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. ...
