Coyotelaw

2005-05-24T13:52:00.000-06:00

"Your monkeys are trashing my place." Harry was back from his month in Italy.

"They're not monkeys, they're Apes."

Harry looked at me. "Same thing."

"No, I think monkeys have tails. Apes are like chimpanzees and gorillas and shit."

Harry took a sip of scotch. We were sitting on his veranda, watching a thunderstorm roll across the desert.

"Apes, monkeys, who gives a shit? The point is, they’re making a mess of the place.”

“Yeah.” The storm was a good twenty miles out. It appeared to be heading our direction.

“Which wouldn’t be a problem, of course, if you hadn’t run off my maid.”

I shrugged.

“I told you not to fuck her. It was the one goddamned thing I asked of you.” He lit his pipe.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” I said. “It just did.”

“Tell me again why they have to stay here?”

“They’re still under bond conditions not to leave the county.” I took a drag on my longneck. “Besides, they don’t have any way to haul their equipment.”

“Because the banjo player ran off with the van,” Harry said. “And my foreman. And half my crew.”

“Yep.”

“To find Whosits.”

“Yusuf Islam.”

“Cat Stevens.”

“His converted name.”

“Because the banjo kid discovered Allah after the lightening strike.”

“It wasn’t...”

“Goddamn it, I know it was a fire hose. I saw the whole thing on Olbermann while I was sitting in the airline lounge at DFW. One minute I’m sucking down a martini, the next I’m watching Carol Dodder’s blouse getting hosed off on national TV.”

“The fire hoses were an excessive response. It wasn’t really a riot.”

“So you told Olbermann.”

That part had been cool.

“So while you’re off doing the media circuit as the human interest flavor of the hour, my house nearly burns to the ground.”

“It was the peyote. You should keep that shit locked up in a safe or something.”

Harry looked at me for a long while. “Or maybe the friend to whom I entrusted the care of my home shouldn’t have fucked my maid, started a riot, brought teenage Neanderthals home or run off to New York City while said Neanderthals and my best ranch hands were pillaging my home after a peyote binge.”

“They’re good kids Harry. I’m their manager, it’s my job to promote them,” I said. “Besides, we got a record deal out of all that.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Harry? If you had been in my shoes, would you have done anything different?”

He lit his pipe again, puffing several smoke rings. The storm was veering north. The sun was exploding in a radiant desert sunset just below the storm clouds. Harry stared at the horizon for a good long time. After a while he drained his scotch and cleared his throat.

“No, not a thing.” The corners of his mouth crept upward into a bit of a grin. “Not a goddamn thing different.”

2005-05-15T07:11:00.000-06:00

Apes for Jesus played at the Fiction Town Fiesta last night.

They came on right after the square dancing exhibition by the Fiction County Horns & Heifers, a senior's group dedicated to preserving "Our Western Heritage." Apparently "Our Western Heritage" doesn't have anything to do with the Native Americans, the Mexicans or the Chinese, judging from the racial make-up of Horns & Heifers.

The square dancers were leaving the outdoor dance floor when Darren (Apes for Jesus' financier) started a rousing bluegrass version of Cotton-Eyed Joe. Several members of the square dancing crew decided to stay on the floor and formed the traditional line, gleefully cheering "Bullshit!" at all the right spots. The crowd also got into the spirit, clapping along to the banjo solo and yelling "Bullshit!" in unison with the dancers. What happened next was beyond the realm of their wildest, most terror-filled, imaginations.

The crowd had been oblivious to the fact that Darren, the banjo player, was not the only member of Apes for Jesus. They failed to notice guitars being plugged into amps and the growling faces of the young men who were about to sonically assault the crowd.

When the banjo solo hit the fourth instance of "Bullshit!" Darren suddenly stopped playing, yielding to the burst of death-metal guitar chords played by my former client, Nice Kid, and his two bandmates.

Death-metal is a form of music completely devoid of melody, designed to bypass human ears and cognitive thinking, the sound waves somehow blasting directly into the central nervous system.

Apes for Jesus lit out with their death-metal original, "Swallows Nine." The first verse goes like this:

Your Mama swallows nine!
Your Mama swallows nine!

I'm givin' her all I've got,
Cuz she's such a dirty slut!

Your Mama swallows nine!
Your Mama swallows nine!

Actually that's the only verse. Repeated twenty-three times for emphasis.

The Cotton-Eyed Joe line froze in stunned bewilderment, making the first in a series of unfortunate bad-decisions by all who bore witness to Apes for Jesus' opening song. It turns out that Apes for Jesus has a relatively small, but very passionate, fan base, which had traveled to Fiction Town for the concert. In an instant the dance floor was swarmed with spiked hair, black makeup, and body-piercings. The death-metal kids quickly had the square dancers surrounded, forming a mosh pit in the area where the last chorus of "Bullshit!" had rang out.

As the body-slamming began, many of the square dancers hit the floor for cover. I saw Judge Dodder crawling out of the crowd on his hands and knees, apparently unaware (or uncaring) about the fate of his wife, Carol, who had been lifted off the flooor and was now crowd-surfing the head-bangers. She looked like she was enjoying herself. I assume she had never been felt up by so many young men in all her life.

The seniors who were fortunate enough to escape the crowd ambled off of the dance floor in a daze. Their eyes were locked in that thousand-yard stare of battle veterans who had seen some really bad shit on the front lines.

The Fiction Town teenagers, at first in awe of a spectacle they could not possibly have ever imagined, decided to join their Big City cousins in head-banging revelry. The second wave of dancers flooded the dance floor and I saw Prosecutor Dave going right in with them. He was lost in the mosh pit for a moment and when I next saw him he had a cut over his right eye. He caught sight of me and grinned as blood ran down his face.

Good for Dave. He was long overdue for an adventure.

Meanwhile in the pavillion, young mothers grabbed their young children and skedaddled to their minivans and SUVs, sprinting as if a sniper had opened fire on the Fiesta crowd. I swear I saw one of the mothers running a zig-zag pattern, a child in her arms and another on her hip. In their rush to leave the tent, the mothers had knocked over tables, spilling soda, beer and punch into the dirt.

In the wake of the evacuating mothers, I saw Prosecutor Bitchy at one of the few tables which had not been overturned. She raised her beer cup to me and smiled.

It was during the fifth verse of "Swallows Nine" that the Fiction County Sheriff's Posse, a group of overweight, middle-aged cop wannabes, arrived to impose order on the dancing melee. The Posse ran through the tent in their haste to make it to the dance floor, sloshing through the soda-beer-punch sludge which had now flooded the tent. One of the Posse members slipped in the mud and fell head-first into a table, knocking him out cold. The rest of the Posse managed to make it to the wooden dance floor but all would soon wish they hadn't.

Because the Posse are not real cops, they are not trusted with real guns, or real weapons of any kind for that matter. They were outnumbered and ill-prepared to deal with the throbbing throng of head-bangers. The Posse skittered and slid across the dance floor on muddy boots and were quickly descended upon by the frenzied crowd. After only fifteen seconds, one of the Posse was thrown out of the dancing crowd, wearing nothing but his J.C. Penney tightie -whiteys.

It was then that the Fiction Town Volunteer Fire Department arrived. George, the Assistant Captain, was in charge because Harold, the Captain, was the Posse member laid out unconscious in the muddy tent. George assessed the situation and made an Executive Decision. He ordered his men to hook up two firehoses in preparation for crowd control, Sixties-Style.

The first blast of water hit the band just as Darren, preparing for his second solo, was plugging his banjo into an amp. Darren was electrocuted in a spectacular burst of sparks and sizzle.

The second blast of water hit the crowd on the dance floor, the water pressure ripping Carol Dodder's blouse off. She had a remarkably impressive rack for an old broad.

It took me until 3:30 this morning to get the Apes bonded out of jail, where they had been booked for Inciting a Riot. Because I was their manager, the State Police had attempted to arrest me as well, but I kept screaming "First Amendment Violation!" and finally the District Commander ordered me uncuffed. I drove the boys over to the hospital in Darren's van. Darren was discharged to our care. Aside from blackened fingertips and a new Afro, he was relatively unscathed. His brains were scrambled a bit and he kept repeating "Fiction Town, population 7,126. Suh -Lute!"

I took the boys out to Harry's ranch and I let them smoke some of Harry's stash with the ranch hands. Technically they were in violation of their bond, but I figured they needed to decompress a bit.

I went into town around 6 to get the guys some doughnuts. I picked up the Sunday paper, where last night's concert was, of course, front-page news. The headline read:

FICTION COUNTY FIESTA MASSACRE!
Apes Arrested - Permanently Banned From Fiction Town

I can only wonder what the folks at PETA are going to think when this headline goes out over the wire service.

2005-05-14T10:14:00.000-06:00

"Prosecutor Bitchy says that if she doesn't have to send your shit to the lab to have it analyzed for DNA, she'll recommend a suspended sentence with probation." I was going over the prosecution's plea offer with my client, Mr. Wilson. Mr. Wilson is a retired attorney who moved to Fiction Town with his (now ex-) wife two years ago. Mr. Wilson is charged with breaking in to his ex-wife's home and taking a dump on her mahogany dining room table.

