Lilly's Law

“Like I said, I won’t pay it,” he said, shrugging indifferently. “And I want to appeal your decision.”

“Appeal a parking ticket? Nobody appeals parking tickets, especially after they’ve already admitted guilt,” she remarked, tilting her head down just a little farther so her stare over the top of her glasses was even more pronounced. She didn’t need them, not even for reading. Clear glass all the way. She sure liked their effect, though. Thought they gave her a bit of an austere look—black glasses, black robe, black gavel…red hair. And that was the problem. Hair red and wild—barely tameable even when pulled into a knot at the back of her neck—plus that splash of freckles across her nose…Definitely not the image of a judge, at least not the image she had of one, so she did what she could to achieve the stern judicial look, including the monster-size glasses.

“So let’s get this straight, Your Honor. You’re denying me my legal rights?” Mike raised his head and looked down his nose at her. “Is that what you’re doing? Taking away my inalienable rights?”

“Inalienable rights, Mr. Collier, have nothing to do with your parking tickets.” Lilly took her eyes off Mike long enough to nod at her bailiff, Pete Walker, a small, near-retirement-age man who was simply serving out his last year of employment in an easy, low-profile job. Leaning on the wall under the exit sign, Pete moved his hand immediately to his gun holster, unsnapping it. Seeing that he was ready, Lilly continued her ocular duel with Mike, her over-the-rim glare meeting his down-the-nose stare. “There are other people here, waiting their turn to be heard, you know. Plus, you’re getting on my nerves. So I’m giving you thirty seconds to comply.” She raised her arm, looked at her wristwatch and started counting down the seconds. “Which I believe is generous, under the circumstances.” Better than you deserve.

“Thirty seconds, then what, Your Honor?”

She smiled at him—a practiced, patient smile that gave away nothing. Then she glanced at her watch again. “Twenty seconds.”

Mike merely stared back.

“Ten seconds, Mr. Collier.”

And he kept on staring.

“Five.”

Then he started to tap his right foot…a slow, meticulous rhythm that didn’t break its meter by a fraction.

Finally, bingo! “Pete…” Lilly said, waving him over.

Lilly’s call to her bailiff hushed the crowd, and Pete Walker snapped to attention, pulling the handcuffs from his belt. He studied them for a second since, in his nine months as bailiff, this was the first time they’d ever been off his belt. When he was satisfied that he remembered how to use them, he marched straight to Mike, each and every one of his footsteps clicking in sharp military precision on the floor. “You have the right to remain silent,” he said on approach.

“Lilly, you’ve got to be kidding,” Mike exclaimed, seeming genuinely surprised. “You’re not really going to do this to me, are you?”

“This is Friday, Mr. Collier. Consider yourself a guest of the city jail until Monday morning at nine, at which time we’ll resume this conversation. And maybe by then you’ll be persuaded to see it my way. Not that you really have a choice, because it is my way in my courtroom—such as it is. And that fine…let’s say we make it an even two thousand just on account of—” Lilly removed her glasses and looked directly at him “—I can.” Then she put them back on.

“Honest to God, I really think you’d do it, wouldn’t you?” Mike exclaimed. “You’d really throw me in jail. Over parking tickets. Come on, Lilly, give me a break here.”

“Please turn around and hold your hands behind your back, Mr. Collier,” Pete instructed, his voice on the verge of quivering, since this was, after all, the first time he’d ever arrested anyone. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney and if you can’t afford one…” Mike, at six foot three inches, towered over Pete by a head and a half as he submitted to the man’s cuffs. And Pete, whose hands were shaking, fumbled with the latch until the cuffs slipped from his grip and hit the floor. A congenial-looking seventyish woman, decked in floral capri pants and a white straw hat, picked up the cuffs and winked when she handed them back to Pete.

“You do know that I own the newspaper, don’t you?” Mike asked, spinning back around to face Lilly. His hands still behind him, he inched forward to allow Pete sufficient room to continue the protracted cuffing ordeal.

“Boy, do I know,” she snapped. “And I certainly hope that’s not intended as a threat, because if it is…if you intend to use the power of the press to—”

“A news item, Your Honor,” Mike interrupted, a thin edge of anger finally sounding in his voice. “Not a threat.”

