Jack Daniels and Associates: Snake Wine (17 page)

Herb looked at her and managed to smile weakly and say, "Well, look who finally decided to show up."

17.

I smelled Feebies. They were nearby in their cheap suits and bad cologne. Ivy League castoffs who gave up pursuing law degrees in order to fight for truth, justice, and apple pie. Sure there were a few good ones, just like in any job, but your point of view was molded by your range of experience, and in my range of experience, most Feebies were arrogant pricks.

They were easy to spot, too. I turned around in my seat at the prosecutor's table and saw two of them sitting on the defense side. That was strange in itself. Most Feebies go out of their way to play the we're-one-of-you card around real police, and my side was packed with uniforms to capacity.

The courtroom was empty, otherwise. The jury hadn't been brought in yet and the defendant was cooling in the holding cell, surrounded by deputies. The judge had appeared briefly only to summon both Joel Roth and Alan Davidson into his chambers for a conference. When I gave Joel the "What's up?" look, he shrugged and said, "No clue."

My phone buzzed in my pocket again, but I didn't look at it. It hadn't really stopped buzzing all morning since the papers broke the story about Herb being rescued.

"Hero Cop Saves Partner From Terrifying Death" was one headline.

"Snake Pit Seductress" was another.

I stopped paying attention after that.

It's funny how people who don't give you the time of day suddenly remember your phone number when you're in the news. Kind of like family members who let every birthday and holiday go past without as much as a Facebook mention all of a sudden want to be your best friend whenever they get a traffic ticket.

The papers based their articles on my police reports, which is to say, they based them on an incomplete set of facts. Both Phin and Frank had refused to let me mention them, both of them having their own reasons not to become overnight celebrities.  

The bailiff called out for everyone to rise, and I was late, too wrapped up in my thoughts to acknowledge the man in the black robe walking into the courtroom. I barely got to my feet by the time he was dropping onto his throne. Judge Ceparullo knocked his gavel on his desk and said, "Bring in the defendant. Let's get this over with."

Alan and Joel emerged from the judge's chambers and headed for their respective seats. Alan's head was down like a beaten dog, and Joel looked both bewildered and angry. "What the hell happened?" I whispered as Joel sat down next to me.

"Brace yourself. We're about to get screwed," was all he said.

Keenan Marvin limped into the courtroom, his face a bruised and swollen mass of contusions and ugly lumps. One of his eyes was closed completely, and both his lips were split multiple times. He winced with every step, his arms and legs weighed down by their heavy shackles, and he was not pitied by a single soul in the courtroom. His left hand was twisted and deformed and my first thought was that maybe he'd suffered a stroke, and the trial was being delayed so he could get medical treatment.

The judge watched impassively as Marvin tried to pull out his own chair and sit down. No one moved to help him.

"Do you have something you want to say, Mr. Marvin?"

Marvin raised his head to the judge and said, "Guilty, your honor."

Alan Davidson sighed and folded his arms, slumping back in his chair. "Your honor, can I go on record protesting this?"

"You may," Judge Ceparullo said.

Joel Roth stood up, "Your honor, while the state attorney's office appreciates Mr. Marvin's sudden moment of clarity regarding his admission to years of heinous criminal activity, I would also like to go on record protesting this."

"I'm pleading guilty," Marvin sputtered through both fattened lips. "How you gon' protest that?"

"We both know why, you piece of insolent, diseased, garbage," Roth said.

"That is enough, counselor," the judge said, but it was a half-hearted admonishment. He held up a folded letter and said, "Early this morning, I received a courier letter from the United States Attorney advising me Mr. Marvin is to be released immediately to federal custody upon the resolution of his criminal charges here. Being that he's just pled guilty, I see no reason to let him contaminate the air of this fine city any further." Judge Ceparullo pointed at the two Feebies sitting behind Marvin and said, "He's all yours, gentlemen. Do not bring him back. I promise you, he will not be welcome."