Mr. Wilson made a dismissive gesture. "She's bluffing. They don't have a fucking case against me. You tell that lady what she can do with her plea offer. I want to go to trial."

I knew better than to take Mr. Wilson on as a client. Attorneys make the worst clients.

"Taking a crap on someone's formal dining room table is a very personal act, something your average burglar doesn't do," I pointed out. "As Mrs. Wilson's ex, you were the prime suspect."

Mr. Wilson pulled out a flask and topped off his coffee cup. He offered me a pour. I declined. It was 8:30 in the morning. I guess when you're retired, the Noon Rule doesn't apply. Something to look forward to.

"Circumstantial. I have an alibi."

"Your alibi is being seen at the same bar Mrs. Wilson was at with her new boyfriend. You poured a drink over his head. Your so-called alibi witnesses say you left before they did."

"Little weasel. I bet she gives him head. I haven't had a good blowjob since Nixon was bombing Cambodia. She probably sucks off that convenience store magnate every night."

These were images I would have preferred not to think about. I tried to get Mr. Wilson to focus on his case, lest the images become seared into my brain forever.

"Your car was seen parked around the corner from Mrs. Wilson's house," I said. "After you left the bar."

"The witness didn't get the license plate. They can't prove that was my car," he argued.

"Mr. Wilson, you drive a bright red '63 Corvette Stingray. There aren't many of those in town. In fact, there are only two in the whole state and the other guy has his in the shop."

"Circumstantial. Maybe I was visiting a lady friend."

I flipped through the file. "The only item stolen from the house was a ceramic Buddha. The burglar ignored 3 flat screen televisions, a computer system, $100,000 worth of jewelry, two original O'Keeffes . . ."

"What's your point Counselor?"

"Your divorce was held up for five months while you and Mrs. Wilson litigated the sole issue of who would get the Buddha."

Mr. Wilson lit a cigar. "I like that little guy. We bought him in Bangkok when we were there for the Millennium. I hauled that fucker over 8000 miles, through four airports and Customs. He should have been mine."

I was tired of going back and forth. "You used a credit card receipt to wipe your ass. The receipt was found on the table, between the pile of crap and the bowl of oranges."

Mr. Wilson shrugged. "We were married. I'm sure there are a lot of my receipts lying around the house."

"The receipt was from that night. You used your card to pay your bar tab."

Mr. Wilson stood up and patted me on the shoulder. "You worry too much my boy. Don't forget, I know my way around a courtroom. I was a feared trial lawyer in my day." He had been a civil litigator in his pre-retirement life, which meant that he had gone to trial about once every seven years, maybe every five years if he was aggressive.

"About that. We need to talk about whether it's really a good idea for you to co-counsel in your own criminal trial."

He waved me off and opened the door. "We'll be a helluva team my boy. If it's a show they want, by God we'll put on a damned circus!"

He left.

I poured some bourbon. Screw the Noon Rule. I had known better than to take his case, I really had. Why on Earth didn't I listen when all those alarm bells went off at our first meeting?

As if to answer, my eyes were inadvertently drawn to my blue business account ledger. Oh yeah. The $50,000 retainer.

I'm such a whore.

Writing
fiction

2005-05-09T23:49:00.000-06:00

[Authors note: Time to step out of character and live up to a commitment I made to Evan, at Notes From The (Legal) Underground. I have no idea what a 'meme' is, but I'll play along.]

You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to be? What a bizarre question. My biggest fear is burning alive, so I would have the pick something that would not grab attention. I choose A detailed soil and land capability of a cacao area in Trinidad (Soil and land-use surveys). I feel pretty secure that I could avoid detection for a few decades.

Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character? I suppose my first crush was on Tia, from Escape to Witch Mountain by Alexander Key. I was 9, she was an older woman, you know how that goes.

My second crush was on Pussy Galore, the arch-heroine of Ian Fleming’s Goldfinger. I was 15. She was a lesbian. I can’t really explain it but for months, perhaps years, I constantly had Pussy on the brain.

These days I’m old, so I’m drawn to more earthy women like Angela Gennaro from Dennis Lehane’s excellent Patrick Kenzie/Angela Gennaro novels, set in Boston. Angela has to be the sexiest woman alive: she shoots, she’s smart, she’s funny, and I have no doubt she could kick my ass. Deep down, I think that’s what all men want in their women.

The last book you bought is: A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson. As I get older, I want to know more about why I’m here. Seeing this book on the coffee table makes me feel smarter.

The last book you read: A Deadly Shade of Gold by John D. MacDonald. More about this below.

What are you currently reading? A Tan and Sandy Silence, by John D. MacDonald. Perhaps the greatest crime fiction writer. Ever. As Carl Hiasson put it: "Most readers loved MacDonald's work because he told a rip-roaring yarn. I loved it because he was the first modern writer to nail Florida dead-center, to capture all its languid sleaze, racy sense of promise, and breath-grabbing beauty." Despite publication 40 years ago, you will not find better social commentary anywhere. No other author has ever pulled off objectifying, worshiping and respecting women all at the same time. Shakespeare came close. He would have been envious of MacDonald.

Five books you would take to a deserted island: The Godwulf Manuscript by Robert Parker. I’m drawn to the genesis of genius. William Goldman: Four Screenplays. Show me a writer who has ever written a better movie. I dare you. Lord Foul's Bane (The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever, Book 1) by Stephen R. Donaldson. When I was in high school there was this bookstore that sold two things: porno mags and sci-fi books. Grabbing this book on the way to the counter along with the latest copies of Penthouse and Hustler made me look like less of a perv. Or so I thought. Bubble Gum and Kipling by Tom Mayer. Just trust me on this one. Finally, The Bible. Stranded on a desert island, it’s time to start believing in something. Don’t you think?

Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons)? And Why? I’ll take Evan’s lead and solicit volunteers. You know what happens when you break the chain. Hell freezes over. The West Coast drops off into the Pacific. We’re all stuck in a river of piss without a tree to grab on to. You owe it to Humankind to volunteer.

[To everyone cruising over from Notes, take your time to check out a few of my favorite postings. If you want to see how many times slang for male genitalia can be mentioned in a story that has absolutely nothing to do with sex, click here. If you'd like to see how seriously some women take their football, click here. If you want a good cry, click here. Thanks for stopping by. I'm sorry about all the fish.]

2005-05-08T19:42:00.000-06:00

“Mr. Coyotelaw, could you please not use the word ‘cock.’ ‘Chicken’ or ‘rooster’ will suffice.” Judge Petty was not a Happy Camper. We were at a sidebar.

Cockfighting is legal in my state. My client is charged with Aggravated Battery with a Deadly Weapon for attacking another cockfighter with a fighting cock. We are claiming self-defense.

“Your Honor, my client is a simple man.” That went without saying. You never see bankers or real estate developers engaged in cockfighting.

“The term he uses for his fighting rooster is ‘cock.’ If we try to censor his speech, his testimony will come across as unnatural. The jury may have a bad impression of his demeanor on the stand and it may affect their view of his credibility. In a self-defense case with no witnesses, credibility is critical.”

Judge Petty glared at me. His face was red and beads of sweat were breaking out across his brow. He was infuriated that this was going to trial, especially after learning that Prosecutor Bitchy had offered a deferred sentence with no jail time. The judge had tried to strong-arm us into accepting the plea, even after the jury was selected and opening statements delivered. I advised my client not to accept the offer. I felt we would win on self-defense.

Judge Petty hated to make any legal rulings in trial. He was deathly afraid of being overturned on appeal. I decided to up the stakes.

“My client would have an excellent appellate issue if the trial court prohibits him from presenting his legal defense in his own words.”

You could almost see the steam rising from his bald head.

“Very well then, use that term if you must.” Judge Petty hated giving in to me. “But I will warn Defense Counsel not to make a mockery of these proceedings!”

Mockery? Judge, you ain’t seen nothing yet. I returned to the podium to resume direct examination of my client.

“Mr. Schultz, we were at the point where your cock had lost.”

“Yes, he was a good fighter, he had a big heart, he was just no match.” His voice choked and his eyes teared.

“And what was your arrangement with Mr. Escobedo?” The prosecution was alleging that Victor Escobedo was the victim in this case. He lost an eye.

“We weren’t fighting for money. We had agreed to give up a cock if we lost.”

An embarrassed giggle from one of the jurors. Excellent. I had to bring out the humor in this situation to counteract the graphic and maudlin testimony about Mr. Escobedo’s injury. The eye-patch was a nice touch, Prosecutor Bitchy.

“Was there a problem?”

My client, Clyde, straightened up. “You bet there was. He went right over to the pens and grabbed my best cock.”

“What made that particular cock your best?”

“That was my prize cock. That cock was bigger and meaner than the rest. Everybody knows you don’t take a man's prize cock.”

“What did you do?”

“I said ‘Victor, you know damned good and well you can’t have that cock.’”

More titters from the jury.

“What happened next?”

“He wouldn’t turn my cock loose. I demanded that he put the cock down and get another.”

“What did he do?”

“He was yelling at me saying he could have any cock he wanted.”

“What did you do?”

