William Lashner - Past Due

“Step back, Mr. Porter,” said the judge. “Bailiff, please escort Mr. Porter out of the courtroom.”

As the bailiff started to take hold of Rashard, I put my arm around his shoulder. “This won’t stand,” I said to him softly. “I’ll get you out.”

“Mr. Carl…” said Rashard. The promise of his future was leaking out of his eyes along with his tears of incomprehension. He had trusted me and now there was this.

“Rashard,” I said. “Listen to me. This has nothing to do with you. I’ll get you out soon, I promise.”

The bailiff appeared, holding out his handcuffs.

I gave Rashard a smile and a nod and told him not to do anything to make it worse. Then I started packing up my briefcase.

“Going somewhere, Mr. Carl?” said the judge.

I didn’t answer, I finished putting my papers in the briefcase, closed it with a click, turned to ADA Carter.

“This isn’t right,” I said to her.

“I don’t know what happened,” she said.

“I do,” I said. “And it isn’t right.”

“Going somewhere, Mr. Carl?” said the judge again, this time as I was walking down the aisle toward the door. “We’re not finished here,” he called after me.

I stopped, turned. “Oh yes, we are,” I said. “Now crawl back to your hole and get that bastard on the phone and tell him I’m on my way.”

AFTER SCOWLING ATthe security camera and being buzzed through the security doors, I barged into the justice’s reception area loaded for bear. The closest thing I found was Curtis Lobban, the justice’s clerk. He was waiting for me, standing tall and broad, his suit black, his shirt white, his muted tie tied tight. His huge hands, empty of files or books, hung ready at his sides. He stood there before me like the personification of somber power and I stopped my barging at the very sight of him.

“These chambers, they are off limits to the public,” he said, his deep voice soft and yet all the more menacing for its tone.

“I’m not here as a member of the public,” I said.

“But that’s all you are,” he said. “A insignificant man without a scintilla of importance. You are not welcome here. You will leave one way or the other. One way is preferable to you, I suppose, but as to me, I don’t care. Just so you leave.”

The justice’s secretary was away from her desk, there was no one waiting in the waiting room. It was Curtis who had buzzed me through and now it was just me and him, and him took a step forward.

“You’re going to throw me out bodily?”

“If I must.”

“You and what army?”

He looked at me, big somber Curtis Lobban, he looked at my pencil neck, my flagpole arms, my fists like pale undersized fish. “Do everyone a favor, Mr. Carl, especially yourself. Go on away home and leave us be.”

“Who are you talking for?”

“All of us, the justice, Mrs. Straczynski, my own wife.”

“Your wife?”

His fists clenched. “Don’t think I don’t know about the man you sent around to spy on us.”

“I didn’t send anyone to spy on your wife.”

“She is ill. You have disturbed her delicate equilibrium. This whole affair has left her distraught. Go away, Mr. Carl, leave us alone. Leave us in peace.”

“I’m here to see the justice, Curtis.”

“He doesn’t want to see you.”

“He’ll see me.”

“No, he won’t. And you know how I know? Because I am his file clerk. He does nothing without my say so. If a file is pushed to the top of the list, action is taken immediately, a decision is made, an opinion is written, an appeal denied or granted. Life moves on either way because I said it should. And if a file is shuffled to the bottom of the pile, or is somehow for some reason mysteriously misplaced, then it is as if time itself has stopped its course. There is no yes, there is no no, there is nothing. And all the world waits. You see, Mr. Carl, I keep the files, create the schedule, man the doors. I decide who comes in and who stays out.”

“So you’re the gatekeeper of justice, is that it? The gray ferry-man with glowing eyes?”

“Yes, that it is, exactly. You know who got it for me, this job? The Mrs.”

“Alura?”

“She is something of a saint.”

“She’s a spider.”

“Maybe that too. But you only know that part of her, not the other part.”

“I know enough.”

“You know nothing. Go away, Mr. Carl. Go away and stay away and maybe things will take care of themselves. But know this,” he hissed, “you are trespassing and you’ve had your warning.”

There it was, that same voice, the exact same words. He had hid his accent that night in the vestibule, but I could still tell. You are not welcome here, he had said. You are trespassing, he had said. And the word “scintilla,” a legal term that rolled so easily off his tongue, sort of like the rules of adverse possession had rolled so easily off his tongue when his foot was on my face.

“So it was you,” I said, “along with your buddy O’Brien.”

“If you persist, I’ll have you arrested.”

“You can do better than that, Curtis,” I said. “You already had me arrested, in Traffic Court, and still, here I am. I’ve been beaten, thrown in jail, cited for contempt, and now my client has ended up totally screwed by some Common Pleas hack. So what’s next? What’s your boss going to do to me now? Revoke my citizenship? Have me deported to Lithuania? What?”

“You do not understand.”

“Enlighten me.”

“He is an important man.”

“No, he’s not. He’s a speck of dirt in the public eye.”

His eyes opened wide, a smile appeared. “So, this is political after all.”

“No, Curtis. It’s not political, it’s personal.”

I started for the library.

He took a step in the same direction.

I stopped.

He stopped.

Then I was off, tearing to the entrance to the library, throwing open the door, sprinting toward the big oaken table, Curtis following close by my heels. A law clerk was sitting at the big table, looking up from her book, her jaw dropping at the sight of me rushing in and Curtis Lobban rushing after me.

When I reached the table I tossed an empty chair behind me. I heard a smack, something falling, a grunt, a curse.

The law clerk stood up and said something snooty. I tossed her chair too.

When I reached the end of the room, I flung open the justice’s door. He was sitting at his desk, hunched over a document. The justice looked up just as Curtis Lobban reached me and flung his thick arm around my neck.

“Mr. Carl,” said the justice as Curtis lifted me off the ground. “I didn’t know you had an appointment.”

I let out an unintelligible grunt.

“No appointment?” he said. “I suppose that explains Curtis’s handling of the matter.”

I let out an unintelligible bray.

“A grip like that, you know, can be fatal. There have been cases. You really should have made an appointment.”

I let out an unintelligible bleat.

“I’ll hold him for the police,” said Curtis, starting to drag me away even as I flailed at his arm.

“No, let him go. Men like Mr. Carl are like the weather. You have no choice but to suffer through them until a strong enough wind comes to blow them away.”

Curtis tightened his grip. My eyes bulged.

“Let him go,” said the justice.

Curtis released me. I landed on two shaky legs and lurched this way and that, trying to catch my breath and my balance, staggering around like a drunken Groucho Marx.

“You can leave us, Curtis.”

“But Mr. Justice, he-”

“It will be fine, Curtis. I think I can handle Mr. Carl myself.”