First Steps

The Poesy obsesses all who dare
To tangle with the Truth.  I'm out of words,
My mind is blank, but I have just begun.

Feminine Wiles

“No, man, I think of it more like a manly recognition of her feminine wiles.” Ethan ran his finger around the top of his coffee mug. His eyes were on Hodge, but his mind was somewhere else.

Hodge chuckled. He rolled his eyes around to watch a group of middle-aged women laughing over their coffee. Why do people always meet their friends for coffee in diners? He looked back at Ethan. “'A manly recognition of her feminine wiles'?”

“Yes, sir. I'm telling you, man. You just don't know. Wait till you meet this woman.”

“I don't need to. Or I already have. They're all the same.” Hodge swirled the dregs of his coffee and lifted the cup to his lips.

“What? No, man. No. Not her. She's different.”

“Just like the last one?”

“The last one?” Ethan shot his hands up. “Who---Haley?” He grimaced and shook his head violently. “Maria is nothing like Haley. I can't believe you'd even compare them. Maria,” he leaned over the table, “is incomparable.” He sat back, proud of the point he'd scored.

Hodge drained his cup and signaled to the waitress for more. “They're not incomparable---they're all the same.” He set the cup down and pointed to emphasize his words. “All the same.” All---point---the---point---same.

“How can you say that?” Ethan hunched his shoulders incredulously. “All the same? What about---what about Yvette? Huh? What about Yvette?”

Hodge sighed. He looked hard at the table. “I can't believe you.”

Ethan nodded knowingly. “Exactly. What about Yvette?”

“Yvette,” Hodge articulated, “is 'incomparable'.”

“Oh, so she's incomparable? Maybe she is, maybe she is.” He leaned forward. “But if she is, why not Maria?” Ethan triumphantly pointed at the ceiling. “How you,” he stabbed the air in front of Hodge, “felt about Yvette, man, that's how I,” he stabbed the air in front of himself, “feel about Maria!”

The waitress poured Hodge's coffee, but Ethan waved her off. After she left, Hodge eyed Ethan for a second. “Do you know what you're talking about, Eeth?”

Half of Ethan's triumphant grin fell. “What do you mean? Of course I do. I saw all that. Front row.”

“You have no idea what that was like. Yvette and me,” Hodge looked across the aisle again. “Man, that was something normal all fucked up to look special. Ha ha, you remember that word from high school---snafu? That's what it was, man, a snafu.”

“You loved Yvette!”

“Yeah, but look where it went. Right down the crapper.”

Ethan didn't give up. “But tell me something, Hodge. Do you regret it?”

“Regret what?”

“Do you regret Yvette? Because if you don't,” he lowered his voice, “then you shouldn't be trying to drag me down about Maria. Maria is Yvette without all that baggage.”

Hodge absently stirred his coffee with the tip of his finger. He watched the wake of his finger swirl the black liquid. It was still the same. Ethan shifted in his seat. Hodge wiped his finger on the napkin and examined it. “Yvette without the baggage, huh?”

“Yes! Exactly! Take the hotness of Yvette, take away the baggage, and you've got Maria!” Ethan's face opened up like a missionary making his first convert.

“Let me tell you, man,” Hodge looked Ethan straight in the eye, “They're all the same.” He sipped his coffee. “All the fucking same.” He crumpled a packet of pink stuff between his fingers.

Ethan's face fell. His shoulders collapsed with his sigh. His head fell slightly forward. His eyes lost their focus. He blinked slowly. The corners of his mouth fell into a straight line. He shook his head to clear it. “Look, man, either you're with me on this one,” his eyes focused on Hodge's, darting back and forth between Hodge's. “Or you're not.” Ethan leaned back and pulled a couple of dollars out of his pocket. He dropped them on the table as he stood up.

“What? What is that supposed to mean?” Hodge looked up at Ethan. “I'm with you or I'm not?” Hodge threw the pink packet on the table and stood up. “Man, I've always been with you. That's why I'm here, being honest.” Ethan put on his jacket, listening but pretending not to. “I'm telling you they're all the same because they are.” He paused. “All the same. All of them. They're all the same.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Ethan pushed past Hodge toward the door.

Hodge hurried after him in the peculiar way of the 20-something male, a slow hurry. He grabbed Ethan's elbow and pulled him back. “Look, man. We're best friends. We have been since you saved my life in second grade---”

“I didn't save your life.”

“Whatever. We've been friends since second grade. I'm not trying to drag you down. I'm trying to keep you out of the gutter.”