It never was a threat, she recalled. Her last year of law school, she had been at the top of her class with some great career prospects lining up for her future. Mike was working on his postgraduate degree at the time, teaching at the university and overseeing the campus paper. And she’d made that ominous mistake of kicking their relationship up a few notches. A whopper, in retrospect, and she really had liked him back then. Maybe even a little more than like…and after one great week of their relationship kicking into even newer and better notches every single day, he’d gone and written an article proclaiming a campus plagiarism epidemic. Names were named. Hers was at the top of the list—Mike’s list.

Sure, she had purchased a plagiarized paper, but she was writing a thesis on how easy the process was, with an emphasis on the legal implications. But Mike Collier, superjournalist in his own bent estimation, hadn’t asked her any questions about it. He’d simply snooped for his scoop in her research notes because, of all the dumb things, she’d trusted him! Meaning she didn’t bother hiding her research from him before they adjourned to the boudoir, silly Lilly. And that on the day they’d achieved the most unbelievable notch ever. Of course, Mike’s discovery netted him a front page splash, not only in the school paper, but the real newspaper as well. The result—she was expelled from law school. One tidy, speedy, out the door and don’t come back.

But she did go back, a full semester later, after a whole string of appeals and some utterly pitiful begging. To his credit, Mike did make an appearance on her behalf, thankfully leaving out the part that he’d done his snooping on his way to the kitchen to satisfy some after-sex munchies while she was still in bed basking in the afterglow. No matter, because the damage to her reputation was already done, leaving her in the bottom slot of her class ranking instead of the top, where she’d been before Mike. Years to build a reputation, minutes to destroy it—Lilly was placed on probation until she graduated, constantly the object of watchful, if not distrustful, speculation by the powers that were. Not an auspicious ending to her school days, even though she was absolved of the charges. But after that, the jobs weren’t forthcoming. The ones already offered backed out. No more pick and choose. Instead, she was forced to take whatever she could get, and pickings were slim. All because of Mike Collier’s little snoop after sex.

Consequentially, Lilly was uniquely aware of what one of Mike’s “news items” could do, and had done to her. And she was also aware of how he procured those news items. “Monday morning, Mr. Collier. Have a nice weekend.”

Lilly banged her gavel and Pete led Mike out of the room. At the edge of the door though, Mike turned back around to face her briefly and he…

Lilly blinked. Was that another wink?

2

No Friday afternoon get-out-of-jail-free cards allowed

MIKE DUMPED HIS wristwatch and car keys into the plastic box bearing his official prisoner number, then absently searched his empty pockets for change. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me keep my cell phone, will you?” he asked, pulling it off his belt, which he was also forced to surrender.

Juanita Lane, a humorless, sixty-something jail matron who had to look up to see a full five feet tall, didn’t even glance over from the property list she was dutifully recording when she boomed, “No cell phone, no personal property. Hand over your shoelaces, please.” Dripping wet she might have weighed ninety pounds, and with spiked, champagne-colored hair and big purple-rimmed glasses clashing with her khaki-colored uniform blouse, she wasn’t the typical image of cop that came to Mike’s mind. But when she glared at him through those glasses, patted the pistol on her hip and barked, “Do it now, please!” he knew that the weapon was there for more than show. So he promptly gave up the phone and bent to unlace his rip-off Nikes. When he’d complied with every item on Juanita’s official confiscation list, he automatically put his hands behind his back to be recuffed for the fifty-foot walk into the next room, where he would be uncuffed again, stripped, disinfected, showered and garbed in the very trendy, bright orange jail jumpsuit.

“So when do I get a phone call?” he asked, as Juanita handed him off to Cal Gekas, a Humpty-Dumpty-ish burly man with abundant hair growing in thick patches everywhere except on his head.

“You’re the one who’s here from traffic court, aren’t you?” Cal asked, handing Mike a plastic bag for his clothing. “That’s a new one. Parking tickets.” He chuckled. “And I thought I’d about seen it all. Just goes to show ya, doesn’t it?”

Mike was waiting to hear what it was that went to show him, but when Cal didn’t continue, he simply nodded. “Cal, old buddy. Think you could you do me a favor here and turn around while I undress?”

Cal shook his head. “Gotta watch. Department policy.”

“Then I’m hoping you’re a married man, Cal.”

“Twenty years, three kids.” He grinned. “And if you’re uncomfortable, you can turn around so you don’t have to watch me watching you.”

