High Steaks by Rob Loughran

Author:Rob Loughran
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Salvo Press
Published: 2013-11-05T00:00:00+00:00

Chris placed the letter in a textbook and tried to concentrate on Len’s lecture. He really tried.

CHAPTER 30

“This session is called to order,” said the bald bailiff. “Judge Roger Webster presiding.” Judge Webster, in a tank top, walking shorts and sandals beneath his judicial robe entered the Sagrado County courtroom and nodded to the bailiff who intoned, “All rise.”

There were a total of six cases on the docket, Davis and Joan being the only divorce. Judge Webster, who had just celebrated his ninth year on the bench, dealt swiftly with a thirty-two year old pickpocket: “Our livelihood in the fair township of Nightingale, and the entire state of Nevada, young lady, depends on tourism. Aside from a few mineral deposits, tumbleweeds, and sheep, that’s all we got going.” Judge Webster leaned forward and pointed his gavel at the crew-cut woman. “When you steal a wallet, and I know you’re gonna say it wasn’t in his pants at the time, but when you steal a wallet you take a little bit away from all of us. Sentenced: two years at the state correctional facility at Carson City.”

“Judge Webster,” said the pickpocket’s lawyer. “There was only forty dollars in that wallet. This punishment is uncalled for.”

“I know,” said the Judge. “I just wanted to see the expression on her face.” He banged the gavel. “Thirty days in County, less time served. Next.”

Judge Webster dispatched the next two cases quickly. “O’Kane vs. O’Kane,” the Judge echoed the bailiff, then said, “May I ask counsel to approach the bench?”

Ken, dapper in a blue Bill Blair, white silk shirt, and delicately pinstriped red-on-blue tie, advanced to Judge Webster’s bench with Joan’s lawyer, James Conrad. Like professional athletes who have more in common with the millionaires they play against than with the hometown loyals who buy the tickets, hotdogs, and hats that pay their salaries, so lawyers are to their clients. With the aloof dignity and disdain of the underworked and overpaid, Ken and James left their clients and stood before Judge Webster. “May I ask,” rumbled the judge in his baritone, “exactly what the fuck is going on here?”

James glanced at Ken and said, “A divorce.”

“A Cherokee woman,” said Judge Webster, “could place her unfaithful husband’s belongings outside their house and a divorce would be granted and recognized by the entire tribe. Aside from this ancient, but oh-so-civilized tradition, the State of Nevada has the simplest divorce proceedings in the cosmos. Why are you wasting this court’s time?”

“Special circumstances, Judge,” said Ken.

“What special circumstances?”

Ken handed the judge Joan’s crumpled THIS AIN’T NO HALLMARK CARD.

“That’s inadmissible,” said James.

“The proceedings haven’t officially begun, James,” said Ken. “Give that a quick read, Judge.”

Expressionless, he read the card and said, “A Sheriff friend of mine has repeatedly told me he’d rather be in a free-for-all in a Hell’s Angel bar than a domestic squabble in the suburbs.” He returned the card. “Gentlemen, this court’s time is valuable. A swift and simple solution to this dilemma would be appreciated.”

Like boxers having received prefight instructions, Ken and James returned to their respective corners.

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