The Dorito Bandit
A hungover public defender fights the prosecution and the defendant
Legalese squiggles swam in front of John Boy's bleary eyes. He could barely make out the Judge with the hangover pounding in his head, much less the trial notes his office had whipped up for him this morning. His socks had slipped down so far into his boots they seemed to be running from the Texan heat. The bottom of page three held the charge in question: misdemeanor larceny. I'll plead down to community service. Done in fifteen minutes and then off to Sam's for a sandwich and an Advil.
"Tell me, Mr," John Boy squinted down at the crumpled stack of papers again. "Rimples? Mr. Rimples," He coughed, started over, stopped again. "Am I reading that right? Your last name is Rimples?"
The defendant nodded from the witness stand, his neck jiggling like a turkey dressed up for a presidential pardon. "Yes, your honor. My last name is Rimples."
"The judge is your honor. I'm your attorney," John Boy flashed a grin, determined to put his client at ease. Dry lips cracked over dry teeth. Middle age isn't built for two dollar shooters. "So tell me, Mr. Rimples, in your own words, where were you last Monday?"
Mr. Rimples took a deep breath to steady himself. Whoever had picked his suit out for him couldn't have done a worse job. He looked like twenty pounds of cement poured into a five pound bag and left out in the rain. Long greasy streaks of hair couldn't cover the bald spot glistening with nervous sweat. He scratched at the thick metal brace covering his left knee.
"Met the boys down at Cowgirls," he said. "Had a few too many pony rides. Didn't want to drive so I walked up the hill to my house and passed out. Typical Friday."
"Straight home? No late night stops to phone your girl? No chili-dogs smothered in cream cheese and onions? There's a guy on Jefferson that makes 'em out of a smoker on his pickup. You musta walked right passed him."
"Too drunk at that point. Lucky I made it back in one piece as it was. Besides, I had church the next morning. Pastor Bill likes when I show up a little early to help setting up chairs."
That got the jurors smiling. One geezer on the end mouthed the word "amen" and touched his heart reverently. John Boy smiled. Public defending is a hard enough job as it is. The defendant knowing how to play the obedient school kid could do nothing but help.
Mr. Sharp, his prosecutorial adversary for the afternoon, scribbled furious notes with every exchange. Every now and then he glanced over at John Boy as if he could read the truth in the sweat lines on his forehead like some kind of botox tarot. Worst of all, Mr. Sharp didn't even have the decency to look tired, and John Boy knew he had left Judge Wilcox's retirement party before Mr. Sharp did last night.
"So you didn't pass by the 7-11 on Jackson, right?" John Boy asked. "Didn't stop in for a quick bite to eat?"
"I didn't even know there was a 7-11 out there. It's not really the best area at night. I’m not trying to get mugged walking home."
"Well, then," John Boy smiled and crushed his notes between his hands. "Straight from the horses mouth. Hard to rob a store you don't know exists, am I right? Not guilty is the right plea. I rest my case," He slumped back into his chair and started chugging delicious cold water.
The chair felt good underneath his aching legs. Felt good to finally have an innocent client too. Well, maybe not "innocent" in the strictest sense of the word. The trial notes had a laundry list of misdemeanors from previous offenses. But the jurors didn't seem to mind. They nodded at each other like chickens bobbing for corn.
That's the good thing about juries in this country: they're all staffed by gullible idiots. Any regular person who gets called for jury duty could figure out real quick they can yell "I know that guy!" and boom they're headed home with a high five and a thanks for coming. But Jimbo who watches four hours of Maury reruns every afternoon with a carafe of whisky doesn't think that way. He's here for the free lunch and petty drama. Watching someone go to jail just makes the afternoon a little spicier.
"Prosecution," the Judge said in a gravely voice. "You may begin your questioning,"
Mr. Sharp, who had likely never seen an episode of Maury in his life, took center stage. With each step his trademark patent leather shoes tapped against the floor in a prison sentence tango.
