll top."

"Apologies, your Honor."

"For what?" asked Judge Wexler.

"Oh," said Larkin, "not you, Judge. Apologies to the Justice for smashing his roll top."

"Which one did Alex write?" asked Larkin.

"This one," said Justice Byrd as he held up the smaller opinion.

"What is the result of that opinion?"

The Justice sighed again. He looked to Judge Wexler for a moment. "I was having difficulty weighing this one. I truly was. The issues were complicated. But Alex drafted this very simple opinion that clearly advocated for the County."

"I see," said Larkin. "And the other?"

"The other Anthony wrote. He expressed great disdain to me for initially assigning the case to Alex. When I asked him to supplement her work, he gave me this." He tapped his long finger against the larger opinion.

"What is the end result of that opinion, your Honor? The one that Anthony Swain wrote."

"It's for the railway. I had initially leaned toward the railway, but Alex's logic was both persuasive and coherent. After I read her work . . . it was difficult to make the call."

"Would it be safe to say that you were on the fence?"

"I wouldn't put it like that," said the Justice.

_Christ_ , thought Larkin. Time to speak lawyer. "Would it be safe to say that your final decision was pending, under advisement, until further analysis?"

The Justice paused. "I would say that."

"So you were on the fence," said Larkin, but he asked his next question too quickly and the Justice could not respond to his remark. "Do you see the written words on the back of Alex's draft opinion?"

The Justice flipped the document over. "Yes."

"Is that Alex Jordan's handwriting?"

"Yes. I've seen it many times."

"What does that language say?"

"It says 'Trans-App Atty's: Havish Cromwell – BIG BNS.'"

"Who were the attorneys representing the railroad in this case?"

"Havish Cromwell," said the Justice. "New York office."

"So, the law firm of Havish Cromwell had been retained to make sure that the Supreme Court would allow this multi-million dollar rail station to be constructed in Bedford?"

The Justice nodded. "Yes."

"You currently have a home at Smith Mountain Lake, don't you, your Honor?"

"I do."

"Do you have a security system in place?"

"Yes, I do. I pay for a very nice security system at my home."

"Does this system have a pass code?"

"Yes it is does."

"And does Mr. Anthony Swain - -"

"Both of my law clerks know the pass code," said the Justice. "I frequently do work out there in the summer months and it is necessary from time to time to have my law clerks enter my property."

"Thank you, Justice," said Larkin, "I don't have anything - -"

"Aren't you forgetting something, counselor?"

Larkin paused. "Am I?"

"Yes," said the Justice. "Ask me about the letters, 'BIG BNS.'"

Larkin turned and looked at Wendy, but both she and everyone else in the room seemed frozen. "Do you know what that language means?" Larkin asked.

"Yes" replied the Justice. "Now ask me how."

"How?"

"After we spoke earlier today, I had a conversation with an attorney from Havish Cromwell. I wanted to confirm the bonus structure being offered to Anthony Swain. It seems that Mr. Swain had been hired by Havish Cromwell, a fact that I did not know when I asked for his assistance on this case. Mr. Swain never reported that to me. I also learned that Mr. Swain was to be given a $175,000 bonus."

"You learned all of that with a phone call in the last few minutes?" asked Larkin.

"It helps when your title is Justice."

"I see," said Larkin. "Is that amount," Larkin looked to the Judge, "$175,000" he repeated before turning back to the Justice, "out of line for a normal clerkship bonus?"

"Far out of line," said the Justice.

Larkin turned to the prosecutor's table. "Questions, Ms. McAdams?"

Wendy slowly stood and shook her head.

"You are excused, Justice Byrd." The Justice elegantly stood, straightened his suit coat and departed the stand.

"Any more evidence, Mr. Monroe?"

"Yes, your Honor. I call Anthony Swain."

"Marshals," announced the Judge, "I would like two of you to personally escort Mr. Swain to this witness stand."

"Yes, sir," one of the Marshals enthusiastically replied before double-timing into the lobby. He came back a moment later with his large hands securely wrapped around the left arm of Anthony Swain. Like Ryan had just described, his cheeks shone bright red. His thick glasses fogged as if he had stepped into a sauna.

The Judge gave Anthony the oath and his "yes," was so soft, it was barely audible. Anthony stared around the courtroom. His eyes fixated on the cameras.

"Take a seat, Mr. Swain," said the Judge. Anthony complied. He clasped his hands together tightly and breathed heavily.

"Mr. Swain," said Larkin. "Do you currently work for Justice Byrd on the Supreme Court of Virginia?"

