The Neon Lawyer Read online

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Victor Methos

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477825976

  ISBN-10: 1477825975

  Cover design by Damonza.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014940481

  For Sam, Noah, Jonah, and Linds. The stars in my sky.

  Contents

  Start Reading

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  At his best, man is the noblest of animals. Separated from law and justice, he is the worst.

  —Aristotle

  Based on a True Story

  One

  The young girl saw the candy the man was holding.

  A blue van was behind him with the sliding door open, and the man flashed a wide smile. The girl had seen him before. He’d come to her school and sat across the street in his van. He had waved to her once but she hadn’t waved back. Her mother had taught her not to talk to people she didn’t know.

  “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

  “Well, that’s great, sweetheart,” he said, the smile still in place. “That’s a good lesson. But my name is Ty. What’s yours?”

  “Tabitha.”

  “Tabitha. That’s such a pretty name. And you’re six years old, I bet.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I’m six.”

  “Well, Tabitha, I’m forty-two. See? Now we’re not strangers anymore. You know me and I know you. Take the candy. It’s fine. I have some balloons here, too.”

  She had seen the balloons earlier and was wondering about them. They were different colors: green, blue, red, purple, and pink. Pink was her favorite color, and she was going to ask for one of those, but thought she should ask her mother first. Her mother had told her that no one ever gave anything away for nothing—that if something seemed too good to be true, then it probably was. Tabitha was pretty sure that meant she would have to pay for the balloon.

  “Do you want a balloon, sweetheart?”

  She nodded. “But I don’t have any money.”

  The man chuckled. “It’s free, darling. Just because you’re so pretty. Now which one would you like?”

  “A pink one.”

  “A pink one? Well, that’s a great choice. Let me get it for you.”

  The man climbed into the van and untangled a pink balloon from the others. He crawled to the open door and held the balloon out to her. His hands were dirty, and she could see black underneath his fingernails. “Here ya go.”

  Tabitha smiled and took a few steps forward. When she reached out and grabbed the string of the balloon, she felt pressure on her arm. It hurt, and she didn’t know what it was, but then she saw the man’s hand. His fingers were turning white because he was squeezing her arm so tightly.

  His face had changed. He had been smiling before, but now his face looked like something she saw in her bedroom at night whenever her night-light went out, something that would give her nightmares. Even his eyes looked different. She was so scared she couldn’t even scream.

  “I have more presents for you in here,” the man growled.

  He hauled her into the van and slammed the sliding door shut.

  Two

  Brigham Theodore leapt over a pothole. He dashed across the sidewalk as if in a race, but there were no competitors. A homeless man sat slumped against one of the buildings. Brigham sprinted past him, then stopped and turned around. He had several dollars he was saving for a celebratory lunch. Brigham kept two dollars for himself and gave the rest to the homeless man, who said, “God bless,” with a wide smile.

  “No problem,” Brigham said, before he started his sprint again.

  An intersection light turned red and he glanced both ways before dashing across. A white cargo truck blared its horn and swerved around him.

  Brigham didn’t know how he’d missed such a large vehicle barreling toward him. He waved and shouted, “Sorry!” but kept going.

  The convention center was packed. Over two hundred newly minted lawyers were being sworn in that day. The Salt Lake City swearing-in was always held in the Salt Palace. Brigham hoped there would be snacks because he hadn’t eaten yet, having rushed to the convention center straight from work.

  The principal of the elementary school where he worked as a “facilities technician”—the new fancy term for janitor—had allowed him this morning off, but he had to be back before afternoon. He was fairly certain he would be the first member of the Bar in Utah to also be a janitor.

  Brigham rushed across the street. The building had been remodeled recently but it still looked like the basketball arena it used to be. Several posters were up for Salt Lake Comic Con, which had taken place almost three months ago.

  He took
the stairs two at a time, ran through some doors and up another set of stairs. In a large auditorium, two hundred people in suits milled around as family members sat on folding chairs and snapped photos with their phones.

