City Haul

 

 

Salish County Superior Court Judge Scott Key was stoned. Very stoned. And drunk. He couldn’t get a fix on where he was, let alone count to ten as the young sheriff’s deputy asked him to. He wobbled on the cowboy boots he customarily wore—an affectation not particularly helpful in his present state. He muttered to himself as he fumbled for his license, red-eyed, his otherwise fashionable hair in disarray. One moment he’d grin and try to put a sentence together. The next moment, he’d sigh and lean against the car. He was confused, and the rational, totally together façade—the stucco wall behind which he usually hid shortcomings—cracked.

            Dolores Key sat in the passenger seat. Dark-eyed and motionless except for fingering a diamond-encrusted Cartier cross displayed against her little black dress. One might suppose that her paralysis was due to fear for her husband’s career as a sitting superior court judge and the resulting damage these circumstances could inflict on their personal commonweal. But that would not be accurate. She didn’t move because she was beyond intoxicated, stupid drunk, which is why the judge was driving. Clear thinking was not in the cards.

            His Honor—for the record “Francis Scott Key, Esq.”—stepped farther to the side of the roadway and assaulted the dawn’s early light, pristine in its quiet seaside slumber, with a rich mixture of bass-register retching and a potpourri of his stomach contents. Even the sheriff’s deputy was impressed.

            By now, the license and plates had been run and the lad realized who he was dealing with. A bright fellow, he didn’t call in on the radio, but punched in a number on his personal cell. His boss answered, Sheriff Lucas Barkley. “Weaving all over the road, baggie in the glove box, sir. Car smells like Hempfest. Yes, sir, I’m sure it’s him.”

            Sheriff Barkley congratulated the deputy on notifying him personally. Asked him to bring the report directly to him. Then, he fixed himself a cup of coffee and, in the emerging day, reflected on the vagaries of life. And smiled.

Chapter 1

            On a splendid Pacific Northwest fall day, scattered sunrays poking through disappearing rain clouds, I turned my faithful pickup truck into my usual drive-through latté stand and pulled up to the window.

            “Double-punch Monday, Matt!” Tiffany, the barista, grinned at me with her toothpaste ad smile. She leaned out of the booth. She wore a loose white peasant blouse, from which I averted my eyes as quickly as I could and handed her my Joltin’ Joe Espresso frequent-buyer card. I ordered a tall doppio caffé mocha.

            “Good morning, Tiffany.” It was almost noon.

            “You’re lookin’ sharp, handsome.” It must have been the sport coat, the blue shirt with white checks, no tie. Tan Dockers and slip-on loafers completed my better-than-usual ensemble, but she couldn’t see them.

            “You lawyers.”

            “Well, it’s what I do.”

            She turned and did whatever they do to extract coffee out of little spouts. Over her shoulder she asked, “Whip or no whip?”

            “With, please.”

            She came back to the window and drizzled chocolate in little circles on the whipped cream. She stabbed the drink with a pink plastic straw and handed it to me.

            “You used to do something else, right, Matt? Like, with the government?”

            “Very true, Tiffany. I worked with the state legislature.”

            “So hey, I started community college this week.”

            “Hey, that’s wonderful.”

            “And I’m, like, taking this class on government.”

            “Good for you.” Barista Tiffany was pretty as a cheerleader, but why the turquoise swath across her blonde hair? And wouldn’t one piercing in each ear have been enough? Jeez, I was old!

            “And my teacher says if we don’t like something the government is doing, we should write our congressman.”

            “That’s good advice.”

            “Who is he? What’s his name?”

            “Her name is Jeanette Smith.”

            “A girl?”

            “A woman, yes. Go online and you can find her address. So what don’t you like?”

            “Parking meters. I hate ’em. I went in for maybe three minutes to take back a CD my boyfriend was, like, bored of. And the grumpy lady in that stupid little car gave me a ticket.”

            “I’d be upset, too. Those people are vicious.”

            “Fifteen dollars! Who has an extra fifteen dollars?”

            “Tiffany, here’s what. It’s not your congressperson you need to talk to. Parking fines are handled right here in Church Harbor at City Hall.”

            “Oh.” She frowned.

            “Yep. Just go down there and tell them your story.”

            “Will I have to talk to a real person? Can’t I text them?”

            “No, they won’t let you do that.”

            A truck larger than mine and a car were now in line behind me. “Think of it as a learning experience,” I continued. “For your class.”       

            “You’re the best, Matt.” She punched my card with a flourish and handed it back. “Thanks, and bye-bye,” she mouthed. Excellent customer relations, that gal.

            On my way out, I spotted a spiffy green Jaguar pulling up to the opposite window. My stomach lurched. The vehicle, with its too-familiar café au lait leather upholstery, was piloted by a certain female legislator who was possibly the last person on earth I wanted to make eye contact with. The back tires of my truck caught gravel and spun as I left like a high school kid peeling out.

            But as I drove away, what I thought about was neither the driver of the car I’d managed to avoid, nor the pained face of Judge Scott Key and his ongoing saga—once again above the fold on the newspaper lying on the passenger seat of my truck. It wasn’t even the curious message on my cell from Canada about someone called “Gunk.”

No, my mind instead lingered on barista Tiffany’s turquoise hair and piercings, and my precious ten-year-old daughter Allie, who’d grow up—and not be caught dead wearing a fetching blouse, if I had anything to say about it.

If, that is, thanks to enough stupidity on my part to jeopardize my marriage and leave “visitation” with my daughter to the whims of her mother, my wife Ellen—up till recently my best friend; these days, hardly.

      Back to something I did have control over, I weaved through late morning traffic on my way to the monthly Salish County Bar Association meeting. Tiffany got my past role “with the government” right, but now I was back to lawyering. And in my renewed incarnation, these dry-toast gatherings were part of the drill. ...