Ethan yanked his arm out of Hodge's grasp. “Man---I've had enough. I bought you coffee so I could tell you about the love of my life, and---and---but you just can't see that. You just can't be happy for anybody else. Whatever, man. I know all about your baggage and your insecurity”---Hodge looked at Ethan sideways---“and I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to tell me that I don't know what I'm doing and that I'm going to get hurt.” Ethan's eyes narrowed. “Just like you.” He punctuated his words with his finger. Just---point---like---point---you. “But let me tell you something, Hodge,” he glanced around and knelt close by Hodge's ear. He whispered, “I'm not you.” Ethan turned on his heel and stalked out of the diner.

Hodge watched the door close after Ethan. The ringing bell over the door woke him up. He glanced at the other diners, shook his head, and slow-hurried after Ethan. He stepped in front of the diner, ready to follow Ethan wherever. He looked up the street one way, then down the other. He spotted Ethan standing in front of the window of a fancy restaurant three doors down. L'Amour Secret. He stood beside Ethan. When he looked in the window, he didn't recognize any of the patrons. He didn't have to.

Ethan stared, his lips half an inch apart. Hodge followed his eyes to a table halfway back against the far wall. A woman sat there. She was beautiful. Dark hair, that milky olive complexion of the Mediterranean. The distinctive nose that makes them self-conscious but which perfects the picture. She was slender. She was seated, but Hodge could see her long legs snaking out from under her skirt and crossed devilishly. And she smiled at the man across from her like he was the only man in the room---maybe in all the world.

Without a word, Hodge took Ethan by the arm, and pulled him away from the window, back into the dry traffic of the street.

Murder on Highway 90

The traffic buzzed by on Highway 90 like a single wasp making its way back to the nest.  These days, not many people find a reason to drive the narrow strip of asphalt connecting Alpine to Del Rio.  Inside the station, I counted the cash in the register while Warren told me about his afternoon selling thirteen gallons of gas.  I slid the cash drawer shut, and Warren clapped me on the back.  “Everything balance?”  I nodded.  It’s hard to steal from the register when you only do two transactions.  He signed out.  “She’s all yours.”  He turned his back on me and drove off without looking back.

I tuned the AM radio to a Mexican baseball game and started counting blue cars.

*    *    *

After three innings, los Tecolotes were down by three.  I stood up and stretched my back.  The bones popped like the last few kernels in the bag of popcorn.  I stepped out of the booth and looked east toward Del Rio.  Then I looked west toward Alpine.  The sulfur lights blocked out any stars, and the black west Texas night swallowed whatever other light there might be.  I heard the red Cavalier before I could see its headlights.  They stopped and bought twenty-three dollars of gas, then continued east.  I settled back into the cracked leather recliner and listened to los Tecolotes fall further behind in the fourth.

*    *    *

Two innings later, after the number five hitter put los Tecolotes up four to three with a grand slam, I stepped out of the booth to see what I could see.  Nothing but asphalt and scrub brush in the fifty yards of light, and nothing but blackness past that.  The Spanish commentators were the only noise.

*    *    *

In the top of the ninth, los Sultanes scored three to pull ahead six to five.  I leaned forward in my recliner in the bottom of the ninth.  A close game with a good finish, maybe.  Number Five was on deck when a dark green Camaro pulled in to Pump 2.  I cursed under my breath and turned down the radio.  Passenger walked around to the pump.  Driver got out and smoked a cigarette.  I listened while the clean-up hitter faintly struck out, then I myself struck out for some companionship.

“Evenin’.”  I admired the Camaro’s vintage styling.  Not many people these days pushed the engine block through the hood.  “What’s that---an ’88?”

Driver dragged on his cigarette and glanced at Passenger filling up the tank.  “Nah.  ’87.”

“Oh wow.  You know, I haven’t seen an ’87 since . . . oh prob’ly since 1987.”  I smiled, but he didn’t laugh.  “Wasn’t a popular year out here, I guess.”  I bent to my haunches to look at the wheels.  “These original?”

“Nah.  Lost two in an accident a few years back.”  I listened to him blow smoke from his lungs.  “Bought those at the junk yard off another ’87.”  Passenger locked the pump in place and stepped toward the trunk.

I straightened up.  “Name’s Willie.  Where you guys headed?”  I stuck out my hand to Driver.