  Brigham slipped into the group. Almost everyone there knew each other since they’d gone to the University of Utah or Brigham Young University. But he was a transplant from Tulane. After Hurricane Katrina, his law school class had been cancelled. Rather than transferring, he took some time off, then came back later and finished. He’d wanted to practice somewhere rural. Most big cities had a lawyer for every six or seven people. The markets were so saturated that no one could find a job. And the jobs that were available either didn’t pay much or expected you to live at the firm. He wanted neither, so he’d picked the place that looked just about as far from New Orleans as he could get: Salt Lake City, Utah.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats,” someone announced.

  More folding chairs had been set up for the admittees. Brigham sat at the end of a row next to a man with an unlit cigar in his mouth. The chief justice of the Utah Supreme Court spoke for a few minutes about the grandeur and importance of the law, and about how she reminded her husband, who was a physician, that while his professional forebears were bleeding people with leeches two hundred years ago, hers were drafting the constitution of the United States. The story got a laugh.

  Then the dean of the University of Utah spoke about the grand ol’ profession and told some anecdotes about the one year he actually practiced law before joining academia.

  The chief justice took the podium again and asked the admittees to stand. Brigham got to his feet with the others. The chief justice administered the oath, stating each sentence and waiting as the admittees repeated it:

  I am fully subject to the laws of the state of Utah and the laws of the United States and will abide by the same.

  I will support the constitution of the state of Utah and the Constitution of the United States.

  I will abide by the Rules of Professional Conduct approved by the Supreme Court of the State of Utah.

  I will maintain the respect due to the courts of justice and judicial officers.

  I will not counsel or maintain any suit or proceeding which shall appear to me to be unjust or any defense except as I believe to be honestly debatable under the law, unless it is in defense of a person charged with a public offense. I will employ for the purpose of maintaining the causes confided to me only those means consistent with truth and honor. I will never seek to mislead the judge or jury by any artifice or false statement.

  I will maintain the confidence and preserve inviolate the secrets of my client, and will accept no compensation in connection with the business of my client unless this compensation is from or with the knowledge and approval of the client or with the approval of the court.

  I will abstain from all offensive personalities, and advance no fact prejudicial to the honor or reputation of a party or witness unless required by the justice of the cause with which I am charged.

  I will never reject, from any consideration personal to myself, the cause of the defenseless or oppressed, or delay unjustly the cause of any person.

  Brigham repeated the words, excited and nervous and frightened all at once. When the oath was done, cheers went up from the crowd behind him as they clapped for their loved ones. No one was there for him, so he left after he received his certificates.

  A hot dog vendor was around the corner, and Brigham bought one with everything on it. Sitting down at the curb, he ate and stared at his certificates. He kept re-reading his Bar certificate: the title of the court with his name underneath stating that he was authorized to practice law. He could now give advice and get money for it in exchange. A smile came to his lips, but it only lasted a moment. He had to be back at the school and in uniform.

  He finished his hot dog and began the quick walk back to the school, his certificates tucked under his arm.

  Three

  Amanda Pierce sat in her car and felt the ridges of the gun. The handle, the muzzle, the weight of it. Everyone in Utah carried guns, most of them openly in holsters, but she’d never seen the need. Salt Lake City, by national standards, was a safe place. What crime there was consisted primarily of DUIs and pot charges.

  The two deputies were walking down the stairs of the courthouse with a man between them. He looked almost normal, other than the orange jumpsuit that read UTAH DOC across the back and up the side of his leg. The handcuffs were tight around his wrists. He was a large man, both fat and muscle-bound, and at least six foot two. He appeared grizzled and had a tattoo on his neck that looked like the remnant of some disease.

  Amanda looked down at the gun. She closed her eyes a moment. Opening them, she looked at the photograph that hung from her rearview mirror: a six-year-old girl in a Halloween costume, a princess with a wand and sparkling pink shoes.