“I wrestled my cock out of his hands.” Giggles from the jury box.

“And then?”

“He picked up his own cock out of the ring and came at me.”

“Were you afraid?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why is that?”

“Well he was charging me with that big cock stretched out. Anybody would have been afraid.”

“Did his cock have spurs?”

“Yes it did, sharp ones,” Clyde said.

“Could he have hurt you with the cock?”

“Oh yeah. His cock was fresh from the fight. It still had the taste of blood.”

“So what did you do?”

“Well I still had my cock in my hands,” Clyde began.

“Let me stop you right there. Whose cock was bigger?” Muffled laughter now. I didn’t dare look towards the bench.

Clyde considered. “Well my cock was bigger, of course.” Of course. “But like I said, his cock was all riled up.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I was able to dodge his cock at the last minute, and then by instinct I just jammed my cock up into his face. I didn’t really mean to hurt Victor, but the next thing I know he was screaming that my cock had scratched his eye.”

My client paused. “Everything was a mess. Victor had a lot of blood. We both dropped our cocks in the excitement. Our cocks were fighting while I’m holding a rag up against his eye. His cock got the better of mine of course. His cock had spurs and mine didn’t.”

“Mr. Schultz, were you intentionally trying to hurt Mr. Escobedo with your cock?”

“No sir, I was just defending myself. I would never use my cock as a weapon.”

Loud bursts of laughter came from the jury room during deliberation. Eventually the jury came in and rendered a not guilty verdict.

On the way out to my car, Clyde and Victor called over to me. They were drinking Grape Pucker schnapps over by Clyde’s ‘77 Chevy truck. They offered the bottle to me and I took a swig.

“We’re going out to my place for a fight, Mr. Coyotelaw. Want to come watch?”

“No thank you, boys. You all be careful. Those things can put an eye out.”

I started up my truck. I wondered if Gerry Spence ever had to argue self-defense for use of a cock.

I’m guessing no.

But I wouldn't bet my prize cock against it.

Writing
fiction

2005-05-07T11:04:00.000-06:00

Wife #2 called last night.

She calls sometimes when she's drunk.

"Why were you such a bastard to me?" Another Tanqueray night and from the sound of her, it was a doozy.

"Hello Cari. How's Oscar?" She had taken my Border Collie when she walked out on me.

"He's fine, I'm fine, we're all just Zippity-Fucking-Doo-Dah wonderful here!" I think she was being facetious. I decided not to point that out.

I heard her taking a drink. "I think you miss that damned dog more than you miss me."

"That's not true Cari , I miss you," I said. "A lot." Of all the women, before and since, Cari was the one I should have kept.

"Not enough to keep from fucking around on me." It was the gin talking.

"Cari, I'm sorry."

"You always said that. Every single time, 'I'm sorry, Cari.' 'It will never happen again Cari.' 'I can change, Cari.' But you never meant it." She was crying now.

I sighed. "Cari, I did mean it when I said it."

She laughed and cried in that drunken, sad way. "You still don't get it, do you, you bastard. I didn't give a rat's ass whether you meant it when you said it, I cared whether you meant it before you decided to stick your dick into the cunt of that fat cow real estate agent."

The C-word. Cari never used that word. I'm thinking six, maybe seven martinis. At a minimum. I decided it was best not to offer anything.

"Wasn't I good enough for you? Didn't I give you everything you asked for?" The crying again.

"Yes, Cari, you did."

Another drink, the sobs stopping long enough for a few gulps. "I know it wasn't my tits. You couldn't find better tits, no matter how many bitches you fucked."

That was true. Cari had a spectacular athletic body, the combination of a lifetime of playing tennis competitively and very good genes.

"You know I thought your breasts were phenomenal, Cari."

She laugh-cried again. "Know what, they still are. Full and round and perky. Not a sag to them. And you will never, ever see them again." She had a bout of hiccups.

"You know what I hate the most?" she continued. "I hate the fact that I still love you. After all the shit you put me through and the lousy way you treated me, I still love your sorry ass. I don't know why. It's not like I can't find anyone else. I've been dating a guy up here in Boston, he's got his own software company, a loft that overlooks the Common and he loves me. He's good looking, tall, great smile, no beer gut . . ."

Ouch, that wasn't necessary. I looked down at my stomach. Okay, maybe I deserved that.

She went on. " . . . and he worships me. He's everything you're not. He would never treat me like you did."

Maria sat up in bed next to me and lit a cigarette. She had started smoking this past week although I had warned her against it. The Zippo made a loud clink as she shut the lighter hard in the dark.

Cari went on, still crying. "And you know fucking what? Tonight he proposed to me."

Cari was a fine catch for any man.

"This is how fucking stupid I am. I turned him down. Can you believe that shit? You know why I turned this great guy down?"

I decided it was a rhetorical question and that a guess wouldn't help right now.

"I refused to marry this wonderful, wonderful man who thinks I'm a goddess because I don't love him. I'm still in love with you. He's not as funny as you, he's not as smart as you, he doesn't know how to dream like you do. And that's the fucking cruelest thing you've ever done to me. You made me love you forever, you piece of shit." Loud sobs now.

"I don't even know why I'm calling . . . you don't fucking care . . . you never cared . . ." and she hung up the phone.

I took a deep breath and placed the phone down. I lit my own cigarette.

"That was one of your wives?" Maria asked, a chill in her voice.

"Yes, it was Wife #2."

"It sounds like she still loves you very much. To call you at this hour when you are in bed with another lover."

"She's just drunk," I said.

"I am thinking this. I am thinking that maybe you still love her too." She elbowed me for emphasis. "Maybe you love her more than me, no?"

I recalled that I had used the L-word once or twice this past week, but only in the heat of climax. This was another of those questions that was best left unanswered. Lying would be wrong. The truth would get me slapped. I stayed quiet.

Maria stubbed out her smoke and rolled out of bed. "You sunuvabitch!" she yelled, slamming the bedroom door on her way back to her own room.

I finished my cigarette and lit another. I laid there, alone in the dark, listening to Maria's loud wailing from across Harry's sprawling home.

Sometimes I feel like such a shit.

Writing
fiction

2005-05-03T12:24:00.000-06:00

"Mr. Coyotelaw, where's your client?" Judge Petty asked. The jury had reached a verdict.

"I don't know Your Honor, his mother told me that she went to wake him up this morning and he was gone."

Ralphie had also cleaned out the refrigerator, emptied his closet and had taken a backpack, a sleeping bag and $47 his mother kept hidden in a cookie jar. I wasn't going to offer that Ralphie appeared to be on the lam.

Ralphie had been charged with breaking into a food storage locker behind a local pizza place. He was found about a block away, gnawing on frozen chicken wings. The trial concluded yesterday and the judge had sent the jury home with instructions to return this morning for deliberations. It had only taken them five minutes to reach a verdict. They were waiting in the jury room right now until summonsed by the judge to return to the courtroom to announce its verdict.

Judge Petty frowned. "You told him to come back this morning?'

"Of course, Your Honor."

"I guess he wasn't too impressed with your closing argument," Judge Petty said. "I find that the defendant has voluntarily failed to return to the trial and we'll proceed without him. Bailiff, bring the jury in."

We all stood. The jury entered and all of them seemed puzzled by the fact that the guest of honor wasn't at my table.

"Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?"

The foreman was an old rancher. He stood and looked down at the verdict form, a crease forming across his brow. He seemed to be reconsidering.

"Yes we have Your Honor," he said tentatively.

"And what say you?"

"As to the charge of breaking and entering, we find the Defendant . . . " The foreman paused and looked at the empty chair next to me. " . . . er, not guilty." The foreman handed the verdict form to the bailiff.

The judge had a lousy poker face. His displeasure with the verdict was plain. He sighed. "Very well then, you are discharged. Thank you for your service."

After the jury had filed out the judge asked us if there was anything further that needed to be addressed.

Prosecutor Bitchy stood. "Your Honor, the State would ask you to issue a bench warrant for Defendant's failure to return to court." There you go Sweetie, pile it on. You're not by chance taking the verdict out on my client, are you?

I decided not to respond. There wasn't much to say and further questions might lead to me having to reveal the strong circumstantial evidence that Ralphie had no intention of returning to court.

Judge Petty pondered the request for a moment. Another deep sigh. "The Court is offended by Defendant's lack of respect for this Court's order to appear." Judge Petty liked to refer to himself with references to his position in the third person. "However, given the verdict of not guilty it would seem unfair to now have Defendant arrested. Your client caught a break this time Mr. Coyotelaw but you need to tell him that if he comes before my Court again, I will remember this. Case adjourned.

I would like to tell Ralphie the good news but his family has no clue where he might have fled to.

I can't help but chuckle a bit as I imagine Ralphie, twenty years from now, with a ZZ Top beard and tattered clothes, diving behind dumpsters every time he sees a patrol car drive past.

You should have had more faith in me Ralphie.

2005-05-01T18:48:00.000-06:00

I was called out to a murder last night. Sally Martinez was charged with killing her brother Carlos. Carlos was a mean-ass drunk who had just gotten out of prison for sodomizing a 90 year old retired piano teacher at gunpoint.

