by Martin Clark

We are doing something a bit different this week, we are sharing an excerpt from The Plinko Bounce by Martin Clark that came out this week. Note there is some strong language in the excerpt.

Judge Christina Leventis sent the jury to begin their deliberations at 11:03 a.m., and she was so damn unhappy and agitated when she left the bench that she was already unzipping her robe before she reached her office, jerking out her arm from the sleeve while she was still striding across the courtroom, impatient, as if she were shedding a black polyester straitjacket.

As soon as the judge disappeared, Porter Bowman looked at his lawyer, Andy Hughes. “Judge Levin sure is pissed off,” Bowman observed.

“Leventis,” Andy corrected him. “It’s written right there, Porter, on the nameplate beside her microphone. See it? And as many times as you’ve been in here, you ought to know her name by now.”

Martin Clark

“Well, whoever she is, I don’t think it’s fair she’s actin’ mad at me. If we lose, I wanna appeal. As much as we can. The Supreme Court if we have to. I ain’t guilty of nothin’.”

“I’m going to smoke a cigarette,” Andy said. “Stay here. Don’t leave this table. Don’t move. Think you can manage that?”

Andy walked down the tight interior stairway of the Patrick County Courthouse, past the security desk and metal detector and through the heavy double doors. The July air was scorched and listless, the building’s small yard baked. He turned a corner, heading for the alley across the street. He didn’t think it was professional to loiter at the front entrance, beside the pencil-necked Smoker’s Outpost ashtray where bailiffs, witnesses, clerks, and jittery defendants burned cigarettes and, more often than not, tossed the butts on the ground or underneath a giant holly bush.

Several of his public defender clients—the Reliables, the lawyers called them—hung around in the alley, occasionally sleeping there. Moonfaced

Dancin’ Ben would cut a little jig, sort of a creaky soft-shoe, if you paid him a dollar. Pink Panther was as gentle as a baby lamb and could recite the books of the Bible in order until he became loaded, and then he pissed in public and panhandled at the grocery store, cursing and threatening shoppers who didn’t see fit to give him cash. General Gene really had served in the army, though he never left Fayetteville and never made it past E-3 private. They’d been to every rehab, every shelter, every program, every church and halfway home, and they weren’t fixable, weren’t ever going to stop drinking and raising Cain, and they lived on the court dockets, with almost daily charges of drunk in public, curse and abuse, disorderly conduct, indecent exposure, littering, and assault and battery.

Today, Dancin’ Ben was wearing a thrift-shop suit and a fat tie. He was seated in a lopsided metal folding chair, draining a forty-ounce Steel Reserve, eight percent alcohol, the big bottle only $2.50 and tax, strong fuel for cheap.

“You’re looking sharp, Dancin’ Man,” Andy noted. “Why the shave and nice suit?”

“I’m meetin’ ever mornin’ with Dr. Cole over at his medical office. My momma set it up with him; she’s a nurse at the clinic. He’s ahelpin’ me quit the drinkin’.”

“Seems to be a work in progress, huh, Ben?” There was no barb or malice in Andy’s tone. “It’s not even noon, and you’re already the man of Steel Reserve.”

“Rome wont builded in no day, Mr. Hughes. Just beer—I’m leavin’ the wine and vodka alone. Soon I’ll go cold turkey.” He peered at Andy. “Can you spare a cigarette?” He hesitated a beat. “And thanks, sir, for the good job you done me on that trespassin’ charge last month. I always ask Judge McGarry if he’ll ’point you as my lawyer—ain’t no better public defender.”

Andy tossed him a cigarette and noticed a gash along Ben’s bony, pallid middle finger when he collected the gift. Forty-seven years old, he appeared sixty. “Well, I hope,” Andy said sincerely, “you can sober up and stay out of trouble. It would be a relief for your mom. She’s a fine lady.”

“I will,” Ben replied. “You hear ’bout Zeb?” “Nope,” Andy answered.

“He up and died on us.” Ben trapped the beer between his biceps and ribs and lit the Marlboro Red. “They found him dead in his jail bunk. Three days ago. He was pullin’ a month for shopliftin’. Nobody seen it comin’.”