  Tears flowed down Amanda’s cheeks. She sobbed, unable to hold them back. The emotion tightened her throat, and she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She wept like that several times a day. At first she’d fought the tears, trying to put on a brave face. But she wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all herself. She was broken in a way that could never be repaired, that could never be made whole. And whenever she wasn’t fully occupied, the tears came.

  She looked at the man again. He was laughing at something one of the deputies had said.

  She tucked the gun in her purse and got out of her car. The crutch in the backseat was worn out, and the rubber stop on the bottom was peeling. Every time she saw it, it took her right back to Kandahar Province and the landmine that had taken her leg off below the knee. She hesitated, then tucked the crutch under her arm and turned toward the courthouse.

  The sky was gray but sunny. Salt Lake City had some of the worst air pollution in the United States. Several successive governors had allowed big business to release whatever they wanted in the air. And since the valley was in a bowl surrounded by mountains, none of the pollution ever really left. Amanda found it fitting that the sky itself would be sick today.

  Keeping her head low, she walked across the lawn of the courthouse. A van from the Salt Lake County Metro Jail was parked there with a deputy in the driver’s seat, waiting for the prisoner. Amanda crossed in front of the prisoner and the two deputies. She climbed a few steps. When they were farther away from her, she stopped and turned around.

  Amanda’s gun came out quickly. She had imagined the moment every second of every day for the past week. And each time she’d envisioned it, the scene had been in slow motion. She’d thought it would take longer to get the gun out, giving her time to think. She’d thought the deputies transporting the prisoner would have time to react, and the prisoner would see what was coming. She needed him to see and to know it was her.

  She raised the gun. “Hey!”

  The man and the deputies turned. Their faces showed disbelief, and one of the deputies reached for his gun.

  “This is for Tabitha,” she said.

  The trigger gave easily. The man’s mouth was open and he could only get out the beginnings of a word as the first round tore into him. The second and third missed, going wide, but the rest hit him. They ripped through his head and he flew off his feet, tumbling down the courthouse steps.

  The deputy had his gun out, but Amanda dropped her weapon and held up her hands. She was smiling as tears ran down her cheeks, still smiling as the deputy tackled her and as the cold steel of the handcuffs closed around her wrists.

  Four

  Brigham worked until six in the evening, finishing with a final round of the halls to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. As he walked by the teachers’ lounge, he saw his boss, Rick, with his feet up on the couch, sipping a beer. Rick’s skin was a light black, but his hair was pure gray, almost white. No one that Brigham ever knew could accurately guess his age. Their eyes met and Ri
ck smiled.

  “Come in here, B.”

  Brigham walked in and collapsed into a chair. Every muscle felt tight, and his feet were sore, but the exhilaration of the swearing-in ceremony hadn’t faded. He still felt giddy, like he could go dancing or to a party and have a good time, but he had neither the money nor the friends for either.

  “How come you never go out?” Rick asked.

  “Don’t really know anyone.”

  “You been here over a year. Maybe it’s time.”

  Brigham leaned back into the soft recliner. “The only people I get to see every day are you guys.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, we ain’t the most social group. But you’re a young kid. What’re you, twenty-six?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You should be out bangin’ every chick in sight. Whatchyoo doin’ mopping floors with me?”

  “Money’s money.”

  He shook his head. “Not for you. You don’t belong here, B. I’ve seen how smart you are. Them books you read on your breaks, I can’t even understand ’em. You still in school, right?”

  “I’m done. I just got sworn into the Bar today.”

  “The Bar?”

  “Yeah, I’m officially a lawyer.”

  Rick was silent a moment and then burst out laughing. “Well, you the only lawyer I seen workin’ a mop.” He rose and went to the mini-fridge, took out another beer that was hidden in a plastic bag underneath some vegetables, and handed it to Brigham. “Congrats. Seriously.”

  They tapped bottles, and Brigham took a long drink. The beer stung going down and was cold.

  “So, what now?” Rick asked as he kicked his feet up again.

  “I gotta get a job.”

  “Lotta jobs?”

  Brigham took a drink and shook his head. “Nope. But I’m gonna take my résumé to every law firm I can find and see what happens.”