Black Mustard: Justice (2 page)

“You be careful, then. Don’ get stuck in the Ouest. We need you in the Bayou.”

Justice blew out a long, steady stream of smoke. “Shit, Eloi, my family have been hip deep in gumbo for five generations. I’ll always come home.” He looked up into the sky, rubbed the back of his neck. “Smells like rain, eh?”

“Oui. Coming up a cloud. You bes’ get.”

Justice stood and Eloi hugged him, the scent of protective oil and swamp water, of washing soap and tobacco strong and wild and yet, somehow, extremely comforting. It was genetic, he supposed, something Cajuns were born knowing.

The scent of bayou magic.

He didn’t stand to watch Eloi leave -- that was bad luck -- he just headed down to get in his truck and make the drive to Texas.

He pushed the button on his iPod when he got in, the sounds of Jen and Keith Respin’s voice downloaded from his email this morning.

“Justice, here’s the information you needed. We’ll see you soon. Bring your praying knees.”

“Ask him to bring pralines.”

“Please bring my pushy, pregnant wife pralines on the way, as well.”

Justice hooted, slapped the dashboard, and listened as he drove.

***

“I’m sorry, Mr. de Hiver, the tests are inconclusive.”

“I’m sorry, I simply don’t have an explanation.”

“I’ve sent your MRI to a specialist in Baton Rouge.”

“Can you visit Houston? Possibly stay for a week or so? They have the best image technology in the country.”

Twelve months, hundreds of appointments, hundreds of thousands of dollars, and all Loic had was in his hands.

He headed up the stairs to his parents’ home; there was still a room for him there. Always was. Always would be. Their son wouldn’t be homeless.

No. But he would be broken, effectively mute, penniless, and desperately unemployable.

Twelve months and all he could say was a single word. “Justice.”

He screamed it in his sleep. He murmured it. When he sang, it was the single word that fell from his lips. They’d checked for MS, strokes, tumors. Epilepsy, drug interaction, head trauma. Cysts. Aneurysms.

Everything.

And none of the test came up with a positive.

Not one.

Not even the psychological tests.

They could prove he wasn’t faking it -- hence the sleeping test. They could prove he wasn’t hiding anything about his condition and God knew his written skills were just fine.

He simply couldn’t speak.

Loic nodded to his mother, who was knitting, rocking in her rocking chair and humming something. Daddy was at work at the docks. Same as he had been for thirty five years. Maybe, Daddy had mentioned, maybe there would be some work for him down there. Carrying boxes or something. Something that didn’t need him talking.

Loic knew Daddy blamed him.

Loic was fairly sure he blamed himself, too. He just didn’t know why exactly.

He headed into the tiny room in the back, plugged in his computer and got the dial up working. Okay, he told himself, time to get a job.

What came out was: Jus. Tice. Jus. Tice. Jus. Tice. Just.”

Christ.

***

“You’re what?”

“You heard me, Justice. I’m pregnant. As in with child. As in heading out of this crime-infested, humid, hellhole and going back to New Mexico to live with my sister.” Anna stood there, biker boots planted, Mohawk painted a bright blue.

“I thought you were queer.”

“Most men do.” Anna stared him down. “I’m into dicks, just like you.”

“Yes, but I’m not knocked up. Where’s the father?”

One tattooed shoulder shrugged. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

“I.”

She held one hand up. “Don’t, okay? I’ve heard it. I was at a bar, I drank a lot, I went to a big party. There was fucking, now there’s a baby.”

“Wow.” God, he was glad he wasn’t a girl.

“Yeah. So, I’m leaving. You have my week’s notice. Find a new gopher.”

“Hey!” He scowled over. “You’re more than a gopher! You’re also a lackey and one hell of a Girl Friday.”

Anna flipped him off in one, slow gesture, her cracked black fingernail glinting in the light and Justice couldn’t help but crack up. He did like her.

“Do I have to be nice to you now or something, since you’re knocked up and giving notice? I mean, I feel like I should harass you or something. Make you run laps.” Could pregnant girls run laps?

She shook her head, looking like a great big porcupine. “Hell, no. One, I don’t run, even when being chased with an axe. Two, you should be kissing my boots for giving notice and not just disappearing. Hell, I was even nice to you, like in a serious way. I put an ad out on Monster last week when I found out. I have fifty seven resumes for you to look at.”

