Page 4 of All That Glitters
Chapter three
Courtrooms and Other Health Hazards
Debbie had a good point. Walking on the beach with her that night, it had been easy for Tony to pretend that the simple days weren’t over.
But they were. Adulthood, that terrifying concept, was no longer a distant threat on the horizon; it was a head-on collision, and Tony was driving without a seatbelt.
The reality was, he was completely un-ready.
He had a diploma that said he was educated and a bank account that said he was destitute.
He didn’t have a plan, a clue, or a single marketable skill that didn’t involve knowing every line from the movie Caddyshack.
So when Jeff suggested he check out law, it seemed like as good a plan as any.
Which basically meant it was a plan. Jeff had even pulled some strings to get them both summer internships at his dad’s firm, Slewinski a shark in his natural habitat, circling the witness stand.
“And can you identify the driver of the other car?” Bob asked, his voice smooth and commanding, the kind of voice that could convince a jury that the sky was, in fact, green.
In the witness stand, a skinny kid with a weaselly face and a haircut that looked like it had been done with a lawnmower, pointed a bony finger across the room. “Yeah, it’s the old lady over there.”
Tony followed the kid’s finger to the defendant’s table.
There sat a woman who looked like someone’s grandmother, with a sweet puff of white hair, rosy cheeks, and a dainty floral dress.
She had a handmade needlepoint purse sitting in her lap.
She looked more likely to offer you cookies than to cause a wreck.
For a moment, Tony felt a pang of sympathy.
“Objection,” the defense attorney said.
“Overruled,” the judge droned from the bench, his eyes half-closed.
“Your honor,” Bob said, turning to the bench. “Let the record show that the plaintiff has identified the defendant as the driver of the other car.” He turned back to the witness. “And can you tell us, in your own words, what happened when you stopped at the light?”
The kid leaned into the microphone, a smug look on his face. “Yeah. That’s when the stupid bitch hit me.”
A collective gasp rippled through the courtroom. The air, once still and reverent, was suddenly charged. The sweet-looking old lady in the floral dress was immediately on her feet, fury blazing in her eyes.
“Objection!” she shrieked.
The judge, startled from his nap, rapped his gavel sharply. “Order! Order in the court!”
“Kiss off!” the old woman snarled.
In one fluid motion that defied her age and her demure appearance, she whipped a can of pepper spray from her needlepoint purse and dashed toward the witness stand. The skinny kid’s smug expression dissolved into one of sudden, stark terror.
“Oh, crap,” he managed to get out before she fired a direct burst into his face.
He went down, choking and clawing at his eyes.
A burly bailiff, who looked like he’d been waiting his whole life for a moment like this, rushed forward to intervene.
The old woman spun on him, aiming her little can of chemical warfare.
The bailiff, a man twice her size, stopped dead in his tracks.
He took one look at the crazed glint in her eyes, made a swift about-face, and bolted out the courtroom doors.
“I SAID ORDER!” the judge roared, his face now turning a deep shade of crimson.
She turned her attention to the bench and sprayed a vicious orange cloud in his direction.
The judge vanished behind his podium with a muffled yelp.
That was the signal for total anarchy. Tony, Jeff, and Bob dove under the plaintiff’s table.
Around them, spectators, lawyers, and litigants piled out the doors like rats from a sinking ship.
Three marshals burst through the doors, fanning out like a well-oiled machine — a machine that was about to be gassed.
The old woman, now a tiny, raging goddess of chaos, had leaped onto the witness stand. She let out a guttural snarl as the marshals moved in. It was a big mistake. She fired off a thick, orange cloud of spray, and all three professionally grim men went down choking in a pile of flailing limbs.
Beneath the table, Tony stared in disbelief at the unfolding carnage. He slowly turned to Jeff, who, despite the tear gas wafting in their direction and the sounds of mayhem all around them, was calmly straightening his tie.
Tony shot him a look that basically said he’d rather sell doughnuts at a Weight Watchers meeting than this.
Jeff grimaced, meeting his gaze. “This hardly ever happens.”
‘Senior Citizen Subdued After Courtroom Rampage’ read the next morning’s headlines. The article included a blurry cell phone image of the elderly defendant being escorted from the building in handcuffs.
The article mentioned three hospitalizations, thousands in property damage, and a judge who refused to comment beyond a terse statement about “mandatory strip searches of all elderly litigants before they entered his courtroom.” There was no mention of Tony Harding, who spent that evening applying for jobs in literally any field other than law.
His brief legal career had lasted exactly six hours and twenty-three minutes, a new personal record for shortest professional commitment, beating out the summer he’d attempted to work as a telemarketer (eight hours).
Adulthood, Tony was discovering, was considerably more complicated than expected. And significantly more hazardous.