"I . . . yes I do."

"And do you currently have a job offer with Havish Cromwell in New York?"

"You're under oath, Mr. Swain," said the Judge as Anthony cleaned his glasses.

"I would like a lawyer," said Anthony. "No. I demand a lawyer."

"This is," said the Judge and Larkin simultaneously, but Larkin let the Judge finish, "a civil matter. Not a criminal matter."

"I have been given an offer, yes," said Anthony under his breath.

"What was that?" asked Larkin.

"Yes," stated Anthony.

"Did Alex Jordan know about this offer?"

Anthony remained quiet.

"Did Alex Jordan confront you about this? Did Alex Jordan discover that you had agreed to a $175,000 payout and a job if you could get the Judge on the railroad's side? Did you kill Alex Jordan?"

Anthony looked at the cameras. His cheeks shone crimson. "I want a lawyer," he said after far too long. He bowed his head. "I need to take the Fifth," he finally said.

"Why?" demanded Larkin. "We're talking about a job you applied for, right? Just what would you be incriminated of if you kept talking?"

Larkin stood still. Anthony placed his hands over his face. His body shook as if he had begun to cry. The throng of people seated on the edge of their benches behind Larkin remained still. The whole room seemed to hold its breathe.

"I take the Fifth," said Anthony.

"This is a civil case," said Larkin, "not a criminal one. If you take the Fifth in a civil matter, the Judge is allowed to draw a negative inference from your lack of testimony."

Anthony's body raised and sank rapidly with his breath. "I take the Fifth."

Larkin could find nothing else to say.

Judge Wexler stood and somehow a woman who seemed barely five feet tall towered over the entire room. She scowled at Anthony. "I know what crime he committed. You did this?" she asked as her right hand jutted outward, her index finger stabbing the air. "You committed murder for a job?"

Anthony looked up. His eyes watered. "I . . ."

"I know," said the Judge. "You took the Fifth. Ms. McAdams?"

"Yes?" she asked. She was too stunned to even stand.

"I presume you will want to drop the charges against Mr. Monroe and Mr. Meeks?" Wendy looked at Larkin. The glare of the overhead lights shone upon her glasses and for a moment, it was impossible to tell her true expression. But her face soon shifted back to the Judge and it was clear that her eyes were wide, her mouth frozen in bewilderment. "And your answer is yes," said the Judge. "Do I have that on the record, Ms. McAdams?" Wendy nodded. The Judge looked down at her clerk. "Let the record reflect that the Commonwealth of Virginia is dismissing all charges against Mr. Monroe and Mr. Meeks."

The sounds of tiny frenzied hands punctuated the courtroom. Larkin turned to see Ryan standing on the tips of her toes applauding furiously. Others followed suit.

"I further direct," said the Judge over the rising applause, "that the United States Marshal Service release Mr. Meeks and Mr. Monroe from custody and take Mr. Swain into custody pending charges." She raised her hand to her brow and searched the gallery. Kincaid raised his hand and the Judge nodded. The applause grew. "All separated witnesses may return to the courtroom if they wish," stated the Judge although no one could hear her.

Two Marshals grabbed Anthony beneath his armpits. His legs hung limp as they hauled him through the back door into the holding area. As the door swung open, those nearest the door could hear Trevor laughing at the sight of Anthony. Trevor soon reappeared, unescorted, in the doorway. The applause was deafening. Trevor waved to his constituents. He approached Larkin and grabbed his friend's right hand. Like a referee after a championship bout, he raised Larkin's right hand high in the air. Everyone in the Court was on their feet. The applause continued.

The double doors leading to the lobby opened and Madeline stepped into the courtroom. Upon seeing the crowd of cheering people, she retreated a step before locking eyes with Larkin. Her hand cupped her mouth.

"Come on!" shouted Trevor to the crowd. "Let him hear it!" He jerked Larkin's arm even higher. The cameras rolled as people laughed and cheered. Ryan squealed. Larkin stepped away from Trevor and, unhindered by the U.S. Marshals Service, pushed open the wooden gate bisecting the courtroom. Madeline met him halfway, tears filled her eyes. Larkin hugged his wife.

"Monroe and Monroe," said the secretary into the phone. "Do you need to be directed to the real estate office or the law office?"

Larkin listened to his secretary ask the same question he had heard her ask for the past several months. Part of him knew that efficiency and productivity demanded separate phone lines for the businesses. But the thought of sharing so much of his life with Madeline made him hesitate to get the second phone line. He twisted his chair and looked out the floor to ceiling window. The sun hung low in the sky and Big Lick's star shone brightly atop the nearby mountain.