“Huh,” Andy said. “Sorry. Zeb wasn’t a bad person, even when he was drunk. He seemed to be the healthiest of all you guys. What was he, forty, maybe?”

“Yeah, he was pretty young.” Ben tipped his head and jetted smoke toward the sky. “Never know when it’ll be your time. Worst part is ol’ Patches don’t understand Zeb’s gone for good. He’s still there waitin’ like usual.”

Patches was Zebulon McAlexander’s dog, a crackerjack blue heeler mix with different colored eyes who was the working member of their relationship: Toss spare change in Zeb’s hat, and Patches would speak or roll over or play dead or shake hands or balance on two legs or—for the grand finale—leap high enough to snatch a treat from Zeb’s shoulder. The loyal cur was so devoted that when Zeb was behind bars at the local jail, Patches always made his way downtown and stuck close to the building until his master served his time and was released.

“Maybe you or General Gene can adopt him and take care of him.”

“Done asked,” Ben said sadly, frowning, “and my sister won’t let me. She has a sorry-ass cat at the trailer where I stay, and she ain’t havin’ none of it. There’s feedin’ him too. The money. Zeb drawed a check, and I don’t. It’d be terrible if he’s stuck in a cage at the pound. Worse, I heared from Deputy Ward they only give ’em two weeks before they put the needle to ’em.”

“I don’t think the rule’s quite so rigid, especially for a celebrity like Patches. I’m sure he’ll—”

“Mr. Hughes, the jury’s ready,” Ralph Howell, the circuit court bailiff, shouted from the top of the alley. The brick buildings on each side captured his words and caused a brief, faint echo.

“That was fast,” Andy muttered.

“Tell Porter I’m rootin’ for him,” Ben volunteered. “I know he’s innocent and don’t deserve none of this.”

Andy hotboxed the cigarette as he hurried toward the street, stubbed it against a wall, tossed it in a trash can, hustled to the courtroom, and beelined to the defense table.

“You good to go?” Bailiff Howell asked.

“Yes. Where’s Porter?”

“I assumed he was with you,” the bailiff responded. “He left a few seconds after you did.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Andy blurted. “Great. Tell Judge Leventis I’ll be right back. Sorry. He probably stepped outside for some air.”

Howell grinned. “I’m not sure I’d call it ‘air.’”

Andy dashed to the entrance. “You see a man in a green shirt and jeans come by here?” he asked a group of skinny, tattooed kids clustered by the door. “Bald guy?”

“No,” the tallest kid answered, and the rest ignored the question.

“Mr. Hughes!” Bowman was waving from across the street.

“Get the hell over here, Porter,” Andy commanded him. “The jury’s back. I told you not to leave.”

He sashayed across Main Street, in no hurry. “What do you think’ll happen?” he asked when he finally ambled to where Andy was standing. “No idea,” Andy said tersely. “And you smell like booze. I told you to stay put. Couldn’t you at least keep sober until we finish your trial?”

“I’m fine. Must be the mouthwash you’re smellin’. Listerine.”

Judge Leventis was still in a mood when the bailiff handed her the two verdict forms. She glared at Porter Bowman and instructed him to “please rise.” She read from the first single sheet of paper. “In the Commonwealth of Virginia, County of Patrick: On the charge of littering, we the jury find the defendant not guilty. Signed by the foreperson, Dianna Mills. Dated July seventeenth, 2020.” She paused. She picked up the second form. “In the Commonwealth of Virginia, County of Patrick: On the charge of drunk in public, we the jury find the defendant not guilty. Signed by the foreperson, Dianna Mills. Dated July seventeenth, 2020.” She tossed the verdict on top of its file. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your service. We’re grateful. While all jury service is an important civic duty, I realize from watching your reactions today most of you were—understandably— not happy to be inconvenienced by these extremely minor cases; however, the defendant exercised his right to trial by jury, and we are duty-bound to honor that request. I apologize for any hardship and appreciate your attention to our Covid-19 guidelines. Please be careful as you return home or to your workplaces.”

Andy was staring at the floor. His shoe was untied. The lace had lost its plastic tip and was starting to fray and unravel on one side. Four years of college, three years of law school, law review at William and Mary, and this is my job, this is the penny-ante shit I have to do, he thought, and closed his eyes for a moment. Forty-three years old, stuck and stymied.