“Good idea.” Mike shook his head, spun around and dropped his khakis. “Can I keep the shorts?”

“After the shower.”

“This isn’t negotiable? I mean, it’s a damn parking ticket, Cal. I didn’t rob a convenience store or mug a little old lady for her social security check.”

Cal shrugged. “Hey, I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt on the cavity search, but that’s all I can do for you.” He paused, then chuckled again. “Damn. A parking ticket. Not even speeding. I heard that new judge was a tough one, but don’t this just beat all.”

Mike nodded. “It sure does.” And he stepped out of his briefs and into the footbath of disinfectant, then on into the shower. “You don’t happen to have any soap-on-a-rope handy, do you?”

Ten minutes later, showered and dressed, Mike was escorted through fingerprinting, then lined up in front of a camera to have that very stylish rendition of him captured for posterity—orange clothes, washed-out face, glazed eyes, black numbers on a strip of cardboard held up to midchest for proud display. “Think I could get a copy of that for my Christmas cards?” he asked, following Cal through a long gray hall filled, predominantly, with empty cells. At the end they met up with the jailer du jour, Roger Jackson, who, as it turned out, also worked as a crime-beat stringer on Mike’s very own Journal. He’d taken pity on Mike and assigned him to a cell for one, far, far away from the madding jail population, which today was poor old Bert Ford, who’d had one too many drinks the night before and selected Mrs. Clooney’s prize-winning rose garden as the place to relieve his bladder on his stagger home from the pub, and made the mistake of losing his balance in the process, pants down. Which was where Mrs. Clooney had found him this morning. The rest was a matter of public record, including a few thorny scratches in all the wrong places. And poor Bert was still sleeping it off, Mike noted as he walked by him. Sleeping, and probably oblivious to the fact that his brief encounter with the great red American Beauty would be his last dalliance with public intoxication, or Mrs. Clooney’s roses, for quite a while.

And so at two in the afternoon, on a hot, humid August Friday, Mike rolled the thin mattress issued to him onto the creaky metal coils of his cot, tossed his single pillow on top and plopped down in his cell for the weekend. “I still didn’t get to make my call,” he shouted to Roger, who was busy writing up the story of Mike’s arrest for the morning edition.

“Okay, as soon as I finish this. I’m on deadline.” His hearty laugh clanged through the empty jail. Roger was a friendly cop, always ready with a smile. With a great marriage, great family, Roger had stability, something Mike had never found a place for in his life, but something he was beginning to envy. And he could almost see himself having that with Lilly.…Well, almost, since Lilly would have a say in that and he knew exactly what her “say” would be—I’d rather be staked to an anthill.

“Got a tough boss,” Roger continued. “But fair. So fair, in fact, that after he reads this headliner he won’t demote me to obituaries. Might even give me a raise.” Half an hour later, after Roger hit the Send button and his first-ever front-page piece was winging its way through cyberspace to the newspaper office two blocks away, he finally took Mike down the hall to the public phone. “Use your call wisely. We’re pretty strict on jail regulations around here and you might not get another one.” He laughed, heading into the break room, leaving Mike uncuffed and unattended. “And don’t escape,” he called back. “Care for some coffee?”

The number Mike meant to call was burned into his brain, even though he’d never used it before. As he waited for the first ring, he wondered why he was even bothering. She’d hang up when she heard his voice. Or tack another couple of days on to his sentence for some kind of trumped-up harassment. But he owed her this one. Make the call, then be done with it, and her.

Yeah, like he could ever be done with Lilly Malloy.

“Hello,” a voice said from the other end.

“Lilly?” Mike asked.

“You’ve reached the voice mail of Judge Lillianne Malloy. Please leave your name, phone number and a brief message, and I’ll return the call as soon as I can. Have a nice day.” Beep.

“Have a nice day like hell.…Look, Lilly. I need to see you. I can’t go into it on the phone…you know where I am, where I’ll be until Monday morning. And it’s important. Hell, this was a stupid idea. I should have called my attorney instead of you. Lilly, I know that the situation between us isn’t the best, but—”

Beep.

“Hell.”

“Arms behind your back, Mike,” Roger said, setting the coffee on the desk, then taking his handcuffs off his belt. “Sorry, but it’s the rules. You like it black, no sugar, right?”