I drove in to town and met the police at Sally's mobile home, located in a trailer park across the street from the rendering plant.

I got down from my truck and walked over to Prosecutor Bitchy and Detective Anthony Lovato. I liked Tony, he's a good cop. If he told me it was snowing outside in the middle of July I wouldn't have to peak out the window to know it was the God's Honest Truth.

As I approached the two, I caught a look inside the door to Sally's trailer. Carlos was lying on the floor just inside the door, a black knife handle sticking out his chest. There were EMTs and uniformed cops standing around chatting, killing boredom until the medical investigator came to take the body away.

"Sally did this?" I asked Bitchy. I wondered briefly if she too had been interrupted during a bout of sinful pleasure to deal with this sin of a higher order. I looked for tell-tale handcuff marks on her wrists but the long overcoat she was wearing went down too far and she was grasping the cuffs of the jacket in her hands.

She nodded. "We're charging her with an open count of murder right now. That may change after we get her side of the story but she lawyered up when Tony started asking her questions."

Tony nodded towards an unmarked unit. "She's in the back of my car. I'll take you over so you can chat with her." We started walking. There was a large, construction-worker grade thermos on the trunk of his car. "Coffee?"

I accepted and he poured some in a small white insulated cup.

"I usually put on a pot before I go to bed on nights I'm on call. You never know."

"What happened here?"

"We don't know much at this point. She was standing over him when the EMTs got here, screaming 'Fucking bastard! He had it coming!'" the detective told me. "Which he damned sure did. Carlos Martinez was the meanest, sorriest excuse for a human being that ever set foot in this town. I'm sure most of the guys in the department would vote right now to award Sally a medal for taking out that piece of shit. We were hoping to find a knife or a gun on him when we rolled him over but it looks like he was empty-handed. She was asking for you when I got here."

I had represented Sally before, on some worthless checks and a possession of marijuana charge. She was a good woman, raising three kids on her own on a supermarket check-out girl's salary. She was not a violent woman by any means. But Carlos could bring out the worst in people.

"Let me talk to her," I said, crushing my empty cup.

Tony opened the back door of his unit. "Your lawyer's here Sally." I slid in next to her and Tony shut the door. There was a strong smell of alcohol inside the car.

"Sally I'm not sure you should tell me what happened here yet and I don't think you should talk to the police unless you've got a good self-defense claim." I was trying to give her a hint.

"Fuckin' Terry Bradshaw, my ass!" Sally said.

"Excuse me?"

"Carlos was over here drinking with me, being an asshole as usual. I kept telling him to go home but then he starts in on that whole 'Bradshaw is the greatest quarterback ever' bullshit. Fucking asshole. I told him that Bradshaw wasn't even the best of his era. Roger Staubach was ten times the quarterback of that bald Cajun hillbilly."

"Well Bradshaw did beat Staubach in those Super Bowls," I pointed out.

"Fucking dropped pass. That ball was so there. One fucking dropped pass, that's not Roger's fault. My grandmother could have caught that ball. Shit, greatest of all time? When there's Montana, Unitas, Aikman, even fucking Dan Marino? Put Marino on that Steelers team and they win eight or nine Super Bowls in a row."

"So you guys were arguing?"

"Yes, and I told that asshole to get out of my house right now. I held up the knife to show him I was serious."

"Where did the knife come from?"

"Fucking knife we were using to cut up the limes, for the Tecate."

It's always the lime-cutting knife. I've represented six murderers here in Fiction Town. Four of them involved lime-cutting knives as the instruments of death.

"What did he do?"

"Fucking asshole wouldn't leave. He just jumped up off the couch and rushed me. It was just instinct or something. Next thing I know he's stumbling back looking at me like I'm a crazy bitch or something. The knife was sticking in his chest. I don't even remember doing it." She started crying. Deep sobs with snot bubbles and all.

"Sally, you're still in shock over your brother's death. I don't want you talking to anyone until I see you again first thing Monday morning, promise?"

She promised.

On the long drive back out to Harry's ranch I mulled the whole incident over. A man was killed. His good-hearted sister was going to jail, maybe for life. Fratricide. All over a football squabble.

I was having a hard time wrapping my brain around it.

Maybe she was right. If Staubach's on a team with the Steel Curtain Defense, perhaps he wins four or five rings easy.

Still, Bradshaw had a knack for making exactly the right play when it was needed.

Writing
fiction

2005-04-30T09:27:00.000-06:00

I went to see Prosecutor Bitchy this week. She kept me waiting in the lobby for twenty minutes. Juvenile power trip.

I was a bit distracted when I finally took a seat in her office.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she said.

"Like what?"

"You're smirking. What's so funny?"

Busted. "Nothing. I was just thinking about something Harry told me last night." She probably wouldn't appreciate the fact that she had become the daily source of of morning fantasies in the shower ever since my lunch with Dave last week.

Or maybe she would.

"What did you want? I don't have all day." I definitely would have picked her to be the dominant kind. Who would have guessed?

I opened my file. "I'm here about Nice Kid. I want to discuss a plea offer."

"What about him? Two pounds of marijuana in his backpack, confession, clearly intent to distribute. I don't see a reason to go easy on him." It was the bedside manner that made her such a hit with defense attorneys.

"Did you see the reason Border Patrol moved him over to secondary?"

"He and the passenger were acting suspicious. The agents had every right to pull them over."

I flipped to the report. "Quote: 'driver and passenger were eating popcorn vigorously.'"

"And your point is?"

"You're telling me that it's now against the law in this country to eat snacks? I knew the Patriot Act was cracking down on all of our civil rights but denying us our popcorn?"

She sighed. "It's not what they were eating, it's the way they were eating it."

"Vigorously."

"Right." She said it with a straight face.

I looked at her for a moment.

"I'll win the suppression motion."

Bitchy shook her head. "Judge Dodder never goes against the prosecution on motions. You know that."

"And Judge Dodder never sends 19 year old kids to prison on their first conviction," I said, closing my file. "You know that. Besides, I'll win the suppression on appeal."

Bitchy studied me for a while, weighing her options. Our state appellate courts despised Border Patrol cases and a fact pattern like this could lead them to rule that checkpoint searches were unreasonable per se.

"What are you proposing?" she asked.

"Conditional discharge, no admission of guilt, 12 months probation and then you wipe his record clean."

She nodded slowly. "Okay. $500 donation to the DARE program."

"Do they need guitars?"

"What?"

"The kid doesn't have any cash. He and the other one were going to sell the pot to raise money for a demo CD. They're in a band." And I'm their new manager.

Bitchy rolled her eyes. "Instead of the fine they can play a free concert at the Summer Fiesta. I'm on the entertainment committee and I'm having hell booking talent this year."

"Deal." I got up to leave.

"What's the name of the band?"

I turned around. "Apes for Jesus."

Bitchy laughed. "Cute name, what kind of music?" She actually seemed human in that moment.

"Kind of a Bluegrass-Death Metal fusion."

Her eyebrows raised.

I shrugged. "The guy who owns the touring van plays banjo."

"Al-----righty then. This will be a whole new experience for Fiction Town," she said, a playful twinkle in her eye.

I left.

That didn't go badly at all.

Maybe I've had her pegged wrong all along.

2005-04-26T07:16:00.000-06:00

"Don't fuck the maid!"

It was the one thing Harry had been insistent upon when I agreed to watch his place.

"Maria has an attachment problem," he told me. "She thinks a romp in the sack is an expression of everlasting love. I don't want you breaking her heart. She'll run back home to Mama and it'll take me a month to get her back over the border. Besides, I promised her father that I wouldn't let something like that happen to his daughter again. Her pop's got connections with the Juarez Cartel. I don't need that kind of trouble."

I promised Harry I would be a good boy.

Harry called this morning. I was still in bed.

"How are things going back there?" My mind was too foggy to do the exact math but I figured it must be early evening in Greece.

"Well," I told him.

"You're not screwing around with the girl, are you?"

"No, Harry." I lit a cigarette.

"Good deal. Just checking. I better let you go. There's these Swedish sisters that like to go topless. It's about time for their afternoon swim."

"Good luck." I hung up the phone.

"Quién era ése?" Maria asked.

"Harry."

"Ohhhhh." She pulled the covers down, showing off her perfect, dark brown breasts. "Let's make luuuuuuuuuuuv again, mi perro."

I'm a sucker for accents.

Harry is going to be so disappointed in me.

Writing
fiction

2005-04-25T12:18:00.000-06:00

I stopped by the jail today to visit with the “Dukes” (~~ Just two good ole boys~~). I’ve represented one or both of the brothers off and on for the past five years. They weren’t serious criminals but they each had a lengthy misdemeanor history for fighting, DWI, etc.

I met with the boys together in the cubby hole that the jail calls the attorney room. Clint was the older brother, tall with disheveled curly dark hair and Dale was short with a blonde crew cut, built like a fireplug. They were both soaking wet in their orange jumpsuits, had the same crooked noses and were wearing the same goofy grin.