I stood up in disbelief as the men in suits came past the wooden gate to pick Marvin up from his chair. He protested they were hurting him but they didn't seem to hear him as they dragged him through the crowd of stunned cops, the Feebies just wanting to get the hell out of there. I heard a loud bang at the courtroom door and realized I knew that sound. It was the sound of Keenan Marvin's forehead being used to open the door. Maybe the Feebies weren't all bad. I pulled on Joel's arm and said, "You going to clue me in?"

"Apparently Mr. Marvin is a highly-valued Federal witness. The FBI no longer feels he can receive adequate protection in our jail, so they are moving him to one of their ahh … special facilities."

"But he's pleading guilty, right? How will he be sentenced?"

Joel turned and looked at me and said, "He won't. The Feds are going to file new charges that absorb ours and allow him to testify for them in God knows how many cases. More than likely, Keenan Marvin will be living under a new life in a new state on the Federal dime."

I sat back in my chair, feeling like someone had kidney-punched me. Joel put his arm on my shoulder and squeezed, rubbing it gently as he sat down to listen to the judge issue his final set of instructions.

I didn't hear a word of them.

There were cops in the room crowding me as I left, telling me good job, asking about Herb, and I nodded and gave short, muttered answers as I kept walking. Joel stayed close to me, telling anyone who didn't get the hint that we needed to poll the jurors. The hallways were filled with more cops, and past them, a dozen eager reporters holding notepads, flanked by cameramen. Lights flashed in my face briefly, until Joel moved in front of me, blocking me from their view. He maneuvered me toward the nearest fire exit and straight-armed the door, ignoring the sudden blare of bells and alarms activated in our wake. He pushed the door shut behind him and pressed his hand on it, making sure no one followed us out. He pointed to the parking lot across the street and said, "Go. Now, before they can make it to the main entrance."

"You know there's a big fine for setting off a false fire alarm," I said.

"I told you before, it's for a worthy cause," he said with a quick smile. "Listen, just for the record, we're square. I never really intended to hold you to any of that stuff you said before anyway. It was just wishful thinking on my part, I guess."

I walked toward him, leaned up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I'll call you."

He watched as I turned to walk away and said, "No you won't."

I looked back at him, still holding the door shut, despite the ringing alarm and the crowd of people behind it trying to get it open. "You never know," I called out. "Maybe I'll run out of other lives to ruin and decide it's finally your turn."

Bernice was asleep in the room, curled up on the visitor's chair with one of the hospital's white blankets tucked under her chin. I walked into the room quietly to keep from waking her, and Herb flinched and shoved a box of half-eaten donuts under his lunch tray. There was a ring of powdered sugar around his mouth and crumbs stuck in his mustache. He sighed when he realized it was me and instantly pulled the box back out. "I thought you were one of the nurses. Bernice had to sneak these in for me. They got me on some kind of special diet to restore all my fluids. I tried to tell them my body requires a certain amount of coffee and sugar to function properly after all these years. Thank God for my wife."

I nodded and looked back at Bernice, sleeping so innocently now. There were dark gray bags under her eyes from days of not sleeping, and I wondered if that's what people saw when they looked at me sometimes. I leaned down close to Herb to keep my voice so low as to not wake her, saying, "I'm going to ask you this one time, and one time only, you understand me?"

Herb sucked sugar off his thumb and looked up at me with concern and said, "Yeah. What's up?"

His hands were purple from wrist to fingertip, so bruised and swollen I could barely stand to look at them. At first, the doctors had thought he might lose them, but apparently the combination of medicines, fluids, and sugary donuts was working. Aside from being banged up as all hell, Herb was going to be fine. I grabbed the railing of his bed and said, "What were you doing with that woman in the first place? Were you going home with her?"

"Yeah," he said softly.

"You stupid, selfish, son of a bitch," I muttered.

"No, not like that, Jack. I was walking her home. She told me she was scared of getting mugged and had been drinking and just wanted somebody to keep an eye on her. It was innocent. Honest."

I looked at him carefully, not knowing what to say. I had known Herb long enough to determine here was no guilt in his 'alibi.'

