The Neon Lawyer (2 page)

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 Rick 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.”

“Well, that’s good. My granddaddy was a lawyer. I ever tell you that?”

“No.”

“Yup. Civil rights lawyer down south in Mississippi during all the bullshit when that was goin’ down. They killed him for it, man. He was walkin’ out of a grocery store one night and
pop
. They shot him in the head. One shot. Killed him ’cause he didn’t think black folk should be beaten by the police. I remember him, though. He used to tell me that the Good Lord always lets justice win in the end, that’s what he’d say. ‘Good Lord’ll let justice always win in the end.’ I remember that much about him, but them boys that killed him got arrested and then acquitted by a white Mississippi jury.” He zoned out a moment, his eyes glazing over as he stared at a spot on the wall. “Don’t see how justice won, there.”

Brigham thought back to his own grandfather, a convicted felon and con man. Brigham remembered the smell of the jails when he’d visit his grandfather—sweat and Lysol. The only thing his grandfather had ever taught him was how to put electrical tape on a dollar bill and feed it into a vending machine, then pull it out at the last second: buy a soda, and keep the change.

“Was your dad a lawyer too?” Brigham asked.

“Nah, he didn’t have the head for it. Me neither. My daddy was a car mechanic and I ended up out here, man. But I ain’t complainin’. I put in a good twenty and my retirement is set. I can leave any time.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Since Mandy died, I don’t wanna be alone. Sandwiches and TV is all I got waitin’ for me at home.” He finished his beer and rose with a groan, placing the bottle back in the plastic bag to be taken home. “You take tomorrow off, and go find yourself a job, you hear?”

“I will. Thanks, Rick.”

Rick placed his hand on Brigham’s shoulder as he left. Brigham waited a few minutes, then finished the beer and headed home. He would have a long day tomorrow.

Home was nothing more than a studio apartment in an area of the city known as the Avenues. The streets were so narrow and the stop signs so confusing that he could never see which direction cars were coming from. Traffic lights seemed to be placed at random, and every day or two, Brigham would hear the metallic crunch of an accident.

He rode his bicycle up the streets toward an old Victorian house. It had been split into five apartments and he rented the basement—the cheapest space. His apartment was down a hallway and a set of winding, dilapidated stairs. As he rolled his bike inside, one of the other tenants in the house opened her door.

June was dressed in a black Depeche Mode T-shirt and black jeans, with a white beanie on her head. Her glasses were thin and warped and looked like they might fall off her head any second.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

“Working late?”

“Had to take a couple of hours off today, so I stayed late to make up for it.” He hesitated, but had to tell her. The pressure was building up inside him, and he might explode if he didn’t. “I got sworn in to the Bar today.”

“No way! I thought that was, like, next year.”

“No, it was today.”

She hugged him, and he could smell her body wash.

“Seriously, congratulations, Brigham. You going out to celebrate?”

“Um, no. I thought I’d just hang out.”

“What? No way. We’re going out.”

“You don’t have to, June.”

“Bullshit. We’re going.”

“Lemme change, then.”

Brigham took a quick shower and changed into jeans and a button-down shirt. June was sitting on his couch watching television. She rose and fixed his collar. June had been fixing his collar since he’d moved into the complex. They would hang out, watch
Battlestar Galactica
together on Netflix, and go out for dinner sometimes when neither of them had plans. Never had it gone past that. She was literally his only friend right now, and sex had a way of ruining friendships. The cost wasn’t worth the benefit.

They walked to a nearby barbecue restaurant as the sun set. It was right next to a vegan restaurant, and legend had it that the owners had once gotten into a fistfight.

Several people were walking dogs, and a few joggers were out, too. The Avenues wasn’t a place to raise a family, so instead there were couples with dogs.

The waitress seated them at the window next to some football players from the university, and June ordered bruschetta. The restaurant was always packed with the college crowd, and the football players already had several empty beer bottles on their table. They were loud enough that the waitress asked them if they could quiet down.

“So what now, Brigham? Conquering the world one case at a time?”

“I don’t know about that. There’s no jobs. You got two law schools here pumping out lawyers in a state that doesn’t need any more. It’s the same story nationwide. It’s a dying profession, I think.”

“There’ll always be lawyers. People can’t settle arguments by themselves. Besides, all the politicians are lawyers—they’re not going to let the profession disappear.”

“Maybe.” He tried some of the bruschetta. It was so oily that it dripped onto his shirt, and he dabbed at it with a napkin. “What about you? That art degree’s gotta come in handy somewhere.”

“I think the people who major in dance have better prospects than art majors. I may have to—”

“Hey!” one of the men at the next table shouted. “Hey, boo, what’s your name?”

Brigham glanced over. The men were eyeballing June as if she were sitting at the table by herself.

“Ignore them,” she said.

“Hey, boo, come over here. Have a drink with us. Don’t be all shy.”

Brigham turned to them. “She’s with me, fellas. We’re good.”

“Hey, fuck you, queer. We ain’t talkin’ to you.”

Whenever Brigham’s father was drunk, he would get the belt and take out his aggression on Brigham or Brigham’s mother. When he sobered up, he would cry and beg their forgiveness. Everything would be fine, until the next time he got drunk. Drunk bravado had a special place in Brigham’s heart.

Brigham felt his anger rising, but told himself that when people drank, they weren’t themselves. The college students were just drunk.

“How about next round’s on me, fellas?”

“How about I fuck that skinny bitch in the ass and make you watch, yo.”

Brigham smiled and turned away. He had a glass of water in front of him, and next to that was the plate of bruschetta.

“Brigham, ignore them.”

He grabbed the plate, twisted around, and hurled it as hard as he could. It slammed into the football player’s face, tomatoes slopping down onto his collar.

“Time to go,” Brigham said, grabbing June’s arm and pulling her out of the restaurant.

The three players were on their feet, so drunk that they nearly fell over each other. But even drunk, they were faster and stronger than Brigham. He turned the corner into an alley between the vegan restaurant and the barbecue place, still clinging to June’s arm, and made a dash for the street.

The players were too fast and they were already on him, grabbing his arms from behind. One of them circled around—the one with the oily stains—as the other two hung back.

“Problem here, boys?” came a new voice.

A bald man stood with his arms folded, muscles bulging—he looked like a cage fighter. Clipped to his belt was the gold shield of a detective with the Salt Lake PD.

“He saved your ass,” the football player said, shoulder-checking Brigham as he walked away.

The detective paced the alley, waiting until the three men were out of earshot. “What the hell did you do to them, Brigham?”

“Nothing.”

“He threw a plate of bruschetta,” June offered.

The detective shook his head. “In my restaurant?”

“It was just tomatoes, Will.”

“It’s assault, dipshit. You’re trying to become a lawyer—you can’t have an assault charge on your record. And I own this fucking place and have to go explain to my customers that it wasn’t a big deal. People want calm when they’re eating, not fights.”

“Sorry.”

Will shook his head again and headed to the kitchen door in the back of the restaurant. Brigham chuckled, and June pushed him in the chest with both hands, making him stumble back.

“What?” he said.

“They were going to kick your ass.”

“But they didn’t.”

“But they were going to.”

“But they didn’t. It’s fine.”

She sighed as though having to explain something to a child for the fiftieth time. “It’s not fine, Brigham. You brought yourself down to their level. If you do that, you’re no better than they are. All you had to do was ignore it, and they would’ve lost interest. Why did you have to do that?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, right.”

“No, seriously—that was inconsiderate of me. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Her brow furrowed, and she appeared furious. Then, as quickly as it had come, the anger faded. She sighed again and took his arm. “Come on, dipshit. Let’s go watch a movie.”