“Well, it looks like you both were charged out of the same incident. Clint you’ve been charged with driving while intoxicated, a misdemeanor and Dale you’re charged with unlawful taking of a vehicle and criminal damage to property, both felonies. I don’t have any police reports yet, why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Clint started. “We were coming back from the Fishin’ Hole, we had done some dancing and were about to hook up with these girls from El Paso but then Doofus here decides he wants to go home…”

“You kept leaving me with the ugly one who didn’t like to dance,” Dale said, “besides I had to go home…”

“Okay, so Dale decides he has to go home. We were in my truck so I drove.”

“And you were drunk?” I said.

Clint shrugged. “A few Cuervo shots and a half-dozen beers. I might have been a bit buzzed, but I had been dancing and all, so I didn’t really feel it. Anyway, we were coming back into town, I wasn’t going too fast, maybe 80, 85, when the cop hits his lights. If I had been in Dale’s Camaro I would have made a run for home . . .”

“Yeah my Camaro would have smoked that cop car . . .”

“ . . . But my truck gets a pretty bad shimmy when you get her up above 90, so I pulled on over. It was Deputy Gonzales. He took the keys out of the ignition, told me to get out and take those sobriety tests on the side of the road.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose with my index finger and thumb. “So you guys were in your own truck, where does the theft of a vehicle come in?”

“That’s the best part. While Deputy Gonzales has me…”

“Let me tell this part, I’m the one who got charged with the felonies,” Dale said.

“Okay, baby, tell the man what you done.”

“Well I was sitting in the truck and I could see that Clint wasn’t doing too good on that walking test . . .”

“I was passing that test. It’s that damned one-legged one that I always have a hard time with . . .”

“ . . . And I knew we would be there forever because they would have to arrest him and call a tow truck and all. They weren’t going to let me drive . . .”

“Dale had his license taken away when he was 17.”

“I’ll get it back next year, so shut up!”

“Not if you keep stealin’ cop cars, you won’t get it back . . .”

“Hey, I haven’t told him that part yet. You always have to steal my stories!”

“Boys, let’s focus,” I said. I turned towards Dale. “So you stole the officer’s car?”

“I wasn’t stealing it, like drive it to Juarez and sell it or take it to a chop shop or anything. I was just borrowing it.”

“Why on earth did you take his car?”

“I told you, I had to get home. I had to go.”

“What do you mean . . . ah, you had to use the restroom, is that it?”

Dale nodded. “Number Two.”

“Why didn’t you just get out and go in the bushes?”

“Because I had the runs. You can’t do the runs in the bushes.” Dale said. Clint nodded in agreement.

I sighed. “So you were going to drive the deputy’s car home?”

“Yessir. I figured nobody would be too upset about it. But when I pulled up my street there were already cop cars in front of the house. I was afraid they would be in the middle of arresting me and then I would just . . . explode, you know? So I did a U-turn and headed out. They started chasing me and I was getting pretty scared. I didn’t want anybody to get hurt.”

“Mr. Coyotyelaw, you know us pretty well. You know Dale and I are kinda wild and all, but we’ve never hurt nobody.” Clint said.

Just two good ole boys.

“So what did you do?” I said to Dale.

“Well, I couldn’t hold it anymore, so I drove the car into the river.”

He said the words as if the logic was plain to anyone. Really.

I waited for further explanation but I could tell none was coming. “So you’re saying that you intentionally drove the police car into the river because you had diarrhea?”

“I figured by the time anyone caught up with me, I would be wet and all from the river, nobody would be able to tell . . .”

“Tell Mr. Coyotelaw how you made sure of that,” Clint said.

“Well, I got out of the car and started dog paddling. The cops were all shining their lights and pointing their guns and stuff, yelling at me to get out. The river was pretty damned cold and they weren’t just gonna jump in after me. It only took me a few seconds to undo my pants and strip them off.”

“I’m under arrest, in the back of another car at this point,” Clint said. “We pull up just in time to see him walking out of the river with only a shirt on. It was the funniest damned thing I’ve ever saw. You should have seen yourself with one hand behind your head, the other grabbing bushes to pull yourself up, your weenier flopping around as you scrambled up the bank screaming ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’”

“To be honest I was scared that they were going to think my weenier was a deadly weapon and shoot it off.” Dale said.

The brothers both busted out laughing, loud raucous guffaws complete with thigh-slapping and pointing at each other. I felt like I was in a junior high PE locker room.

Maybe, just maybe, the jury will buy a duress defense.

2005-04-24T10:37:00.000-06:00

I'm staying at Harry's. He's going to Greece for a month and asked me to keep an eye on the place. He has a ranch foreman, a half a dozen ranch hands, a cook and a full time maid, so my real job is to keep an eye on the people keeping an eye on the place.

Harry takes an annual trip to the Greek Isles where he plays the role of the "Drunken, Wealthy American" and spends his afternoons and nights seducing athletic and open-minded European lasses on holiday.

I want to be Harry when I grow up.

2005-04-24T00:57:00.000-06:00

I got a guitar last week. I also received a motorcycle but it's the guitar I'm excited about. I grew up in the Golden Age of rock guitar gods. Van Halen. Gilmour. Page. Knopfler. Clapton. You could smoke a bowl and spend hours lost in the ether of their piercing solos. I always wanted a guitar as a kid but there was never enough time or money to take it up.

I was answering my own phone last week. Lucy took a sudden week off, supposedly to care for a sister who was ill in Chicago. At first I thought the "sick sister" story was a cover for going to rehab but then I figured Lucy would probably die if she had to stop her daily, secret, ritual of nips and smokes. No way was she heading to Betty Ford anytime soon.

Being the wife of a preacher in a small town would drive anyone to drink.

On Thursday a Nice Kid Who Made a Dumb Mistake called me. I usually avoid answering the phone as much as possible but it was nearing the end of the month and I didn't want to chance losing out on new business, so I picked up.

"Coyotelaw Law Offices." Okay, so it's one room for me and Lucy, with a bathroom down the hall, but you have to call yourself something.

"Um . . . is the lawyer there?"

"Speaking."

"Huh? Oh, I get it Dude. You're the lawyer?"

"Every day except Sundays. How can I help you?"

"Ha, good one. Are you any good?"

"It depends on what you're looking for. Do you need a lawyer?"

"Yeah, Dude, I kinda messed up and I need a lawyer. I have one already but I've heard he's not so good. His name is ShitForBrains, do you know him?" Nice Kid asked.

If obsessive murderous ideation constitutes "knowing" someone then I'm downright intimate with ShitForBrains.

"Yes, I'm familiar with him. Did you hire him or was he appointed?"

"Um . . . speaking away from the phone . . . Mom, did we hire Mr. ShitForBrains or did we appoint him?"

muffled response

"Sir, he's my public defender so I guess we appointed him," Nice Kid said. "But now I'm hearing some bad things about that dude and I need to get someone else."

"What have you been charged with?"

"Well they say that I was intending to sell pot but it's not like I'm a drug dealer. We were driving through Fiction Town and we got pulled over at the Border Patrol. We just needed some money for the band so we can make a demo CD. Gavin knows this dude up in Albuquerque who has a studio and . . . "

I interrupted. "How much marijuana did they find on you?"

"Nah Dude, it wasn't on me. The whole thing is bogus! You think you can get the case thrown out?"

"Slow down. Did they find any marijuana anywhere near you?"

"Yeah, just two pounds in my backpack in the trunk but it wasn't on me. The paper they gave me at the jail says Possession With Intent to Distribute but it wasn't in my possession. We can get it thrown out can't we?"

I held the phone away and sighed. "You might have some defenses but I won't know that until I review your case. We might have to work out a deal with the prosecutor. If you don't have a record you would probably get probation. Maybe even wipe this off your record with a deferred sentence."

"Right on! Dude, I don't want to go to prison. That ShitForBrains guy keeps telling me and my mom that I'm going to prison."

ShitForBrains tells that to everyone. He scares the shit out of clients so that he can look good if he works out a deal.

Nice Kid continued. "So I guess it costs money for you to take my case?"

"Yes, once you've been assigned a public defender you're stuck with him unless you hire your own attorney. The court won't let you pick and choose which PD you want." Otherwise I would be representing every felon in Fiction County.

"I gotcha. How much does something like this cost?"

I told him my fee.

"Whoa Dude! That's a lot of freakin' money!"

Actually it wasn't. In a big city I could charge about five times as much. I decided not to point that out.

"I would be happy to talk to you in person and we can discuss your case. Then you can decide if you want to hire me."

"Yeah Dude, I guess I'll have to do that. I'm getting a real bad vibe about ShitForBrains," he said. Nice Kid was a bit of a flake but his instincts were good. "But I gotta talk it over with my mom."

"You do that and feel free to call me if you want to make an appointment."

"Alright. Later Dude."

The next afternoon I was sitting at my desk, pouring my first cup of bourbon, when I heard honking out front. I looked out the window and saw a truck. The pickup didn't really have a color, it was about five different shades of primer grey, highlighted by rust stains. Two young men with matching Greg Allman haircuts jumped out of the cab. I went outside.

The one with darker hair came over to me."Dude! I thought you would have a suit. Are you a real lawyer?" It was Nice Kid.

I assured him that I was 100% FDA certified.

The other young man hopped in the bed of the truck and was pulling a motorcycle upright.