"What're you asking, Jack? You trying to ask me if I deserved to have this happen?"

"I don't think anybody deserves to have this happen," I said. "But I know how easy it is to lure men into dumb situations."

"She picked me because I'm fat and she could feed me to her snake for a long time," Herb said. "All I was doing was walking her home and then I was going to get in my car and go back to my wife. I had my phone in my hand to call Bernice and tell her I was on my way when the girl turned around and blew something into my face. Next thing I know, I was swinging from a hook in that tank."

"Okay," I said, taking a deep breath. I reached down and wrapped my arms around him, squeezing his thick neck and pressing my face against his. Soon, I was buried in his massive shoulders, letting it all out and bawling like a baby.

Herb wrapped his thick arm around me and held me tight, whispering, "It's all right, kiddo. Don't cry. I hung in there so long because I knew you'd be coming to get me. I always, always, knew that."

East Bellevue Place was wall-to-wall cars even on a Monday night and I broke down and parked in one of the multi-level garages nearby that charged forty bucks if you stayed longer than an hour. I'd be there more than an hour, I figured. Maybe even two, if all went well.

I'd taken my Manolo Blahnik high-heeled shoes out of their box in my closet that evening for the first time ever. I'd spent way too much money on them earlier in the year and I kept wanting to save them for a special occasion. Well, if this wasn't it, I didn't know what was. I felt "gussied up" in the way women sometimes look overdressed, like people would stare at me and wonder who the tom-boy was with all the makeup on. I could rock business casual all day, but put me in an actual dress and way-too-expensive shoes, and I dissolved into a puddle of self-consciousness.

I nodded to the restaurant doorman as I moved past him toward the bar. Two men in two wildly different suits both turned around to greet me. Frank O'Ryan, in his finely tailored court suit from the first day I'd seen him, and Phinneas Trout, in what can only be described as a madman's hysterical attempt at cobbling together formal attire from a clothing donation bin. I admired his light-pink ruffled tuxedo shirt, bowtie, and white blazer and said, "Now that is an outfit fit for a selfie!"

"See?" he said accusingly at Frank. "I told you it looked good."

Frank gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, "You look stunning, Jack."

"I feel like a hooker with all this makeup on."

"Nah," Phin said. "Hookers have more scabs on their faces."

The waiter asked us what he could get us, and Phin said, "We'll take three shots of Jack Daniels please. And you better bring a beer as a chaser for my lady friend here." Phin looked at me and said, "I got Frank a beer as a chaser, doll. You want one too?"

"Very funny," Frank said. "Three shots and three beers."

"Coming right up," the waiter said.

"You should be a guy with that name," Phin said.

"Well, duh. That's the whole point of it being ironic," I said.

"No, I mean, if your name was Jack Daniels, you could be at a bar somewhere with some chick and say, 'Hey, babe. You want a little Jack Daniels in your mouth? Jack Daniels burns when he slides down your throat, doesn't he?' That sort of thing."

"Enough," Frank said. "Do you have to always be repulsive?"

"What, it's part of my charm, right, Jack?"

The waiter brought the drinks and set them down in front of us. I lifted my glass and said, "Well, it also works out in my favor this way. I can always say, 'Jack Daniels: Better when it's wet' right?"

Both of them stared at me blankly as I tilted the shot to my lips and swallowed it in one sip. "What, you think because I got all dressed up I'm supposed to act like a lady?" I asked.

Frank downed his own drink, then stuck his hand in his suit coat to pull out his phone. "I want to show you guys something."

"Nobody wants to see pictures of your winky," Phin said.

Frank shook his head as he scrolled through his pictures to find a perfectly framed image of Keenan "Ack Trife" Marvin bent over a table getting his ass beat by a dozen prison guards. "This one's my favorite," he said, sliding his finger over to reveal a close-up of Marvin's wide open mouth, screaming in pain. The diamonds and gold embedded in his teeth sparkled in the light of Frank's flash.