He thought about growling about the fact that it had taken her three days to come talk to him, then he heard what she’d said to him. “Fifty seven? No shit?”

“Four hundred and eighty eight applicants. I only chose the ones you might like.”

His eyes wide. “Did you put the salary on the ad?”

Because, shit. He could barely afford to pay himself and the rent, much less Anna. This whole life was a calling, more than anything else.

“I did.” She shrugged. “Times are hard all over. Shit, there’s a couple of baby lawyers, one guy with experience, even.”

“No shit?”

Man, that would be helpful, someone who could litigate alongside him. Someone who’d passed the bar.

“Yeah, I put them on the top of the pile.” She put the papers on his desk. “You decide which ones you want to interview, and I’ll call and make appointments.”

“You’re sure you want to go?”

Anna nodded. “This is no place to raise a baby, Justice. I’m sorry, but this goddamn place isn’t where my soul is. It’s humid and stinky and there aren’t any mountains reaching up over the desert. That’s what I need.”

“I can understand that, I suppose.” There was a reason he was still in New Orleans, even after the Storm, even after everything.

“I thought you might be able to.” She winked again and headed out. Justice just sighed and rubbed his forehead. Great.

Just great.

Damn it.

This was the last thing he needed right now. He was working with the Innocence Project on a newly convicted case and he thought he might be able to get her appeal to actually work.

Maybe.

If he had luck and God on his side.

At least he wasn’t trying it in Texas. That was just suicide.

Justice answered a few emails, answered a couple of phone calls, then sucked it up and grabbed the pile of papers.

The top name was a kid that he’d heard rumors about -- one of those climbers who’d do anything for a reference. It was doable, but the appeal could take time…

The second name made him stop and stare, blink.

Well, he’d be damned.

Loic de Hiver.

Applying to work for
him
.

Shit fire and save matches.

***

Loic pulled up into a space, looked at himself in the rearview and told himself he was not nervous.

Not.

If fucking Justice Hibbideux didn’t want to hire him as a paralegal, fuck him.

God, he was scared.

He grabbed his bag, his pad of paper. The lady he’d been emailing with -- Anna -- she said they understood about his unique condition. Loic sure hoped so; Hibbideux had been there when it happened, for Christ’s sake.

The law office was in a tiny, bottom floor office in an older building that seemed to have been fairly well kept up. The second floor looked like an apartment or something. He looked at the list of businesses, but they were the standards -- one architect, a dentist, one podiatrist, and a pilates slash yoga studio.

Normal.

Reasonable.

At least until you noticed that everything but Hibbideux and the architect were out of business.

Mon Dieu.

He headed in, stepping over a huge black Rottie that cocked one eye at him, curled one lip to show off huge, white teeth.

“Samson. Stop. Let the man in.” The office door was open, Justice Hibbideux standing there. “Hey, Loic. Come on in. We’ve had break ins, so I bring him down from upstairs.”

Loic nodded, held out one hand, silently. He needed this job, damn it.

Needed it bad.

“We’ll meet back in my office. Anna let me know that you aren’t speaking, so that’s fine. I do most of my business by email and I have an answering service, otherwise all I’d do is yammer on the phone. Weird, ain’t it? How life has changed? Shit, twenty years ago, none of us could imagine an office without a receptionist and now most folks don’t have a frigging phone. Sit.”

The office was a wreck -- papers and computers and newspapers and photos everywhere. The desk was old, the chairs older, but the desktop looked up to date. He sat, tried not to wrinkle his nose, but he knew he was caught when Hibbideux brayed with laughter.

“I know, man. It’s a mess. I know where all the files are, though, and usually Anna kept me up better. She’s just wasn’t all here her last week and then I’ve been on my own, with her doing some long-distance shit for me from Arizona. Hell, she’s my answering service. You… whoever gets the position will deal with her via email a lot.”

He looked at Justice -- the little bulldog man looked nervous, almost, a hint of sweat on the forehead, the beginning of dark circles under his eyes.

Loic grabbed his notebook and scratched out, “Don’t be nervous. I know it’s weird.”

Hibbideux looked at the note, nodded. “That it is. They know what’s wrong yet?”