"That's Gavin. He's part of 'Apes for Jesus.'" I assumed he was referring to the name of their band - not a club for Born Again primates.

"Here's the deal Dude. Mom's being a bitch about this whole lawyer thing. She said she already paid too much for my bail and that since it's my mess, I need to clean it up. I'm short of funds so I thought maybe you could take the bike and some guitars to take my case."

I saw three guitar bags in the bed of the truck. The motorcycle was an old Kawasaki dirt bike and I guessed its value wasn't worth a third of my usual fee. The guitars intrigued me though. Nice Kid started opening up the bags.

"Are these all yours?" I asked.

"Yeah Dude." His voice took a sad turn. "I hate to give them up but prison scares the crap out of me. I like that probation deal you were talking about. These probably don't add up to your fee but these are all the guitars I've got."

I looked them over.

"Which one was your first guitar?"

Nice Kid pulled one out. "This here. I've worn the finish off a bit but it still plays real sweet."

"Which one's your favorite?"

He smiled broadly. "This one. It's an ESP LTD Kirk Hammett Signature. It doesn't cost too much but it's got a great sound."

"Put those two away. You can keep 'em. I'll take the other one," I said.

"Dude, no freakin' way! Are you sure? I mean, I'm trying to be fair here. All of this together isn't as much as what you said yesterday but I thought I should try."

"I'm not taking a man's last guitars. You can give me the other one, and the bike, and we'll call it square."

Gavin and Nice Kid grinned at each other. "Awesome!" they said in unison.

So, I have a new client, a tax write-off for discounting my fee, a motorcycle and a hobby I've yearned for since I was 14. Sometimes it's not such a bad thing to answer my own phone.

By the way, "Apes for Jesus" has a new manager.

I'd always wanted to give Entertainment Law a try.

Writing
fiction

2005-04-20T06:31:00.000-06:00

I was up all night. The images continue to haunt me.

It all started when I had lunch with Prosecutor Dave yesterday. Dave is the nice prosecutor here in Fiction Town. He doesn't enjoy conflict so he pleads all of his cases out, usually at rock bottom bargains. I once talked him down on an Aggravated Burglary With a Deadly Weapon charge, a second degree felony, to Trespassing, a petty misdemeanor.

Dave is a trust fund child so he really doesn't have to work at all but he enjoys the social interaction and the feeling that he is employed in the service of the public. Dave has a beautiful wife, an architect from Mexico City, and is one of those guys who never seems to have any stress in his life.

We were at Senor Charlie's, our favorite Mexican dive restaurant, polishing off Grande Combination Plates and talking about Dave's recent trip to Costa Rica. Dave was showing me pictures of vipers. Dave spent most of his time in the jungle searching out CR's legendary venomous snakes while his gorgeous wife laid out on the beach. I hate snakes and I don't know why anyone in his right mind would actually go out of his way to be within striking range. When I see a snake I run like hell but I suppose it's Dave's way of getting a yearly dose of excitement. Me, I would have been back at the resort charging the adrenaline batteries by banging the sexy architect day and night. To each his own.

The photos were giving me the creeps so I changed the subject.

"Let's talk business so I can write our lunch off."

Dave grinned. "You've got to get over your fear of snakes."

"It's not that I fear them, I just want them all to be dead. I take it you haven't showed these to Prosecutor Bitchy?"

Dave and Prosecutor Bitchy haven't spoken in a year. One day Dave decided that the War on Drugs was a foolish waste of time and resources so he dismissed all of his marijuana cases. Prosecutor Bitchy was not amused.

"She's really not such a bad person, just a little overzealous when it comes to this prosecution stuff," he said. Dave was like Will Rogers - he never met a soul he didn't like, even when they gave him the silent treatment for months.

"J. Edgar Hoover was overzealous. Bitchy's downright fanatical."

"She's just a little pissy with you because you turned her down."

Last year Bitchy and I ran into each other at Otis' Dock, the bar out by the lake. She had been drinking from a pitcher of margaritas all night and was feeling no pain. She began coming on to me but I got the hell away. Kind of like my reaction to snakes.

"Self-preservation. I had a feeling that she would have torn into me and left me scarred for life."

Dave laughed. "I think she prefers it the other way around."

"What do you mean by that?"

"She's into the S and M thing but from what I've seen she likes to be the submissive one."

Yes, he said it that casually, the way one would say "so and so enjoys dessert but prefers pie to cake."

My fork was frozen in mid-air, cheese and red chile sliding through the tines, heading for refuge back down on the plate. Dave was still eating away.

I cleared my throat. "How on earth would you know something like that?"

Dave shrugged. "I hacked into her computer. There's some nasty stuff on there." He took a drink of his iced tea.

Don't leave me hanging Dave. "Such as?"

"Some videos. I guess she's having an affair with one of the Highway Patrol guys from Other Town. She seems to enjoy handcuffs and leg restraints and batons." He took another bite. "She likes them a whole bunch, it appears."

The remaining cheese on my suspended fork was beginning to congeal. I thought of something to say but words simply wouldn't come.

Dave went on. "There's this one clip, it's actually the video from the cop's unit. I guess they played out some kind of traffic stop scenario. He pulls her over, yanks her out of the car, cuffs her hands behind her back then bends her over her trunk and plugs away."

Dave had finished his plate.

"Are you sure she was a willing participant?"

Dave shrugged. "Based upon her reaction, I mean she had this earsplitting orgasm that would put Jenna Jameson to shame. Besides, there's lots of other videos, like this one where he takes his Taser and presses it against her . . ."

"Whoa, that's enough." I'm as kinky as the next guy but there comes a point.

Dave nodded. "Yeah, I suppose it is."

I paid the bill and we left.

The images have plagued me ever since.

What's worse is that I can't stop masturbating.

fiction
Writing

2005-04-17T17:16:00.000-06:00

Friday was Tax Day or as it used to be known around my office, Application For Automatic Extension of Time to File Day.

Form 4868 used to be my best friend. There was something optimistic about dropping that small little envelope in the post office box every April 15. Like a lottery ticket, its only value was in the promise of something yet to come, as in "I'm sure that when August 15 rolls around, I'll have enough money in the bank to pay what I owe this year. I can feel it - this is the year Baby!"

And like the lottery, there came a point in time when you realized the dream simply wasn't going to come through. That slam-dunk auto accident case would come crashing to a halt when the expert you fronted came back with a report indicating your client was at fault, or the widow came to her senses and decided to trust her estate planning with a specialist. Far too often, the bank account was in worse shape in early August than it was in April. (I blame Daylight Savings Time and Thursday Two-For-One Margarita Night at Otis' Dock over at Fiction Lake for my dwindling funds.)

This year Harry hooked me up with his accountant and instead of spending the summer hoping for enough money to pay my taxes, I'll be spending it waiting for my refund to arrive.

Harry's accountant believes in the principle of Playing the Odds Against Audit Probabilities. I'm not sure of all of the ins and outs but basically he comes up with a refund figure and works his way back through your income and expenses to come up with figures that push the envelope, but do not cross the line, of triggering an audit. It's actually just a form of gambling. The audit probability figures for various income levels are easily available on the internet and my accountant comes up figures that are just short of raising red flags. Because his name is countersigned on the return, he's taking some chances, but he figures that possible penalties and interest that may come from an unlikely audit are more than made up for by the 10% of the refunds that he charges his clients as juice on their return.

I'm not sure how his strategy plays out with the ethical rules for CPAs but that's not my concern. He's got his 10% vig and I've got a reservation at Bellagio planned for the week my refund check comes in.

God bless Harry.

2005-04-13T23:55:00.000-06:00

I had a trial this week. My client, Larry, was charged with commercial burglary for breaking into a pet store and stealing an iguana and a cash register. The police didn't have to work hard to find a suspect. As the cops were examining the crime scene they heard blood-curdling screams coming from the alley, about a block away from the pet store. Larry found out the hard way that iguanas actually will bite you.

The case against Larry was strong:

Larry was found a block away from the pet store about 5 minutes after it had been burglarized.
Glass shards matching the smashed window front of the pet shop were found embedded in Larry's shoes.
Blood spots found amidst the shattered glass at the pet shop matched Larry's DNA.
Larry was in possession of Ziggy, the iguana, when police found him screaming in the alley at 3 in the morning.
There is a large chunk missing from the tip of Larry's nose - the spot Ziggy chose to indicate his displeasure at having been woken up in the middle of the night for an early morning jog down a dark alley with a stranger.

Larry refused a plea bargain and insisted on a trial.

"Larry, you're an idiot. We're not going to win."

"They don't have any proof!"

I went over points 1-5 (listed above) with Larry for the 37th time.

"I still think we should go for it. I've always pled guilty in the past and the guys at the joint tell me I should have fought the charges no matter what."

"Larry, those boys in the bright yellow monkeysuits - whose advice you seem to admire - tell me, how many years of law practice do they have between them?"

"I don't mean any disrespect Mr. Coyotelaw. It's just that I've always taken plea bargains before and I've always regretted it." He shrugged. "I'd like to take my chances at trial on this one."

"You've got 3 prior felony convictions. You're looking at 20 years, mandatory time, on this. The plea offer has you out in 8 years. This isn't the case to find out what a trial is all about."