“Damn right, Mr. Hughes,” Bowman crowed. “We showed ’em who’s boss.”

“Yeah,” Andy grunted, opening his eyes.

The clerk was sorting through Bowman’s files, the jury members were meandering toward the stairs, Judge Leventis was studying her docket, and the assistant commonwealth’s attorney, a quality man named Doug Reilly, came over to shake hands and exchange a few cordial words with Andy. Darrell Pruitt—an affable, professional veteran—was the arresting officer, and he was beside Reilly.

“Congratulations,” Reilly said to Andy. “You always do great work for your clients.” He nodded slightly. “No matter the case.”

Officer Pruitt reached to shake hands with Andy but tried to keep his pandemic distance. “I don’t feel so bad losin’ to the best,” he offered. “Maybe next time.”

“Well, I got some bad feelings, you stupid fucker,” Bowman bellowed, the recent alcohol beginning to saturate him and ignite his temper. “We made you look like the dumbass you are, Pruitt.” Bowman wagged a finger at the deputy. “Dumbass,” he repeated and cackled. “Put you in your place, little man.”

Andy instinctively took a step away from the table and his client. He peeked at the judge, apprehensive.

“Ten days active for summary contempt,” Judge Leventis said so quietly that it was difficult to hear. She didn’t look up from her docket pages until she’d finished speaking. “Bailiff Howell, please take him to jail.”

“Say what?” Bowman screeched. “I wont even talkin’ to you. How’s that legal? You been against me all day. Tried to railroad me.”

“You received a fair trial, Mr. Bowman,” the judge said.

“Well then screw you too, bitch,” Bowman declared, the last word a maskless, spit-spray explosion.

“I’ll consider that a freebie, sir,” she said. “A twofer included in the ten days. Please take him to the jail,” she repeated. “Before I ring him up again.” The bailiff and Officer Pruitt handcuffed Bowman, grabbed his pinned arms and guided him, jabbering and cursing and complaining and stiff-leg resisting, toward the holding cell behind the bench, and while Officer Pruitt was unlocking the metal door, Bowman twisted around and shouted to his lawyer: “We’re appealin’ this, Mr. Hughes. You file papers and get me out.” He sucked a breath. “And call my grandma and see if she’ll put some money on my canteen account at the jail.” He balled his fist at the judge.

“Crooked kangaroo.”

“Well, there you go,” Reilly said. The lanky commonwealth’s attorney shook his head, chuckled. “You can always count on the Reliables. I don’t know how you and your office deal with their nonsense day after day after day, Andy.”

“The huge paycheck and free state Porsche make it all worthwhile,” Andy joked.

“What did our boy Porter catch in lower court?” Reilly asked. “I’ve forgotten. Before he appealed and wasted everybody’s morning over nothing?”

“Twenty-five-dollar fine on the drunk in public,” Andy replied. “Five days suspended on the littering—no active time. Basically zero, since he’ll never pay a penny of the fine and costs.”

Reilly laughed. “Some folks just don’t do well with prosperity. Only Porter Bowman could be found not guilty on appeal and wind up serving ten days more than he received in lower court.” Reilly stepped closer. He laid a manila envelope on the old oak table. “Here’s the last discovery information for Damian Bullins. We’re still set for him to plead next Thursday, right?”

“Yes,” Andy confirmed.

“See you then,” Reilly said. “I’m sure we’ll have a packed house for the show,” he added as he walked off.

“Judge.” Andy clasped his hands in front of his chest. “Apologies, ma’am. Sorry about the whole shebang. These guys know the system, and he was determined to appeal—for no real reason, other than he has nothing else to do and really nothing to lose—and I regret we wasted your time and the jury’s time. I’m sorry about his conduct and language just now. You were gracious to only pop him with the ten days.”

“No problem,” Judge Leventis answered. She rocked forward. “I always enjoy having you in my court. I was a defense attorney once myself—I understand how it is.” She arched her eyebrows. “As for not adding any more jail time, I often wonder, especially in really hot weather or really cold weather, whether I’m briar-patching certain defendants when I send them to a cot, three meals, TV, a never-ending card game and climate-controlled lodging.”