Loic shook his head.

“That sucks. I felt bad, when I heard.”

Loic shrugged. What did a person say to that, assuming he could say anything worthwhile?

“So, I don’t have to ask you if you know your shit.” Hibbideux met his eyes. “What I want to know is why here? Why me? I’m not your kind of lawyer.”

Loic was ready for that question. Hell, he’d asked himself the question a thousand times. He grabbed his pad, scribbled, “I need a job. Big firms won’t hire me because of the ADA issues. You are a sucker for a hard case. I’m a hard case. I know how to do the job. I won’t screw you over and I’m good at what I do.”

At least he had been.

Now he was diminished, but that was okay. He was learning to deal with that. He could do this.

Justice took the pad from him, read the note, tilted his head, then nodded. “Okay. Yeah. That’s fair and honest. Job’s yours, if you want it.”

He blinked, honestly surprised. He’d expected to get through the interview and then get a politely worded letter of refusal, not an offer after a couple of notes.

Justice shrugged. “You’re right. You know the job, and I’m a softie. Not only that, but I like to listen to myself yammer. You’re no competition.”

The words stung, and he looked up to snarl, then saw the laughter in Hibbideux’s eyes. Fucker.

He slowly flipped the man off, and happy laughter filled the office. “See? There you go! We can work together. I like it.”

Loic nodded. They could. He could do this.

“I have one more question.”

Loic nodded.

“Can you start tonight? We have a death row case that I’m just beginning the ground work on. If we leave now, we can have a meeting with Modette -- she’s the accused -- and get some stuff accomplished over supper.”

Hibbideux started rustling papers, moving shit around. “She was accused of killing four men in a drug store robbery -- she’s got a hard core habit, but her common law husband, Rydel, there’s evidence she was coerced and that he, in fact, committed the crimes. I know she deserves to serve time, but she doesn’t deserve to die… Where the fuck is her file? I have a condensed file with all the pertinent info in a Tulane folder over here. I just had it in my hot little hands.”

Loic shrugged his jacket off, then reached out, yanked the folder off the top of a huge pile of research, and waved it.

Justice grinned, nodded. “That’s it. Start reading. I’ll call down to the prison and get us in. You a coffee drinker?”

Loic nodded.

“Sugar and cream?”

He nodded again.

“Good, me too. I’ll grab us each a cup and set you up an email account. Welcome aboard, man.” Hibbideux headed off, cell phone on one ear, jabbering away.

Loic sat for half a second, blinked a little, then grabbed his laptop so he could make notes, send Dad an email, that sort of thing.

Looked like he had a job.

Go him.

***

“Loic, man? Where the fuck are the dissertations from Debbie Mitchell and Rich Hardison? I need to read them again.”

Justice pushed the folders around his desk, hunting.

His phone beeped, the text coming in from the front. “I have the Mitchell file. The Hardison file was in your briefcase.”

“Why the fuck is it in my briefcase?”

Ding.

“Because you wanted to take it to a transcriptionist so you could search via word.”

Oh, right.

“Thanks!” He bent over, grabbed the folder and started flipping. He knew that Rich had said something weird about Rydel making Modette take something before the robbery. He knew it.

If it hadn’t been Rich, he’d have to hunt deeper.

Damn it.

He muttered under his breath, searching through page after page, trying to build something out of this case. Anything.

One hand landed on his shoulder, startling him, and he jumped, looked up into the eyes of the man who had become the single most important man in his practice in a very short five weeks. It had taken them one road trip to figure out that Loic was the Felix to his Oscar. Honestly, Justice would have bet that Loic would never have come back for day two -- which, in truth, was defending a group of prostitutes that had castrated a brutal pimp and was some of the most fun he’d had in court in years. Those girls were fierce.

Justice grinned. “Dude, what’s up?”

Loic pulled out a set of cards that he kept in his pocket for simple things. “Lunch.”

“Yeah? You want to go together or do you have a date?”

Loic flipped him off, slow and lazy.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s hell, being a queer pro-bono lawyer that can’t talk.”

Loic’s eyebrow lifted, lips twisting, then the phone came out, fingers flying fast and furious. When he didn’t look down at the beep, Loic stared at him and he stared back. “What?”