"They never found the cash register."

I sighed. "That's because your accomplice was smart enough to only steal items that don't bite."

"They never found anyone else. They can't prove it was a two-man job."

"Larry, they found two sets of footprints in the store. Besides, it doesn't take Columbo to figure out that one person could not have carried off a 40 pound cash register and a two-foot long, squirming, irate lizard all by himself."

He shook his head. "I want my trial."

Larry's trial started Monday morning and concluded Tuesday afternoon.

After the verdict was read and the jury excused, the judge let me have a few moments alone with my client.

"Wow. Twenty years huh?"

"Because of your history, Larry."

"I guess I should have listened to you."

Yes, Larry, you should have.

Writing

2005-04-10T17:08:00.000-06:00

I know I shouldn't be fucking a client. Especially after my last disciplinary complaint.

There is no hard and fast rule that prohibits lawyers from sleeping with their clients in my state. The idea of adding such a prohibition raises it's ugly head every three or four years but the lawyers and judges in my state have, so far, refused to make sexual relations with clients an ethical violation. That tells me that there are many of us who have gone down that road. The pro - "sex-with-clients" lobby among the bar remains strong.

Still, I'm skating on thin ice.

2005-04-09T16:31:00.000-06:00

"Hello Asshole."

I had known better than to answer the phone last Wednesday. My secretary Lucy, the middle-aged wife of our local Baptist minister, was on the daily court run. The courthouse was only three blocks away but Lucy had been gone for close to an hour, sneaking vodka and smokes in her car.

The voice on the line was nauseatingly familiar. It was ShitForBrains, the attorney with the other half of the public defender contract in town.

"I told you that you weren't allowed to call this office. You may only deal with me in writing." All of the other attorneys in town had the same rule for ShitForBrains.

"Fuck off, I have a right to zealously represent my clients."

"How do you have time to represent anybody?" I said. "I figured answering all of the disciplinary complaints against you would be a full-time occupation."

"Your desperate attempts to eliminate your competition have proven to be fruitless."

I poured some bourbon in my mug. "Well ShitForBrains the small talk has been scintillating but I'm not in the mood. I was up all night."

"Your veterinary sexual escapades are of no interest to me. I'm calling about that Garcia punk you represent."

ShitForBrains and I each represent one-half of a duo charged with an auto-burglary spree at the Fiction Cinema a couple of months ago. My client is a juvenile.

"What about him?"

"Are you going to plead him out?"

"That's none of your damned business."

"It becomes my business if your guy works a deal to testify against my guy."

"I'll work out whatever's in his best interests," I said.

"He's only a kid. He's looking at probation whether he goes to trial or not. He should keep his mouth shut."

ShitForBrains' client had a lot more to lose. He was an adult and a three-time loser. He was looking at a big stretch if convicted but the evidence against him was thin without my client's testimony.

"I told you I'm not in the mood to deal with you today. Goodbye ShitForBrains."

"Garcia's mother agrees. She doesn't want her son to be a rat."

The ol' blood pressure doubled. I took a deep breath.

"Do not... ever ... ever... talk to anybody I represent again without my permission. If you do, so help me I will hand-deliver a bar bitch against you to the disciplinary board, I will turn you into the prosecutor for tampering with a witness and I..."

"Talk is cheap..."

"Let me finish! If you threaten any client of mine ever again I will come over to your office and break your fuckin' kneecaps with an aluminum bat and then I will drive you out to Fiction Lake and throw you in the goddamned water and have a picnic while I enjoy the pleasure of watching your sorry, miserable, fat little body draw its last breath in this world, and of knowing that your evil, twisted, ignorant soul will spend eternity burning in Hell!"

I slammed the phone down.

I really, really dislike ShitForBrains.

2005-04-05T22:18:00.000-06:00

Good news!

Juan's family was found! Alive and well, although scared shitless. They are being airlifted to Tucson and will be reunited with Juan in a few hours.

Juan's daughter was named Maria , after The Virgin.

I'm off to the base to meet them. It's been a long day.

2005-04-05T12:13:00.000-06:00

It's been a terrible morning.

I had to tell a client that his child was murdered last night.

"Juan" is a drug mule who was stopped at the border patrol checkpoint near town. Agents found 4 kilos of cocaine in his car. The DEA worked him and got him to agree to roll on his contacts in exchange for trafficking charges being filed in state court rather than federal court, where the penalties are more severe. Juan was most concerned about his family down in Chihuahua and the DEA assured him that they would have their contacts down there move in and remove his family to this country, where they would be kept in protection until after the trial against the co-conspirators.

The agents in Mexico apparently got to Juan's residence too late. At about 4:00 this morning the DEA called me at home and told me that the Mexican agents found Juan's 12 year old daughter beheaded in the front yard of Juan's house last night. The rest of the family is missing. Authorities are hoping that Juan's wife and three little kids are simply in hiding, although it's just as likely that they have been abducted or killed by the Juarez Cartel.

I went to the jail to tell Juan. The conversation was made even more awkward because I had to tell him the tragic news through an interpreter.

I'm not going to recount the discussion we had here. You can imagine the details.

2005-04-04T12:25:00.000-06:00

True story from this morning's trial:

During jury selection Judge Dodder asked the usual question about whether anyone on the panel knew the attorneys involved in the case. In a small town like Fiction Town just about everyone on the panel knows either the prosecutor or me or both. Hands went up and the typical responses were given:

"My kids play soccer with Prosecutor Bitchy's children"
"My brother was represented by Mr. Coyotelaw for a DWI last year"
"Prosecutor Bitchy is in the church choir with me"
"Mr. Coyotelaw was the attorney for my Grandfather's probate"
etc.

In the back row a young attractive woman in her mid-twenties raised her hand and asked to approach the bench. She looked vaguely familiar but after ten years in Fiction Town I've run across just about everybody as a client or a witness or a victim or all three, so it's hard to keep track. The name on her juror questionnaire, Erica, didn't ring a bell and I was curious as to why she needed to approach the bench.

As I watched her making her way down the aisle there was something about her walk and the way she carried herself that was becoming more and more familiar. For some reason I pictured her being a waitress but I couldn't figure out which restaurant. She had a nice smile and a sensuous mouth.

She came to the bench and stood between Prosecutor Bitchy and me. She started off in a low voice.

"I know Mr. Coyotelaw, we were...er.....friendly once upon a time."

Uh-oh.

"You say you were friends?" Judge Dodder prompted. Judge Dodder is a kind old judge who had been on the bench about 15 years past his prime. His brain is a bit addled and he tends to rule with the prosecution on most motions, but it breaks his heart to send anyone to prison and I knew my client had the best sentencing chance with Dodder.

"I suppose you could say that Your Honor," Erica replied.

Judge Dodder asked the typical follow-up question. "How close was your friendship? In other words, did you all have each other over to your homes on a regular basis, for barbecues and the like, or were you just acquaintances?"

Erica looked confused as she thought that over. "I'm not really sure how to answer that."

"Come, come now, young lady. Only you can explain."

"Well, how do I put this . . ." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "We had ... fellatio."

"Excuse me?"

Because Judge Dodder was 80 years old, most people assumed his hearing wasn't too good.

She raised her voice. "We had fellatio together." Bless her heart. She would never use that term with her friends in a million years but she was trying hard to be formal here in the courtroom.

"Pasta?" Actually his hearing was excellent. It was the term that he didn't understand.

"Fellatio," she said, voice raising another notch.

Prosecutor Bitchy shot me her look of Miserable Contempt. That's okay, I was used to that from her.

Judge Dodder still didn't get it. "I'm sorry ma'am . . ."

"Fellatio!" she said in exasperation. "I gave him a blow job in his truck when I worked at Bennie's Grill!"

The jury panel erupted in laughter. All of this was on the record.

Judge Dodder excused the jury. After all, there's no way the jury would have listened to a word I said when all they could picture was oral copulation every time I stood up to make an argument.

The trial will be reset in three months. Unfortunately my client can't make bond so he's stuck in the pokey until we can get a new jury panel. A disciplinary complaint is no doubt on its way.

On the bright side, I had the rest of the day free and Erica seemed eager to pick up where we left off, so the day wasn't a total waste.

Writing

2005-04-03T16:00:00.000-06:00

Mrs. PainInTheAss called me today.

"Bill brought the kids home an hour late."

My mind swam through the remnants of a tequila hangover, trying to recall the Parenting Plan.

"He didn't bring them back at 2?"

"No, he brought them back at 3PM. On the dot. I wrote it down in my notebook."

Her damned journal.

"I'm sure he must have had a good excuse," I said, chugging water and Advil. Bill was a pretty good guy, a science teacher at Fiction High. I was on the wrong end of this divorce.

"He claimed that he forgot about the time change."

I looked at the alarm clock on the night stand. 2:30.

"Time change?"

"First Sunday in April. 'Spring forward.' He says he forgot all about it."

Shit. Spring forward, that means it's actually....... 3:30, not 2:30.

"Dorothy, maybe he really did forget. A lot of people forget."