***

Ten minutes later, sitting in his 2018 Jeep Wrangler, his briefcase and suit coat on the passenger seat, the window rolled down, Andy called Brooke Scott at Patrick Henry Community College, where she worked in the financial-aid office. “My jury trial ended early,” he told her. “Okay with you if I pick up Noah from the Y?”

“Sure,” Brooke said. “You’ll make my schedule easier.”

“Appreciate it.”

“How is it a jury trial’s over before lunch, Andy? Did it settle?”

“No. It was a friggin’ littering case with one of the Reliables. A wine bottle he allegedly left behind.”

“Using all your Perry Mason muscles,” she kidded him.

Andy had met Brooke at the FloydFest music festival in 2011, on a charmed summer Friday, the ground still damp from a stray shower, a rainbow anchored on opposite sides on the Blue Ridge Mountains. He spotted her in a beer tent, and they were so wrought for each other, so bullseye, that he dumbstruck stared and schoolboy smiled, and she welcomed it, took off her sunglasses and gave it straight back, their soundtrack a Taj Mahal song from the main stage. She was gorgeous, tall and agile, and he was every inch her match, six three and charismatic, the both of them dark-haired and rare, beautifully set apart from the common world.

They spent the festival together, had camp-lantern sex in her tent on Sunday night, then again in her SUV before they left the festival parking lot, the leather seats warm, a mountain breeze curling through the Honda in fits and starts. They began dating, and for a while it was as expected, came as billed, but three months later, in the fall, the leaves dying, the air chilly, they realized they were off-kilter once you dipped beneath the easy peaks and top-shelf romance. There was no nitty-gritty to them, no nuts and bolts, and they gave voice to the obvious at a bar in Roanoke, a sampler platter untouched on the table, both sipping water, both disheartened, as if they’d somehow been rooked, been cheated by fool’s gold. Still, they were kind to each other at the melancholy end, and Andy sent her flowers—a cut arrangement, no roses—a few days later.

December 15, 2011, she called the public defender’s office in Martinsville to inform him she was pregnant. She didn’t hem and haw, just announced the news, subdued and measured.

“Oh, wow…wow,” Andy spluttered. “Didn’t expect this.” He cleared his throat. Thought about shutting his office door. “So, well, so I’m glad you’re telling me.”

“Yeah,” she answered. “I’m telling you.”

Neither spoke for several seconds. Andy heard two lawyers chatting at the copier in the hallway.

“So…so…uh, what…what’re you…what comes next?” he asked.

“You mean am I planning to have an abortion?” she said bluntly, her voice spiking on the last word.

“I suppose that’s…a consideration.” Andy could feel his neck coloring. His thoughts were scrambled, pinballing off his skull. His tongue was sandpaper dry against his front teeth. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry I’m so rattled. I’m just, you know, this is a bomb. Crazy sudden and unexpected and…the most important thing that could happen to me.”

“If I were going to end my pregnancy, Andy, most likely I would’ve done it and put this behind me and not involved you. If I were certain about it. Positive.”

“Yeah,” he answered, slowly regaining his composure. “Not to be too personal—”

“This,” she interrupted, “is about as personal as it gets, don’t you think?”

“Not to be too personal,” he repeated, “but you, uh, might decide you’re not ready for a baby, right? Just asking. There’s the KEEP YOUR ROSARIES OFF MY OVARIES sticker smack in the middle of your bumper. And, from our conversations, you were always very clear about…uh…a woman having a choice.”

“Part of my right to choose is to pick what’s best for me. Maybe I want to control my own life and body and not go through with this. Or maybe I want to have my kid. My damn business and nobody else’s, either way.” Her tone softened. “I’m thirty-five. Not getting any younger. If I were picking a man from the Wayfair baby-daddy catalog, I’d pick the Andy Hughes model—you’re smart and considerate. Decent. Honest. Nice looking.”

“I’ll help a hundred percent, if need be. Support, money, insurance, you name it. I’ll do my part, no problem.”

“I’m sure. But I’m interested in more than an ATM with testicles, the mostly missing dude who pays exactly what he’s supposed to and drops by for the occasional birthday party and calls his kid ‘Sport’ or ‘Buddy’ or ‘Baby Doll.’”