Driver looked at my hand and sucked his cigarette.  He kept his free hand in his back pocket.  “Del Rio for now.  Does 90 go all the way down to Brownsville?”  He threw the butt away and pulled the pack out of his shirt pocket.

“What’s in Brownsville?”  I offered him my lighter.  Passenger screeched open the trunk.  I flinched.  “That’s not something I usually hear out here.  Let me tell you . . . the silence of West Texas . . . it’s not golden.”  I smiled with half my mouth, but Driver just watched me from behind the red glow of his cigarette.

“That so?”  He blew blue smoke toward the sulfur lights.

I flicked a glance toward the back of the Camaro, but all I could see was the trunk lid.  I shuffled my feet, kicked a piece of gravel away.  Passenger was making some kind of noise back there, but I couldn’t tell what he was doing.  “Yeah.  Pretty quiet out here.  There’s nothing up here, and,” I nodded my head south, “nothing down there.  Nearest real town is about fifty miles away.  I guess that’s why y’all stopped here, huh?  Needed some gas and didn’t know when you could get it again?”

“Somethin like that.”  

The bell dinged when their tank was full.  I read $26.84 on the pump and told him so.  “Cash or credit?” I asked, turning back toward my booth.

I didn’t hear Passenger’s boots run across the old gravel pavement.  I didn’t hear the tire iron cut through the dry night air.  I didn’t feel anything but a quick snap right between my shoulders.  I didn’t see the ground rush up to me, and I didn’t feel my forehead crack in two against the pavement.  But I did hear the tire iron ring on the pavement.  I did hear Passenger’s door slam and the Camaro’s V8 roar to life.  I did smell the gas spilling all over the driveway.  I struggled to turn my head so I could see.  I most definitely saw a fresh cigarette butt---the tip still glowing red---arc through the air toward the growing yellow puddle.

And that’s all I remember.

When It Rains

At 8:15, right on the dot, just like I want, Bobby, the head clerk this shift, picks up the phone and presses the pager button. “Attention Dollar House customers. Please keep your children near you at all times. Do not let them run loose in the store. Do not leave them in the toy section. This is for their safety as well as the courtesy of our other customers.” Bobby’s not too tough, but he gets the point across. Every fifteen minutes, after my clerks make these announcements, I glance across the seven security monitors to see if anybody changes what they’re doing.

Nope. Not this time. Not usually.

But I notice something else. On Monitor Six, there's one kid, looks to be about eight years old, who looked up at the ceiling nervously. Classic sign of a shoplifter. Yeah, he’s a little young, but kids are bad these days. They get started early. I think I'll keep an eye on him, so I shift Monitor Six to the Main Monitor and sit back with my third cup of black coffee. I prop my feet up on my empty desk to watch the show.

The kid---I call all shoplifters Jeffro---stares up at the ceiling for a few minutes after the announcement. Then he looks at the merchandise around him some more. He's in the men’s apparel section, looking at the baseball caps. That's unusual, but at least he isn’t in the toys messing everything up. When he puts a cap on his head, I snap to attention. Here we go, I think, here we go. I pick up my walkie talkie to alert Bobby, but I always like to let the noose tighten itself. I peel my eyes and stare at Jeffro on the Main Monitor. After a second or two with the hat on his head, he takes it off and sets it back on the shelf. Damn, that was close, too close.

I think about alerting Bobby anyway, but a glance at Monitor Three tells me he's busy checking people out. Better to keep my own eye on Jeffro for a few minutes.

After the baseball cap incident, he wanders down the aisle toward the men’s underwear. Classy. I laugh to myself when he figures out where he is and hurries on past the underwear. I laugh a little more when he stumbles into the ladies underwear and turns bright red. Classic sign of a shoplifter.

I watch him for the next ten minutes, until Bobby picks up the phone at 8:30 on the dot, just like I want, and makes his announcement about children. Parents, keep your eyes on your kids. You will be held responsible for any shoplifting they do. I have Jeffro on the Main Monitor this time, so I get to see his eyes widen with the Fear of the Law and stare straight up at the camera. When Bobby finishes his announcement, he hangs up the phone. Jeffro looks around him, then he starts walking fast toward the door.

I pick up the walkie talkie. “Bobby. We’ve got a 727 on aisle 4. Repeat: a 7-2-7 on aisle 4. Copy?”

“Roger that, Big Cat.” I smile. I love it when they call me that. I’m like a black panther, skulking through the jungle, my eyes peeled and ready to pounce on the next shoplifter.

