Paul fretted, hands clenched, eyes on the floor. This was his first time in a courthouse, too, but, unlike Matt, he wasn’t just a spectator.
A flashy lawyer swooped in and clapped Garland on the back. Matt was reminded of Arnie Becker fromLA Law: blow-dried 80’s hair, fake tan.
“Stone-Dancer, my man! Every time I turn on the TV these days, there you are! If my wife were here, she’d be asking for your autograph!”
Garland laughed good-naturedly. “Good morning, Bennett. I would have thought your wife would be too busy with her Junior League to watch TV.”
It was flashy lawyer’s turn to laugh—a forced, throaty guffaw. “Good one, Stone-Dancer! Good one! Listen, I’m late for court. Call my office and schedule something. Let’s talk about your joining the firm—as an associate for now, but on a partner track!”
“Sure thing,” Garland said.
“Who’s that?” Paul asked once the guy was gone.
Garland shrugged. “He’s senior partner at the third largest firm in town. I applied there right after I passed the Bar. Didn’t even get an interview. I’ve crossed paths with him several times in the past few years, and he’s never even acknowledged my existence. He even ignored me after I got on theTodayshow. It wasn’t until this latest round of high-profile cases that he’s bothered to learn my name. My last name. You caught that, didn’t you?”
“Still,” Matt said, “partner at a big firm could be in your future, Stone-Dancer!”
Garland wasn’t amused. “He just wants me to be his rainmaker, that’s all. His firm’s client base is the old money, country club set—mainly blue-haired old ladies who tweak their wills to provide for their cats. And once the blue-hairs die, it isn’t like their cats are going to need lawyers!”
“I’ve got new clients walking through the door every day,” Garland continued, “so much so that I’ve just hired two associates. Bennett’s firm is shrinking and mine is growing, and he knows it.”
Matt was happy for Garland’s sake. Stone-Dancer and Associates was a real thing now.
Garland led them to a bank of four elevators. One had an out-of-service sign on the door.
“The fancy, ceremonial courtrooms are upstairs,” he said. “We’re going down.”
They descended to the basement and emerged into a wide, stolid hall. Two vending machines leaned against one wall. Lavatories had to be nearby—judging by the smell.
“We’re here,” Garland said. He pushed open a wooden door and ushered them into the courtroom.
Matt was underwhelmed. This room—with its water-stained drop ceiling and fluorescent lighting—made the hallway seem elegant. Danny DeVito might as well have been standing there in the buff, flabby arms outstretched, a wilted rose between his teeth.
Honestly, Matt shouldn’t have been surprised. The whole state operated on the boom-and-bust cyclical oil calendar, which left the prairiepock-marked with half-finished vanity projects, as if a Goliath-sized toddler had scattered Legos in his wake.
The state capitol itself was the only domeless one in the union. The state had run out of money in the 1930’s, and six decades later, rather than finish the job, had decided to take a certain perverse pride in the permanent “Under Construction” feel of the place. Yeah, Oklahoma: where the state song came from a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical, but Broadway was for fags; where there were more churches than cockleburs, but the cheats who had sneaked across the lines during the Land Runs—the “Sooners”—were celebrated as patron saints; where hard work and thrift got lip service, but thieving oil barons were venerated; and where everyone got teary-eyed during “The Star Spangled Banner,” but where—as recently as 1988—the confederate flag had fluttered at the capitol grounds—matter and anti-matter co-existing without canceling each other out.
They took their seats on one of the benches.
Paul hunched forward, worried.
Garland elbowed him. “Have a little faith in your lawyer, dude. Want to know what I think? My bet is that at tonight’s party we’re going to be celebrating two things: Bella’s TV debut AND your win today.”
Paul gave a weak smile.
There was no “Hear ye, hear ye” like on TV, not even a bailiff calling “Order in the Court.” Just a grumpy judge who took his seat and drummed his fingers impatiently while his clerk got situated. Eventually, he gaveled the show into session.
Garland studied the judge’s every word, every facial expression. He’d told Matt and Paul that he’d not previously appeared before this one. Courthouse scuttlebutt had it that the guy was an unrepentant peckerhead: temperamental, opinionated, someone who enjoyed browbeating lawyers, the kind who would have taken pride in being a “hanging judge” in Territorial days.
Garland had to find the key to the judge’s cold heart.
Three other cases—all involving appeals of driver’s license suspensions—were denied, their clients and lawyers sent packing.
Bang went the gavel.
“Next,” barked the Judge.
“In Re Paul Olsson!” called the clerk.