“No offense, but how are you pregnant? What happened to the pills?”

“Obviously, Andy, they didn’t work. They aren’t infallible. To be honest, I forgot to take a couple when I was staying with my mom after her surgery.”

“Okay,” he replied.

“Believe me,” she said firmly, “I’m as stunned as you are. And to answer the questions you’re afraid to ask me right now: I’m not trying to ‘trap’ the ex-boyfriend I decided to dump, and I’ll take a DNA test—wouldn’t blame you for wanting to check, given the circumstances.”

Andy gently laughed. “Our breakup was mutual, or so I like to think. Leave me a little dignity.”

“True,” she said. “We both agreed.” Her voice broke. “Sorry. It’s hard not to be emotional.”

“Will you let me have tonight to think about all this? It’s a lot. A whole lot. Life-changing. Double life-changing. Triple. Can I call you in the morning?”

He phoned that very same night, around seven, enthusiastic and certain, convicted, and he loved his boy Noah even before the lad was birthed, and with the exception of a few predictable snags and quarrels and reasonable disagreements and a single pitched battle over the car seat, Andy and Brooke were kind to each other and dedicated to their child and hellaciously wonderful parents, who, early on, even slipped a few times and wound up having more sex.

Noah Cheever Hughes, that was what they picked for the birth certificate, and it was perfect for the boy, handsome, spirited and a wink different.

Idling in the car line at the Martinsville YMCA, Andy spotted his son the moment he walked out of the building. He stretched across the console and opened the passenger-side door.

“Dad, Dad, Dad,” Noah repeated, excited, darting to the Jeep from the sidewalk, eight years old, toting his backpack by a single strap. “Guess what? Guess what?” he said as he climbed in.

“I’m on pins and needles,” Andy answered playfully. “No hug for me?”

“Howard saved my friend Butch’s life,” he exclaimed, talking nonstop through a rushed embrace. “It was amazing. He was bleeding to death. He fell off the diving board and busted his head. I heard you could see his brains. It was so scary.”

“Wow,” Andy replied, and it came out flat and curt. Howard Logan was a local physician who’d married Brooke three years ago. He was a steady man who kept an appropriate stepdad’s distance from her and Andy where Noah was concerned. He was polite and civil to Andy, the ex who’d once shared a bed with his wife. He was tolerant and generous with the child— you couldn’t ask for more under the circumstances.

“Yeah,” Noah continued. “Howard’s a hero. It’s gonna be in the papers.”

“Howard’s a good doc.” Andy forced the words. When he spoke, he was peering through the windshield at the brake lights in front of him.

“Yeah,” Noah said. “It was so cool.”

“Glad Butch is okay.” Andy eased away from the curb.

“He’s gonna be fine. Super. Like he was before.”

“Yep,” Andy said softly.

Blooded to his father, Noah, even at age eight, realized what he’d done, how he might’ve diminished his dad and bruised his feelings. “But you help people every day,” he declared with false cheer. “Not just if they’re hurt. I’d rather be a lawyer like you than a doctor.” “Both are excellent choices,” Andy answered.

After grounders and fly balls at the sandlot, a trip to Pizza Hut for a parking-lot meal, a McDonald’s soft-serve cone, a Fortnite showdown and the quid pro quo five minutes of Mark Twain’s Connecticut Yankee, the bookmark now seventy-three pages deep, Noah was in bed asleep at eleven, and Andy sat at his computer, opened the file saved as RESIGNATION, changed the date again, and printed the three paragraphs. He signed the letter in black ink and slid it into his briefcase so he could deliver it to his boss on Monday.

Restless and distracted—even a trip to Noah’s room to watch the precious child sleep didn’t help—Andy bent open the metal clasp on the Damian Bullins envelope and began studying the discovery information the commonwealth’s attorney had delivered earlier. Earbuds played Handel’s Water Music while he read. On top was a photocopy of Bullins’s nine-page confession. Because it was late, and because it had been a grueling day, Andy went through the first page three times, then removed the earbuds and read the initial paragraph out loud so he could be absolutely certain he wasn’t mistaken. “Damn,” he said when he finished. “Incredible.”

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