Jeffro starts running. He leaves the range of Monitor Six, so I switch over to Monitor Three. I see his little head bob up and down as his fast walking turns into running. Then I switch to Monitor Two just in time to see Bobby step out in front of Jeffro. Jeffro runs into him so hard that I can almost see the breath knocked out of Bobby. Shit. Jeffro starts punching Bobby and yelling. I can't hear anything up in the Security Station, so I am on my way. Before I leave, I make sure to grab my police surplus handcuffs. Jeffro isn’t getting away this time.

I'm at the front of the store faster than a cheetah. People always think cheetahs are so cool, but panthers are way better. They're even better than mountain lions.  We skulk and hide and pounce at just the right time. You don’t need to be fast when you’re sneaky like us.

“Jeffro.” I laugh to myself after I say that. “Thanks, Bobby. I can take it from here.” I grab Jeffro from behind, just below his shoulders. I twist his arms around and handcuff him before he can do anything. They're a bit loose, but I pick up his left arm just like they do on Law & Order and lead him back to the Security Station. While we're walking I ask him his name.

The kid is so nervous, I think he's about to cry. Good. Let him cry. Learn his lesson that way. “T-T-Thomas.”

“Thomas, eh?” I stop to give him a look that lets him know I'm in charge here. “What are you doing running out of my store, Tommy?” Then I pick his arm up again and drag him toward the Security Station.

“N-N-N-Nothing.”

“Uh-huh. I bet.” I cock my head and look him in the eye. “Lying to the Law, Tommy Boy?” But before he can say anything---I like doing it that way---I drag him into the Security Station and toss him into the Holding Cell. He's a light little boy, can’t weigh more than eighty pounds. Before I shut the heavy steel door, I give him my sternest look. “What’s your last name, Tommy?”

The kid is shaking afraid. “J-J-J-Jettison, sir.”

I jut my jaw out and nod, then I shake my head. “You better not be Lying to the Law, Tommy.” His eyes get even wider and his mouth drops open, but before he can say anything I slam the heavy steel door shut. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.

I pick up the phone and press the pager button. “Will the parents of Thomas Jettison report to the Security Station? You are needed at once at the Security Station. Repeat: the parents of Thomas Jettison are needed at the Security Station. Your son’s been caught shoplifting.” I hang up the phone and smile a good smile. This is my job, and I’m damn good at it.

I sit down in front of the security monitors and watch for somebody responding to my page. All over the store, people are reacting to my page---that’s pretty usual---but nobody is responding to it. Nobody is coming to find out what's wrong. Hiding from the Law. I open the communication window on the Holding Cell door. “Tommy. What’re your parents’ names?” He just looks at me wide-eyed for a minute. Doesn’t want to tell me. “Don’t make me come in there, Tommy.” I rattle the doorknob to let him know I'm serious.

Finally: “R-R-R-Roy ‘n-‘n-‘n T-T-Tonya.”

In my best grumbly voice: “You better not be lying to the Law, Tommy Boy.” I let him shake his head so fast his hair falls out of place before I close the communication window.

I walk back over to the phone and pick it up again. “Roy and Tonya Jettison, you are needed at the Security Station. Your son Tommy is being held for shoplifting. Repeat: Roy Jettison and Tonya Jettison, you are needed at the Security Station at once.” I set the phone back in its cradle and watch the security monitors. People are reacting again, but nobody is responding.

“You lied to me, Tommy. You Lied to the Law.” I give him my meanest, sternest look through the communication window.

He starts shaking his head like crazy. “No! Honest! No! R-R-Roy ‘n T-Tonya! Promise! Honest!!”

I know he's too young to tell me what they look like, so I slam the communication window shut and sit down at the security monitors to figure this out. Better try one more time. “This is Security. Roy and Tonya Jettison, you are needed at once at the Security Station. Stop your shopping immediately and report to the Security Station. This is not a joke.” Sometimes you have to add that last line just so people take you seriously. I watch the security monitors keenly. People react. A few people shake their heads. But nobody responds. Goddammit. It’s going to come to this, isn’t it? I push the big red button with a picture of a master lock on it.

“Attention Dollar House customers, this is Security speaking. Due to uncooperative parents, we have locked the doors and will be conducting a full-scale investigation into a shoplifting incident. Stay where you are at and remain calm.” I wish they let me pack heat on this job. Then I could really solve the mystery. I look at the security monitors one last time before heading out. Dammit. There are probably a hundred people in this store, and I have to ask every single one if their son is Tommy Jettison.