"Not Bill. He was always the one who reminded me to set our clocks back or forward. He did it on Saturday nights, before we went to bed. He also changed the batteries in the smoke detectors. He damned well knows the time changed. He was hoping I wouldn't notice."

The pounding in my head was getting worse, not better.

"Dorothy, are the kids okay?"

Long sigh from the other end. "Yes, physically they're fine, although Janey has a mustard stain on her shirt. That was a brand new shirt that I got at Dillard's at their Easter Sale....."

"Dorothy, what do you want me to do?" I interrupted.

"I want you to go to court and have him held in contempt!"

"Dorothy, the judge isn't going to hold him in contempt for a mustard stain . . ."

"Not the stain! Aren't you listening? He was one hour late bringing the kids back. He's not following the terms of the Parenting Plan!"

The Advil wasn't working. I poured a shot of tequila. "Get over it Dorothy."

"You piece of shit! I bet he paid you off, didn't he? I knew I should have gone to the city to find a lawyer. All you attorneys in this town are crooked. I knew it, I knew it....."

"Goodbye Dorothy." I unplugged the phone.

Note to self: no more divorces. Not even if I'm getting low on booze money for the month.

No matter how many times I forget, there is no easy money in divorces.

2005-04-01T12:35:00.000-07:00

"MOTHERFUCKER! COCKSUCKER! WHORE!" Sammy shouted at the judge.

"Mr. Coyotelaw, I'm assuming you're stipulating to the petition?" said Judge Petty.

"YOUR MOTHER SUCKS DONKEYS!"

"No, Your Honor, I'm afraid I can't do that."

Judge Petty shot me his Evil Glare. He only has three facial expressions. Evil Glare is his favorite.

"YOUR SISTER IS A JUAREZ WHORE!"

"Are you telling the Court that your client is not mentally ill?"

"BASTARD! MOTHERFUCKER!"

"No Your Honor, clearly he is mentally ill. But I don't think the State can establish that he is a danger to himself or others," I said.

"YOU SMELL LIKE PIG SHIT!"

The Evil Glare ratcheted up about 100 degrees.

"Mr. Coyotelaw, the Court can certainly take judicial notice of your client's behavior here in the courtroom and make the finding that he is - most definitely - a danger to himself or others."

"GODDAMNED SHEEP-FUCKER!"

The judge wasn't on the record. He's always playing games with the record.

"I believe Your Honor, that although my client's behavior is annoying . . . "

"JUDGE YOU ARE A GODDAMNEDMOTHERFUCKINGDONKEYLICKINGSONOFABITCHINGBALLSACKSUCKINGLYINGASSHOLEFART!"

" . . . his words are protected speech and do not demonstrate imminent physical danger to himself, or to any other person."

"FUCK-FUCK-FUCK YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!"

Judge Petty rocked back in his chair, removed his glasses and went to his Extreme Exasperation look. A smile started to appear after a few moments.

"I can make the finding that his words are likely to incite violence against him by almost any person on the street."

"HAG-LADY PUSSY-EATER!"

I resisted my own urge to smile. It was damned hard. Like when you know you shouldn't be giggling at church - the more you think about it, the harder it gets to hold it in.

"Judge, he doesn't say these things in public," I said.

"WHORE-JUDGE! WHORE-JUDGE!"

"What do you mean? Obviously he can't control what he's saying," said Judge Petty.

"THE JUDGE IS A BIG PILE OF SHEEP SHIT!"

"Um, apparently he can Judge." Don't smile, don't smile.

"YOU FUCKING MORON. YOU GOT YOUR GAVEL OUT OF A FUCKING CRACKERJACK BOX!"

"Well then, who else does he rant like this to?"

Don't laugh. If there is a God in Heaven, you will not laugh right now.

"I've only seen him do this around Your Honor."

The bailiff burst out laughing. "I'm sorry Your Honor," he immediately said. Then he bit his lip and looked away from me.

Now came the Pompous Indignation face. He cast it around the courtroom, signaling us all that one peep, one smile, one cotton-picking word from any of us and we were all going to be held in contempt.

"SHIT-EATER, SHIT-EATER, SHIT-EATER."

Judge Petty took a deep breath. "The Court will be in recess as I consider what to do." He scrambled off the bench and hot-footed it to chambers, the door slamming in his wake.

Sammy looked over at me. "He doesn't like me too much does he?"

"No Sammy, I think he's pretty irritated with you right now."

"Oh well. Truth is an absolute defense, right?"

The bailiff started howling and bent over, tears streaming from his face.

My law school professors were right. Pro-bono cases do give you that special feeling inside.

Fiction
Writing

2005-03-31T06:08:00.000-07:00

Harry stopped by last night. We smoked a joint and watched the new episode of "Lost."

I had taken over Harry's practice ten years ago after he retired. Harry had hit the Motherlode after fifteen years of scraping by in his small town practice. He represented the father of three little girls who were killed in a head-on crash with a beer delivery truck. The driver of the truck apparently like to sample his goods while on his route. The case had Retirement Fund written all over it:

Deep pockets: the employer is the largest beer distributor in North America (rhymes with "Sud Kizer").
Three blonde-haired, blue-eyed little girls.
The crash was on Easter Sunday. The girls were wearing their Spring dresses when their bodies were pried out of their mother's Honda Civic.
The driver was notorious for drinking on the job yet the company had never taken any action.

Sud Kizer knew they were liable, but they felt Harry's settlement offer of $10 million was far too high so they took it to trial. They thought a jury in a backwater burg like Fiction Town would be too stupid to understand really big numbers. Sud Kizer chose unwisely. The $50 million punitive damage award made national news.

Harry settled the case during the appeal. The terms of the settlement were sealed but Harry made over $7 million in attorney's fees. Now he lives on a ranch about 50 miles from town and only takes one or two new cases a year. He can afford to be selective.

"Quadraplegics are the best," Harry told me one time. "Much better than a dead body. You wheel a quad into the deposition and the settlement check is hand-delivered the same day. They know better than to let a jury see a drooling, spastic invalid wheeled in and out of the courthouse every day."

Last night he told me had added to his selection criteria.

"Puppies."

"Why puppies?"

"A dead human being is common place. Jurors have become accostomed to hearing about dead people on the news every night. There's hardly any mileage in dead bodies any more. Except for kids, of course, but those three little girls were a once in a lifetime opportunity. I don't expect to get any more like that again," he inhaled and handed me the joint. "But a dead puppy, you wouldn't believe what that's worth."

"I thought there was an issue as to liability?" I knew this case. A grocery store manager lost it in the parking lot after being chewed out by his boss for over an hour. The dog was yipping and crying in the car next to his and he snapped, opened the door and and snuffed the puppy. The real question was whether the grocery chain was at fault.

"When you've got a dead puppy, liability isn't a factor," Harry told me. "I flopped that 8" x 10" glossy of that Cocker pup with its wrung neck on the table at the deposition and the court reporter burst into tears and ran from the room. Those bastards couldn't fill in the zeros fast enough."

Harry gets all the luck. First those little girls, now a dead puppy.

Why can't I ever get cases like that?

2005-03-30T12:20:00.000-07:00

I cope with my day by drinking 6 cups of coffee in the morning and two cups of bourbon in the afternoon. All from the same coffee mug. It makes things easier that way. At night I smoke some pot but I live out in the valley so I don't have to worry about someone finding out.

I used to be married, three times, in fact. Wives #1 and #2 were good women, and I loved them a lot, but they didn't love the fact that I also love to Sleep Around. When they caught me Sleeping Around there was a lot of crying and screaming and promises made. When I couldn't keep those promises, they eventually left, along with a lot of things that I used to own. Wife #2 also took my favorite dog when she left, but I figured I shouldn't make a big deal out of that because it was really the least I could do to make up for all of the broken promises.

Wife #3 didn't mind that I like to Sleep Around, mainly because she enjoyed Sleeping Around herself. We told ourselves that it was good to have an open marriage, but after a couple of years we were Sleeping Around more than we were Sleeping With Each Other and there were many awkward moments when we walked in on one another in the middle of enjoying someone else's company, so we decided that we probably shouldn't stay married. There was no crying or screaming or promises made, and Divorce #3 remains my all-time favorite of the divorces.

I have a contract with the State Public Defender to provide representation to the indigent criminals in Fiction Town. Every year I "bid" for the contract which means that I agree to accept their miserable $350 flat rate for all felony criminal cases and $100 for all misdemeanor and juvenile cases. I get paid the same whether I plead the case out quickly or whether I spend hours of legal research or days in trial, so as you can imagine, I tend to plead a lot of cases instead of dragging them out through trial. My clients are all guilty (except one that I had three years ago whom I believe was actually wrongly convicted) so working out a plea to lesser charges is in their best interests. I have become very good at talking a client into pleading guilty, but occasionally a client will balk and I'll be forced to go to trial. I've done well at trial here in Fiction Town and I win about 50% of my trials which puts me above the national average for public defenders. Still, trials reduce my fee to minimum wage so it's always best to close the file at the earliest possible time. The only way to make money on these contracts is through volume.

I'm starting this blog because I spend a great deal of my day in Work-Avoidance Mode and I think I'll feel a bit more productive if I'm typing instead of surfing.