“You’re not going to make me strip again, are you?” Mike growled, turning around and gritting his teeth when the cuffs went on. They didn’t hurt, but he sure didn’t like the thought of what they signified. Tried, convicted, sentenced. Prisoner. As a journalist, going to jail on principle such as not revealing a source or being in the wrong place at the wrong time to get the right story, now, that was honorable. It made a statement about ethics and principles and high moral integrity. But being nabbed for parking in the wrong place? The only statement coming from that was dud, flop, washout, bomb, a big bust. “No sugar, but some whiskey would be good. In fact, skip the coffee. Just bring on the whiskey.”

“Sure wish I could Mike, but…”

“I know. You’ve got rules.” When he’d learned he was going to Lilly’s court, he’d hoped that after all this time she was over the bad history between them. Bad, bad history! Forgive and forget, or just forget. Yeah, and wasn’t that just being pointless and optimistic after what he’d done to her? Thank God parking tickets weren’t a hanging offense.

First time with Lilly he’d been canned over the mix-up, and sure, he’d deserved it. One slight error in judgment and his job was out the door along with his postgrad degree. But she did have that damned bought-and-paid-for paper sitting right out on her desk for anybody to see who cared to look.

Second time…well, he shook his head over that one. What were the odds she’d turn up on the receiving end of another of his investigations? She’d been innocent that time, too. In fact, he’d never even connected her to that story—probably because she wasn’t connected, not directly, anyway. But her law firm epitomized that notoriously fictitious Dewey, Cheatham and Howe. They’d done some book cooking, trust-fund skimming, creative billing, so on and so on. And even though Lilly was only a contract employee, not a real member of the firm—meaning she’d never gotten near the trusts, never did any billing, hardly ever got out of the research library—she’d been swept into the sting along with everybody else. Swept, cuffed and locked up tight.

And he’d never forget the look on her face that day when they shoved her, handcuffed and horrified, through the lobby, in front of friends and co-workers. On her way out of the building she still hadn’t known who was responsible for the bust, but as the police hustled her past him and their eyes met briefly, she’d realized who’d done that to her. That look of betrayal in her eyes had punched him in the gut, and the heart, because he knew she’d trusted him—she’d put everything else behind her and trusted him.

If ever there was a defining moment in a life, that was his.

Lilly had been released hours later, thanks to one of the partners, who’d mustered enough integrity to unimplicate her. Afterward, Mike had sent her flowers, written a dozen contrite e-apologies and printed the damned retraction she’d demanded in place of suing him. Granted, it ran on page seven, when the picture of her being arrested was a first-page classic. But apparently that make-good hadn’t done the trick. Problem was, he wasn’t sure even sending him up the river now, if only for a weekend, would be enough to satisfy her yet. Lilly was clearly holding on to some surplus rage after all this time. And she deserved to. But he’d sure been hoping it wouldn’t trickle into this little matter. “So should I drop my drawers again, Mike?” he asked, his voice on the verge of acceptance, since there was no other choice but to accept his fate for the next three days. If there was one thing he knew for sure about Lilly, she wouldn’t give in. Once she’d made up her mind, nothing changed it.

Smiling, Roger shook his head. “Nope, not another strip search, unless you insist. But if you want, I’ll call Jimmy and let him know where you are. Maybe he can figure out what to do—how to get you out of here or something.” Roger chuckled as he led Mike down the gray hall to his home-away-from-home for the next few days. “Or at least he can bring you a pizza for supper. He’s good for that much, I’ll bet.” Jimmy Farrell, the Journal’s lawyer on retainer, had finally passed his bar exam six months earlier, after four tries. And he was really cheap to hire, which was the cardinal circumstance surrounding Jimmy’s status at the newspaper. No one in Whittier particularly embraced Jimmy for their legal affairs, since he’d grown up there and had a reputation for off-centered intelligence and out-on-a-limb common sense. But he’d muddled through law school somehow, surprised everyone when he finally passed the bar exam, and optimistically hung out his shingle to practice. So far, his clients were only court-appointed, those who couldn’t afford their own attorney, and he represented them adequately. No one complained too much, because no one had great expectations of Jimmy.