Since they don’t let me pack heat, nobody takes me seriously. I talk to every damn customer in that store, and nobody admits knowing who Tommy Jettison is. I stomp back to the Security Station and dig the Polaroid camera out and take a picture of my prisoner. Maybe they can lie with their lips, but they can’t lie with their eyes. I’ll show them all a picture and see how they react to seeing their Poor Li’l Tommy in handcuffs.

But nobody confesses. I talk to every single customer---turns out there are 34---and even though I see pity in their eyes, I never see shame or anything like that. By now, I’ve had them all locked up for about an hour, and they're getting upset. Let them. This is a serious matter and needs to be resolved. Li’l Tommy needs discipline, and I know the Law won’t let me do it. They think my jurisdiction ends at the plate glass windows.

I'm sitting in my chair, looking at the security monitors and pondering what to do when the door opens. I don’t like people interrupting my thought process, so I don’t respond until Manny puts his hand on my shoulder. “Dick.” That’s all he says, but I know what he's going to tell me. He's going to tell me to unlock the doors and let the people go. I saw him apologizing and passing out coupons to all the people out there. All the damn liars. I have to figure out which one is the culprit.

“No,” I say. “Not yet.”

“Dick. We have to let these people go. I talked to corporate, and they say if we keep this up much longer, they can sue us.”

I slam my fist on my desk. “For what?! For protecting our inventory? For managing our losses?” I push back from my desk and stand up. “If these people want out of here, one of them better hurry up and claim Tommy!”

“That’s just it, Dick. I don’t think Tommy’s parents are out there.” He walks over to the door and opens it just enough to motion somebody in. Ugh. Melinda. I hate her, but she tells the truth. “Melinda here says she saw Tommy when he came in. His parents---or at least the people he was with---aren’t here anymore. She’s been looking. The man was wearing loose khakis and a flannel shirt, and the woman was wearing short shorts and a low-cut tank top.” He motions toward the security monitors with his hands. “Did you see anybody like that out there?”

I look him in the eye with my best steely look. But I can’t lie. So what! Tommy is clearly a shoplifter, and he has to be disciplined! “So? What are we going to do about Tommy’s shoplifting?”

“Well,” Manny takes a deep breath. “Let me talk to him.”

“Fine. But I’m locking the door in here.” I cross my arms over my chest. I know Manny will hate that.

“Alright,” is all he says.

Fifteen minutes later, Manny knocks on the door. I open the communication window and stare at him. “Well, Dick, I’ve talked to Tommy and made him empty his pockets. He doesn’t have anything.”

I narrow my eyes. Whose side is he on? Tommy has all the classic signs of a shoplifter. “Did you do a cavity search?”

I see something change in Manny’s eyes, and I know I've gone too far. He's letting the kid go. He doesn't have to say anything. The asshole is letting the kid go. I slam the communication window shut and stomp off to my chair. If that’s what he thinks he's going to do, then let him get out of the Holding Cell himself and let the kid go.

I'm still steaming when the police came in ten minutes later. I stand up. “In there, Officers.” I point at the Holding Cell door. “I’ve kept him safe and sound in there.” The Officer in charge just shakes his head and walks toward me. I back up. “What are you doing? He’s in there!” I point emphatically, with my whole arm, at the Holding Cell door. “In there! In there in there in there in there in there in there!!”

But he turns me around like I'm nothing and pulls both arms behind my back. I'm still screaming at him that the real criminals are in the Holding Cell when I hear him say in a low voice: “Dick Quixote, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you. . . .”

* * *

“Are you sure that’s how it happened?” the lawyer asked. “Is there anything else I need to know?” Dick Quixote shook his head. “Dick, I’m on your side. I need to know everything. You’re up on forty-eight counts of criminal false imprisonment. We’re talking thirty years or more.”

Dick Quixote looked at the floor. “What about his parents?” The lawyer didn’t respond, so Dick Quixote looked up. “What about his parents? Ask Tommy’s parents. They’ll tell you. He was shoplifting.”

The lawyer opened his briefcase and pulled out a CPS report. “I’m afraid not, Dick.” He pushed the report across to Dick Quixote. “His parents took him to the Dollar House, told him to look at the toys while they did some shopping, then walked right out. There are warrants out for their arrest, but they’re probably halfway to Guatemala by now. We’ll never catch them.”

R.I.P. Mr. Crichton

Michael Crichton has left the planet.