"Admiring the view?" asked Madeline. Larkin watched her silhouette reflected in the broad windows that lined his new office.

"Never had one like this before," he said. Nearly all of Big Lick lay before him. "I can see all of the city. You can really move some properties, babe."

"Phone call is for you, Madeline," called the secretary from the next room.

Madeline turned. Larkin smiled.

"Just take a message, Donna," said Madeline. "I have to run along to the Jensen property."

"I thought you weren't showing properties anymore," said Larkin. "Any day. Any moment. Boom. Family."

"I'm restricting myself to properties within six miles of the hospital."

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

She laughed and stepped out of view. "This is the last one for a while," she said as she walked down the hall. "I'll be by the house before seven." Larkin heard the door open. "Looks like your last appointment is here," she called before leaving their office.

Larkin reached for his phone and scrolled through his electronic calendar. "I don't have any other appointments today," he said to himself.

"Knock knock," said a familiar voice. Larkin turned. Detective Kincaid stood in his office doorway. He clutched a plastic bag in his left hand and a coiled edition of the Big Lick Times in his right.

"Look what the cat dragged in," said Larkin. "Have a seat."

Kincaid crossed the room and tossed the paper on Larkin's desk. "Nice view," he said as he took a seat. "Sentencing was today." Larkin could clearly see part of Anthony's round, pink face on the top half of the newspaper. "I expected you to show and give a victim impact statement."

Larkin nodded. "You know, I expected that too."

"So why didn't you?"

Larkin shrugged. "Other things on my mind I suppose."

"So I heard."

Larkin smiled. "It's going to be a girl."

Kincaid smiled. "How did you find the mother?"

"Wendy McAdams of all people found her in the juvenile courts. A young gal, still in high school. Local. And you're not going to believe it, but she's actually a grand-niece to my old secretary. Small town, right?"

"Is that going to make it difficult? Having the mother so close?"

Larkin shook his head. "She's welcome in our home any time after the adoption. The more people who can love this child the better." Larkin had to look away, lest he reveal his watering eyes to the tough Detective. He glanced down at the newspaper. "Trevor showed at the sentencing hearing, didn't he?"

"Boy did he ever. He was on the stand longer than anyone. The Judge was laughing one minute and then threatening to throw his butt in jail for a few hours the next."

"He should take the show on the road," said Larkin.

"That's not a bad idea," said Kincaid. "If he stays around these parts, that smug grin of his is one drunken drive away from a month in jail." Kincaid leaned forward. "But I guess if I did pinch him for a DUI, then you'd be defending him, wouldn't you?"

Larkin nodded.

"Pointless." He smiled. "What in the hell does a Vice Mayor do anyway?"

"I think you've seen it."

Kincaid nodded.

Larkin pointed to the paper. "How much time did the law clerk get?"

"Forty years." Kincaid shook his head. "Should have got life. Or death. The whole thing was just crazy."

"You don't have to tell me."

Kincaid stared out the window. "And it all started with his jealousy. That and he found your business card while rifling through Alex Jordan's purse." He turned back to Larkin. "Do you know what he said in one of his statements?"

"Do I want to know?"

Kincaid shrugged.

"Tell me."

"He said that when he looked you up and found out that you had never been to law school that he knew you'd be perfect. Boy did he get that one wrong."

"He nearly got it right," said Larkin.

Kincaid placed the plastic bag on Larkin's desk. "I wanted to give this to you in court today."

"A gift? For me?"

"A little something the wife made. Didn't really have time to wrap it."

Larkin opened the bag. Inside he found a tiny infant one-piece. It had been knit of bright orange, the same color of Larkin's prison jumpsuit. An inmate number was printed on the right breast and 'MONROE' was emblazoned in big bold black letters on the left. He had to laugh.

"Congratulations," he said.

Larkin laughed. "I don't know if Madeline's going to love this or hate this."

"A good woman will always keep you guessing."

"Larkin!" shouted Donna from the other room. "Madeline's on line two."

Larkin picked up the phone. His wife spoke breathlessly. "Okay," he said. "Okay. I'll meet you over there." He placed the phone back on the receiver. He looked to Kincaid. "She said . . . she said it's time. They called. I'm going to be a dad."

Kincaid smiled. "Come on. I'll give you a ride."

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tommy Strelka is a lawyer in Roanoke, Virginia who focuses his practice on civil rights cases in the workplace.