The day he’d approached Mike to represent the Journal, the offer had been so ridiculous Mike didn’t have the heart to turn him down. “Fifty dollars a month, Mike, will keep me on retainer for the paper.” Mike knew it would also pay the electric bill in Jimmy’s office slash apartment. “Most reputable papers keep a lawyer on retainer, and this is your chance.”

More out of charity than anything else, Mike had agreed, and from that day on, three months now, the Journal had been duly, if not well, represented. And today’s pizza delivery would mark Jimmy’s first official appearance on the paper’s behalf. “Lilly’s not letting me out of here, Roger. No way in hell. So tell Jimmy I like pepperoni and sausage. Hold the onions.”

“Lilly?” Roger interrupted. “You mean Judge Malloy? That Lilly?”

Mike cringed. Her Honor Judge Lillianne Malloy wasn’t the image of the Lilly Malloy that was in his mind when he’d discovered she’d been hired for traffic court in Whittier. That Lilly was still the one he’d…well, suffice it to say there had been some nice dreams of her from time to time. Gorgeous, responsive, just a little unsure. Always eager. But when he’d sneaked into the back of the courtroom a couple of times to watch her work, the Lilly he observed was so much more than he ever expected from her. Still gorgeous beyond reason, tall, round in all the right places, soft—even though her sexier-than-hell hair was pulled severely back and half of her face was covered by ridiculously large glasses—she now possessed confidence—self-assurance like he’d never before seen in her. And it showed in her movements, in her voice, and especially in that tangy smile she’d used on him earlier—the one meant to castigate him, but which had the opposite effect. All in all, Lilly wore her judicial robe well, and in spite of everything, he was happy for her. But she should have done so much better than that moldering little traffic court in a dark basement corner, and Mike knew he owned a big part of the responsibility for that lesser destiny—lesser than she deserved. “Yeah, Judge Lillianne Malloy. We go back a ways and she’s not going to go easy on me for old times’ sake. Not in this lifetime, anyway.”

“Bad history, I’m guessing?”

Mike winced. “Defining it as bad is pretty damn optimistic. The list of how I’ve done that lady wrong…well, it fills up both sides of the page in small print, that’s how bad it is.”

Roger let out a low whistle while closing the cell door behind Mike. “Well, with your current run of parking tickets, I’d say you’re in for some real big trouble, my friend. And that judge—your friend Lilly—she has a tough reputation, if you know what I mean. She’s strictly by the book and nobody gets the soft end of her gavel. I understand she’s sentencing them right and left in her court.” He slipped a copy of his Mike Gets Busted story through the bars to his boss, then stepped back. “I really hate leaving you here like this, but, well…” He shrugged. “Anything I can get you before I go home?”

Mike shook his head, dropped down on his cot and resigned himself to the lumps and bumps. The only good thing that could be said for the long weekend ahead was that he’d be able to catch up on some much-needed sleep. Tight money at the Journal these days meant he had a staff too small to run the paper, which meant he wore lots of hats, which meant he worked lots of hours. And all that meant he never got away from his job, not even here, in jail. So maybe this imposed furlough was a good thing. Sleep, perchance to…to what? Dream of Lilly? Not a chance in hell.

Not a chance in hell on the sleep, either, he discovered almost immediately. Sure, he shut his eyes and tried to clear his head, but his to-do list replaced the mental void he’d hoped to achieve, with all the to-dos that wouldn’t be getting done for the next two days trying to pound their way to the forefront of his mind lest he might forget about them. Which he never did. Edit the piece about the new thrill ride inspection regulations at the county fair; cover the high school preseason football game and get a statement from the coach; interview Mayor Lowell Tannenbaum for whatever Mayor Tannentwit wanted to be interviewed about this week. Certainly not the type-A assignments Mike had gone after in Indianapolis, not even close. But he’d been a different kind of journalist back then. And not the kind he’d set out to be at the beginning. That realization had hit him the day he’d watched the cops handcuff Lilly and cart her off to jail.

Two weeks after that awful day he’d given up journalism as he’d come to know and practice it, and had bought his struggling hometown newspaper. And after that, life was good…poorer than dirt, but good. Sure, he missed some of the big-city excitement. Missed a lot of it, actually. There was no substitute for the adrenaline buzz that came when he broke a huge story or saw his byline tacked on to a red-letter article. But that was then, and now he owned a small daily paper where the biggest story this week would be about its owner sitting in jail over a few stupid unpaid parking tickets.