I remember in fifth grade, watching my brother violently react when my mom interrupted his reading of Jurassic Park.  "Have you ever been so into a book that when somebody rips you out of it you feel like throwing up?"  I got the video game for Christmas that year and watched the movie a billion times.  Then in eighth grade, I finally opened the book and read for days.

In college, I branched out and read The Andromeda Strain.  I thought that I had read better books, but I also thought it had a really interesting premise.  I read Rising Sun, The Terminal Man, and A Case of Need before I stumbled on one of my favorite novels of all time: Sphere.  In my goodreads.com account, Sphere is one of only two books I honor with five out of five stars.  Later, I gave The Great Train Robbery and Travels four stars.

I'm in the process of reading the seven novels of his I haven't read yet.  They don't always rival Shakespeare, but they're always exciting and always interesting and always fun.  I can't say that Mr. Crichton was a good friend of mine, but I can say that I have enjoyed the hours I've spent reading his work.

If nothing else, I hope Mr. Crichton would be honored by my saying that he's the kind of writer who makes me want to write novels.

Ejection

“Mr. Caswell.”

Shit. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you agree with Ms. O'Brien's assertion that the third exception to The Rule”---you can hear the capital letters---“was intended to allow case agents to remain in the courtroom?”

Shit shit. I have no idea. Case agents? Or is that the second exception? Maybe it's the fourth exception.

“Mr. Caswell, are you with us?”

“Yes, sir. I---I think I agree with Ms. O'Brien---to a certain extent---”

“To what extent?”

Shit shit shit shit. Why can I only think of four-letter words? Why can't I think about the third exception to The Rule? Why don't I highlight my reading?

“Well, sir, I, uh, I believe the third exception was, uh, was intended to allow the presence of certain witnesses---”

“Yes, we all know that, Mr. Caswell. What witnesses?”

“Uh, witnesses who are essential to the presentation of the case . . .” That's all I've got. I know I'm just repeating the rule. He knows I'm just repeating the rule. Shit shit. There's a pause. Maybe he's bored with me---

“Mr. Caswell. The whole prospect of this conversation---some might call it a monologue---is to ascertain what the drafters meant when they said 'witnesses essential to the presentation of the case'. Do you have any productive thoughts on that topic?”

He's just berating me now. I can take this. I'm in my third year of law school. I have self-confidence. “The drafters were referring to, uh, witnesses like case agents in the, uh, second exception---”

“Yes, Mr. Caswell, Ms. O'Brien has already established that. We've moved on to the third exception. Do you think---as Ms. O'Brien seems to---that the drafters would write up two exceptions that both allowed the presence of the same witnesses?”

“No, sir---”

“Because that's absurd. Do you think the drafters were absurd?”

“No, sir---”

“Then why don't you tell me whose presence is allowed in the courtroom under the third exception?”

Shit. “The third exception lets those witnesses who are essential to the presentation of the case remain in the courtroom during the testimony given by other witnesses . . .”

“Mr. Caswell, this is not a reading class. I believe that your ninety-three classmates have been reading for at least twenty years by now. Do you think your classmates don't know how to read?”

“No, sir, I---”

“Then Mr. Caswell, I suggest you expound on your thoughts as to what witnesses are essential to the presentation of the case.”

Shit. A big fat nothing stares up at me from my books. I read something about this last night. Cops are in the second exception; victims are in the fourth. But what the heck is the third exception? Maybe page 87---

“Mr. Caswell?”

“Yes, sir.” No no---not 87, 94---

“Whose presence is allowed under the third exception to The Rule?”

Maybe it's page 82. No no. Maybe it's not even in this book. Was it in a case? C'mon c'mon c'mon---shit shit shit---

“Mr. Caswell?”

“Yes, sir, uh, the third exception allows the presence of . . .”

“Yes?”

shit shit shit shit

“Have you read the advisory comments to Rule 615?”

Shit. “Yes, sir.”

“All of them?”

Shit shit. “Yes, sir.”

“What about the second paragraph?”

Shit. Why don't I highlight? “Yes, sir.”

“Then why don't you know the answer to my question?”

Stop. You don't own me. There are people at home who love me and who think I'm a pretty smart kid. They think I'll be an excellent lawy---

“Mr. Caswell, you didn't come to class without being thoroughly prepared, did you? Because if you did, then perhaps it'd be in your interest---really ours---if you stopped wasting everybody's time.”

“I prepared, sir---”

“If you prepared, Mr. Caswell, then why don't you know whose presence is allowed under the third exception to The Rule? It seems a pretty basic proposition to me.”

