William Lashner - Past Due

“Wait here with our friends, please. When they settle their differences let me know.”

“Oh, I certainly will,” said Clerk Templeton, turning toward us, crossing her arms, giving us the look. You know the look, what lunchroom ladies give to fifth graders who complain about the mystery meat.

After Judge Wellman fled the bench, I had a conversation with the Assistant District Attorney and then sat down beside my client. Rashard Porter was tall, handsome, with his hair shaved so flat on the top of his head you could shoot pool on it.

“The DA’s willing to drop all the charges having to do with the stolen car if you plead to misdemeanor drug possession.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you probably won’t go to jail. She promised to make a no sentencing recommendation to the judge. Judge Wellman acts like he’s a hard guy, but he’s not likely to give you more than probation. It would be a lock without your priors, but still I think you’ll stay out of jail.”

“I don’t want to go back to jail.”

“I know.”

“I thought you said it was a bad stop.”

“I said I’d argue it was a bad stop. The cop says he saw you go through the red light and the judge appears willing to believe him, no matter what my investigator says. If we lose this motion you’ll get rung up on the auto theft felony in addition to the drug thing and jail time is a real possibility. We can appeal, but you’d be in jail while it’s argued.”

“I don’t want to go back to jail.”

“I know you don’t, Rashard. Did you get that application you sent away for?”

“Yeah.”

“You going to fill it out?”

“We don’t got no typewriter or nothing.”

“Bring it to my office. I’ll have my secretary type it up for you.”

“I don’t know, bunch of geeks talking about a bunch of dead guys.”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of higher education, except the students at Philadelphia College of Art aren’t geeks and they spend most of their time drawing and painting, not talking. You like to draw, don’t you?”

“Sure, yeah, but, you know, that ain’t real.”

“Who says? Are you letting your boys on the corner tell you what’s real? I’ll do what I can to help you out with the school. They have scholarships. You’re talented, Rashard, you should be doing better things with your life than driving around in stolen cars and buying drugs to impress girls.”

“I told you, I didn’t know it was stolen.”

“You know they have nude models at that school.”

“Get out my face.”

“It’s the truth, Rashard.”

“What do you think I should do, Mr. Carl?”

“Take the plea, apply to school, take a chance on yourself.”

“You think I can do it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Aiight, Mr. Carl. Aiight.”

I walked over to Clerk Templeton to give her the news.

“It took you long enough,” she said.

“The wheels of justice are not always swift.”

“And from what I can tell, neither are the lawyers. I’ll tell the judge.”

Judge Wellman nodded as he took the plea, sending Rashard home on his own recognizance, setting the sentencing date for three weeks hence so the judge could get a full presentencing report. By that date, with any luck, Rashard would have some good news to tell the court. No judge would send a kid to jail on a drug misdemeanor when he had solid plans for the future. I explained all this to Rashard and made him promise to show up at my office first thing next week so that my secretary could help him with his application.

As I watched Rashard saunter out of the courtroom, my eye, like a shirtsleeve on a nail, caught again on the woman in the back. She tossed me a smile, stood, and began walking toward my place at the defense table. Her head bowed forward seductively, her arms swung freely, leather portfolio rising and falling, her smile inched wider. She was like a model on a catwalk until she stumbled in her shiny high heels and fell onto her face.

BEFORE I COULDreach her she had scrambled back to her feet and was straightening herself.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe I just did that. I am sooo clumsy. And these shoes are mad hot, but who can stand in them? Hi. You’re Victor Carl, right? Your office said you were here at the courthouse, and I asked around and found you, which is good because I could have been here all day going from room to room to room. There are so many courtrooms here, it’s slightly ridiculous. How many do they need? What they should do is knock down some walls and build a food court. A food court for the courthouse. Couldn’t you go for an Orange Julius right about now? Okay, okay, okay, let me get settled first before I begin.”

She took a deep breath and, as her outstretched hand fanned her chest, I examined her more closely. Her skin was smooth and flawless, her eyes bright and unlined, her neck taut. She was dressed like a corporate killer but she was far too young for the role.

She reached into her portfolio and pulled out a card. “Here, let me give you this first, so you know who I am. That’s the first thing we should do, right, exchange cards? Does that mean you’re supposed to give me yours?”

“You already know who I am,” I said.

“Oh yeah, duh, right.” She slapped the side of her head.

I tore my gaze away from her pretty eyes to read the card. It had a name: Kimberly Blue ; a title: Vice President; and three phone numbers: office, cell, and fax.

“So you’re Ms. Blue?”

Her smile was near to incandescent. “Isn’t that something? I’ve never had a card before, I mean a real card. They have those things you can print up on the computer, and one of the girls made us each some at the sorority with our phone number and the pretty floral border, which we would sometimes give out if the boy wasn’t a total loser, but this is quality, isn’t it? You can feel the printing. It’s raised. Feel it. See?”

“And you’re a vice president.”

Her eyes widened with a joyous disbelief.

“Vice president of what?” I said.

“External relations. Let me see, how did he explain it? I’m the one who interfaces with everyone outside that does stuff for my boss, like caterers, dentists, computer guys, cleaning staff, lawyers.”

“In order of priority.”

“Exactly. I’m supposed to keep track of everything, make sure everyone knows what needs to be done, make sure everyone is happy.”

“And who is your boss, Kimberly?”

“The thing is, Victor… It’s okay to call you Victor, isn’t it?”

“Sure.”

“Good. I haven’t dealt much with lawyers, other than on TV, so I don’t know if you’re supposed to be all formal or if it’s okay to say just the first name like you’re a regular person. My daddy always said after you shake hands with a lawyer you ought to count your fingers so you can probably figure we did our best not to have much contact with the legal profession.”

“Most people avoid us until they have no choice. But you were going to tell me who your boss is.”

“Yeah, well, the thing is, Victor, the thing of it is…”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m not allowed.”

“Not allowed?”

“No, but he does want to hire you, really. He’s heard only good things. Says you’re quality. He wants you to work on something really important.”

“But who would I be representing?”

“There’s a company. I own some shares, not much, but really now. How cool is that?”

“Quite cool. And who in this company would I be dealing with?”

She tilted her head and looked at me as if I were an utter idiot. “Helloo. I’m the vice president in charge of external relations.”