Illegal

FOURTEEN

Jimmy Payne clawed through the cobwebs of sleep and awoke on the sofa in his office. His stomach felt as if he'd eaten the shells along with the oysters the night before. His mouth seemed to be full of burrs.

It was the morning after Judge Rollins committed suicide, but Payne had little time to grieve or examine his own complicity in the death. A smear of the morning sun peeked through a dirt-streaked window.

He was late for court.

Payne got up stiffly, his right leg feeling as if someone had filled it with sand. Ever since his femur was patched together with a metal plate and screws, it took half a day to loosen up the muscles and ligaments. A headache dug in like the infantry on D-Day. Popped three aspirin, swallowed them dry. Grabbed his emergency dark suit and a clean shirt from the top of a bookcase.

Tossing aside a mountain of legal papers and unpaid bills, he dug out the file labeled People v. Scirotto. Then J. Atticus Payne, Esquire, headed to court, certain this was going to be a six-aspirin day. Unshaven and unshowered, his head throbbing and shirttail flapping, Payne limped along a corridor of the Van Nuys Courthouse.

Why are people staring?

Haven't they ever seen a lawyer late to court?

No, that's not it.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, Payne was in this very building, on this very floor, in the chambers of the not-so-Honorable Walter Rollins. Less than twelve hours ago, Rollins put a bullet through his temple, rather than face bribery charges. The news had already spread through the courthouse-a beehive of fluttering wings and wagging tongues-that Payne had set up the judge in a sting operation.

Now it seemed that every lawyer, bailiff, secretary, jail guard, probation officer, and three-time loser was glaring at Payne.

"Fucking rat." The words were spat by a rotund, oafish P.D., a young man who thought he'd been ordained by the gods of justice to spring every robber, rapist, and burglar in Southern California.

"Unbelievable, Payne," said a court clerk, a pretty African-American woman who admonished jurors each day not to speak to lawyers, lest some communicable disease be transmitted.

"Asqueroso," hissed Maria, Judge Kelton's stenographer, a woman Payne had thought about asking out. Calling him an asshole probably ruled out margaritas after work.

Payne quickened his pace, and nearly ran into the blocky backside of Mel Grossbard.

"Yo, Suds," Payne greeted him. The lawyer earned the nickname after beating a DUI rap for a drunk truck driver who overturned his rig and spilled twelve hundred cases of Budweiser. "What's up, pal?"

"Morning, douche bag."

"Not you, too, Suds."

"You think a judge will ever appoint you to a case? It's over, Payne. You'll never eat matzoh in this town again."

"I'm not Jewish."

"Thank God. We got enough schlemiels without you."

Judge Gordon Kelton had a weak chin, a weedy mustache, and a pasty face with the grayish hue of a towel in a cheap motel. He wore rimless glasses perched on a nose as pink and pitted as a strawberry. Thin shreds of dishwater brown hair were raked up and over, but failed to cover his egg-shaped skull. To Payne, he resembled Heinrich Himmler, though without the sense of humor.

Payne had never had much luck in Judge Kelton's courtroom, but today was a no-brainer. A quickie guilty plea in the case of People v. Scirotto. Three years in the can plus three years probation for a botched 7-Eleven holdup.

Maybe if Payne hadn't been hung over, he would have heard the hoofbeats and sensed the ambush coming round the bend.

"The court rejects the plea," Judge Kelton said, matter-of-factly.

"What?"

" 'What, Your Honor,' " the judge corrected.

What the fuck, Your Honor, Payne thought.

"Your Honor," he said, politely, "both the State and defense have agreed to the plea after full consideration of-"

"The State withdraws its offer," said Richard Zinn. The fuzzy-cheeked prosecutor lived in Kelton's courtroom, sucked at Kelton's teat, and depended on Kelton's recommendation for a juicy job downtown.

"What the hell, Rich?"

"Address your remarks to the bench, Counselor." The judge eyed Payne as if he'd just tasted curdled milk. "And kindly refrain from profanity."

"Your Honor. Why you busting my chops?"

"Trial is set for next Monday at eleven a.m."

"Judge. Your Honor. Sir… " Payne stopped just short of Your Holiness. "A trial would be a waste of judicial resources."

"What's wrong, Mr. Payne? Too busy entrapping judges to try a case?"

Payne's headache pounded in his ears. "Respectfully, that's bullshit, Your Honor."

The judge removed his spectacles, blew on them, and wiped the lenses on his black robe. "Tell me something, Mr. Payne. Did you suffer brain damage in that crash on the P.C.H.?"

Payne felt a ball of fire rising in his chest. His cheeks reddened. "What I suffered is none of your damn business."

"They should have disbarred you for that fiasco in the trailer-truck case." The judge pointed a bony finger at Payne. "The justice system requires dignity and respect."

"Only when it's earned." The fireball scorched Payne's throat.

"Now, I know you've had personal problems…"

"You don't know shit, you old tea bag. You may not be as crooked as Walter Rollins, but you're twice as stupid."

Bang! The judge's gavel echoed. "You're in contempt of court."

"Contempt doesn't begin to describe my feelings," Payne shot back. "How about disgust? Throw in some revulsion and a pinch of nausea, too."

"Bailiff, escort Mr. Payne to a holding cell. Twenty-four hours, and then we'll hear his apology."

"Gonna take longer than that." Payne felt his ears begin to melt.

"Make it forty-eight hours. Bailiff!"

Orvis Cosgrove, the uniformed bailiff, was a retired airport parking lot attendant with painful bunions. He was nearing seventy and enjoyed napping during trials. He used both hands to lever himself out of his chair, his knees crackling like twigs in a fire. Orvis adjusted the crotch of his trousers, then guided Payne by the elbow through a rear door of the courtroom.

When they were in a windowless corridor leading to the holding cells, Payne said, "Orvis, I'm not going back there."

"You gonna escape, Jimmy?"

"Yeah."

"You gonna punch me?"

"Do I have to?"

"Nah. I'll just say you ran and I couldn't catch you."

"Works for me, Orvis."

"Say, Jimmy, everybody knows Rollins was so dirty he could lose weight by taking a shower. But you broke the code. A defense lawyer can't be a snitch."

"I'm hoping it blows over."

The bailiff's laugh sounded like a man choking on a chicken bone. "Sorry, Jimmy, but you best be thinking of another line of work."

Five minutes later, Payne was driving south on the 101. His seething anger had turned inward. If self-loathing were an Olympic sport, he'd give himself the gold medal. Yep, he'd changed his life all right. He'd plunged straight to the bottom.

Traffic was light by L.A. standards. In twenty-five minutes, he'd exited the freeway at Broadway, crossed Cesar Chavez Avenue, and hung a right on Ord, where he slowed to avoid a homeless man pushing a supermarket cart filled, incongruously, with empty soda bottles and a flat-screen TV.

By the time Payne reached Main and Alameda, he was certain the day could not get any worse. But as usual, he was completely mistaken.