Yeah, if you've been teaching evidence since before King John signed the Magna Carta.

“Mr. Caswell, I'd like you to do the class a favor. You see, there's some ambiguity in the case law about the third exception, and I'd like you to sort it out for the class. Write a memo noting each circuit's stance on the third exception, as well as any definitive case law out of the Supreme Court, if there is any. If any states have any special rules, I think your colleagues would benefit from that as well. Now, I recognize that this is a pretty big question of law. So instead of the usual twenty-four hours, you have forty-eight. I'd like your memo on my desk no later than Friday morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Mr. Caswell? I believe there's a cup of coffee waiting for you in the student lounge.”

Shit . . .

“Now, Ms. O'Brien, as we were saying . . .”

Genesis of a Weekend

It's funny how sometimes life feels like a movie written by some really fantastic director.  Friday, I walked out the doors at work into a light, drizzly, showery rain that felt too cold for early August.  It was the kind of rain where it's too wet to put up your umbrella, but you feel foolish holding it over your head.  Even when you open it, you still get wet from about your shoulders down.  The sky was grey and the wind was chilly.

I walked the block-and-a-half to the Metro stop, trying to decide whether to open my umbrella or not.  At the top of the escalators that go down to the platform, the homeless man with eight phonebooks (as a bed?) was covering himself in a trash bag cut like a poncho.  That stop doesn't have any kind of a portico, so the early August sleet didn't stop until I reached the platform.  By then, I was damp enough to be slightly miserable.  I boarded the train a few minutes later, and read a paragraph or two in my too-hard-to-read-on-the-train book.  I got off at my stop twenty minutes later, and climbed up the escalator to my neighborhood.

And the sky was a deep oceanic blue.  A few pretty clouds dotted the sky like South Pacific islands.  The wind blew warm.  The people around me smiled at nothing.  My steps got lighter, and my weekend began.

Delinquent

They served me a month and a half ago.  I didn't pay my child support, but I didn't see my child, either.  If I'd seen him, then I might have paid.  Their lawyer says I'm $30,000 behind, but that can't be right.  But I guess it is.  I'm $30,000 behind, and I'm going to jail.  Well this sucks.

First Day in Court

My dress brown shoes squeak on the hundred-year-old tile.  The hallway goes silent, and everybody stops to look at me.  They're looking at me like I don't belong here.  But I belong here, and I know it, even if they don't.  Maybe I'm making up what I see in their eyes.  I'm nervous; that's all.  Time to go to court.

Perqs

The CEO of Wal*Mart never pays for groceries. The CEO of Coke is never thirsty, and the CEO of Exxon never drives past E. The CEO of Toyota drives a company Lexus while the CEO of Harley Davidson rides a company hog. The CEO of Hummer wishes he drove a smaller vehicle—but he’s not really that concerned. Shawn took the first job he was offered out of law school. He sued his clients’ clients, and he collected their escort fees. Now he never parties alone.

See more progress on: post really, really, really short stories.

Another Successful Mediation

We figured it all out. She got the pots, and he got the pans. After I wrote up the agreement, I left to make copies. When I came back, she was on her knees, and his pants were around his ankles. I wonder what happened to the lawyers. Husband and Wife are still here, but they don't need mercenaries anymore. My work here is done.

Playing with Fire

Tomàs has been chasing me since I lost El Coyotito's trial. He finally found me two days ago, in my office. He duct taped my arms to the arms of my office chair. Then, he took my keys and locked me in my office. I don't know what happened to my secretary. I'm not sure I want to know. I've had a lot of time to think these past two days, and so to avoid thinking about my poor secretary, I ponder: How did I get here?

I guess it's the same way everybody else gets where they are. Reading Steinbeck and Harper Lee in high school got me angry about social injustice. My college political science professor pushed me toward law school. Law school taught me how to vent constructively. When I got out, I fought for criminals and the Constitution. That's how I met El Coyotito. (Only his friends can call him Javier Reyno.) And I guess El Coyotito is how I got here.

When I first met El Coyotito, he wasn't yet a druglord; he was just a mule who'd crossed at Eagle Pass on the wrong day. After I handled his drug trafficking charges agreeably, he started sending his "associates" to me. Before long, El Coyotito made me his abogado and put me on the payroll. I worked out of his South Texas headquarters and untied any legal knots he and his associates tied. I was hammering out a plea bargain the day the Feds nabbed El Coyotito. Tomàs succeeded as acting president, and I started delegating. I devoted all my time to freeing mi jefe.

Thirteen months later, El Coyotito's jury didn't understand my position. They convicted El Coyotito and sentenced him, like fools, to prison. I understood what that meant for me. I told the Feds everything I knew, and they hid me in Iowa. I sat for the Iowa Bar under a new name and started organizing small businesses and doing divorces.

But prison can't hold back the long arm of El Coyotito. Tomàs has found me. And suddenly, he's back in my office. He steps toward me with a cell phone in his right hand and a pistol in his left. He puts the phone to my ear. "Lo siento, Abogado. I liked you. But you will be an example." Tomàs raises the pistol. I close my eyes, bracing for the blast. Pleadingly, I wonder--How did I get here?

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Carries she more than just trouble-drowning shots,

A comfort derived from the itch. No more than a

Rash, a constant, recurring rash to be scratched,

Loathed and cursed, and comforted, customers are

Akin to her own self-begotten brood.

Normally, he lounges at the end of the bar,

Obliges himself to drink full his tab,

Remembers to forget to go home. He is

Maturity’s masterpiece.

Contrary to popular belief, the

Lazius postalis developed in ancient

Ireland and was known for doing his work

Fast, but evolution has brought

Fashionable tardiness to the fore.

Simple.

Arrogant.

Male.

Dire straits, a crossroads in her life. How did she get so

Involved in the Boston bar scene

Against her pre-post-graduate dreams?

None of her former colleagues accepts her

Efforts at becoming haute-couture.

Can anyone evade his charm?

Others you can ignore, but try ignoring

A man who names the beer mugs.

Confused and confusing he is, but ever straining to

Help those whom he loves.

Call one more round on the

House. You can be sure that

Everybody knows your name; that

Everybody’s problems are the same; that you can

Return whenever you like. Just be

Sure to reciprocate.

(c) 2008, Jeremy Masten

The House of the Rising Sun

Mary and her neighbors ruled their little piece of the world like any other cul-de-sac in middle class America.  "You shall not park automobiles beside the curb against traffic for more than 24 hours consecutively."  "You shall not allow the grass in your front lawn to grow taller than 3 inches."  "You shall not place and leave a basketball hoop or any other sports equipment in the front yard for more than 2 days consecutively."  "You shall not operate a business out of your house."  They ruled the cul-de-sac strictly but politely.

Mary owned the ranch-style on the eastern half of the cul-de-sac.  The two oak trees she planted (one on each side of the sidewalk) right after she bought the house reached 40 feet into the sky and at least 30 into the ground.  The shrubbery guarding her front porch was neatly clipped to perfect rectangular prisms.  The layers of dupioni silk shrouding her windows elegantly shrouded her living room and front bedrooms from nosy neighbors.  None of this drew attention to Mary's house.  That's how she liked it and how the cul-de-sac liked it.

Despite--or perhaps because of--Mary's penchant for privacy, the cul-de-sac loved her.  She never asked questions, but she always knew somehow when somebody's wife needed help.  She always brought a comforting meal and helped with one or two of the wife's chores.  Once, while Susan visited her elderly parents in Iowa, Mary performed all of Susan's motherly and wifely duties: she woke the children, served breakfast, clothed the children, delivered the children to school, served Susan's husband's lunch, brought the children home from school, served dinner, and finished the evening with ice cream for the kids and a drink for Susan's husband.  And Mary didn't particularly care for Susan; she felt obliged as a neighbor to help out.

But Susan returned from Iowa a day early.  It was evening, and the television watched the children while Susan's husband was notably absent.  She called the office, but no one answered.  She called his mobile phone, but he wasn't available.  She asked her children, but they didn't know.  Only peeved at his absence, she wandered toward her bedroom--absentmindedly planning a hot bath--and thought about her parents.  Her bored hands found that month's bank statement, and her bored eyes skimmed it half-heartedly.  Her ennui didn't hide check number 2846, made out to Mary for $300, memo: Roxie, but for any of the thousand reasons one ignores unpleasant facts, her bored hands put the bank statement back on the table in the hall, and the bath took all her attention.  Nothing better than to watch the day's worries swirl down the drain after a bath.

While Susan undressed in her bedroom in her house, Susan's husband dressed in Roxie's bedroom in Mary's house.  He tightened his belt and tied his shoes, and Roxie straightened her tousled sheets.  He gave Mary another $300-check, memo: Roxie, and went back home to Susan.

(c) 2008 by Jeremy Masten