Out of all the prosecutors John Boy faced during an average week, he hated Mr. Sharp the most. They'd gone to rival law schools, worked at rival law firms, and, worst of all, Mr. Sharp publicly rooted for New York sports teams. About the only thing they had in common was a love for Sam's Subs and Sandwiches two blocks away from the courthouse. There’s a shared camaraderie built around cheese and meat that often goes unappreciated.
"I'm sure you understand that the question here isn't really around your presence at 1547 Jackson street the night of the fifteenth." Mr. Sharp began.
The bailiff wheeled a TV out to the front of the courtroom. Every squeak of the cart wheels sounded like nails on the chalkboard. John Boy scanned back through his pre-typed trial notes furiously. They had video evidence?
The pounding in his head doubled as he finished page three and started on the top of page four. THERE WAS A GUN CHARGE?
On screen the view showed surveillance footage. Good quality too, not that grainy footage you always see on the news after a bank robbery. A man, about Mr. Rimples height and build, wearing a black hoodie and jeans, pushed through the front door. He wobbled as he walked, stumbling from shelf to shelf like a gutter ball at Silverpine Lanes on two for one night.
"Now, there's no audio," Mr. Sharp said. "but you should see..." He didn't get a chance to finish the thought.
On screen the man ripped open a family sized bag of Doritos and poured them onto his face. Cheddar cheese dust flew into the air. A package of cheeze-its and a two liter of cola splashed around him in quick succession. In two breaths the man had managed to inhale three times a super models daily caloric intake.
The clerk came around the register. The Dorito dusted bandits's feet cartwheeled on the slippery floor. He landed on his knee with an impact that shook the shelves. A silver gun skittered across the floor. Sheer panic took hold of the man. He grabbed for the gun, but his leg buckled and pitched him back to the floor. He gave up, swam to the door instead, pulling himself arm over arm across the dirty floor like pac-man running through a maze of Dorito pellets.
A ripple of laughter went through the jury.
Mr. Rimples shifted in his chair uncomfortably. "That don't mean nothing. Lots of guys own a black hoodie."
John Boy wiped a sheen of sweat off of his forehead. Forget being done in fifteen minutes. This idiot was looking at fifteen years unless he could come up with something. Fast. Don’t show your face. Just please don’t show your—
The man on screen finally made it to the door. Maybe he thought the cameras wouldn't be able to see through the glass doors. Maybe he was too drunk to think. The courtroom watched in slow motion as he ralphed a rainbow of alcohol onto the nearest car.
The baliff paused the video at that exact moment, a nearby streetlight highlighting Mr. Rimples face.
Damn.
Mr. Sharp smiled, his teeth shining in the overhead lights. "Now, Mr. Rimples, I'm sure you can see the startling resemblance you bear to our would be thief. Are you sure this isn't you?"
"He's got a mustache, don't he?" The defendant's fingertips traced the faint outline around his lips that had just started to grow back. "He's got a good twenty pounds and ten years on me too. Besides, I know how to hold my liquor. And... and..." He stared back at himself in high definition color TV. Any confidence leaked out like a balloon two days after a birthday party. "I was home sleeping," he said finally, unable to come up with anything else.
"Let me level with you. We have your fingerprints on the door. You left copious amounts of DNA in the parking lot," Mr. Sharp wheeled to face the suddenly wide eyed jurors. "If it wasn't for the quick actions of our brave retail employee, this would have been another armed robbery on the nightly news."
John Boy had heard enough. "Objection," he roared, his cowboy boots slamming into the floor. A wave of nausea rolled through him at the sudden motion.
"Objection to what?" the judge said.
"To this whole courtroom." John Boy said. "To the very nature of this mischaracterization assassination," He paced back in forth in front of the jurors, the fringe on his jacket flying in what he hoped was majesty and not desperation. "Now, look. I get it. My client ain't the smartest bushel of apples, we can all agree on that."
"That's a statement, not an objection." Mr. Sharp cut in.
"Just hold your horses. I'm getting to that part. But before I get to that, I think I get to ask some more questions, don't I?" He didn't wait for a response from the judge. Mr. Rimples withered under his furious gaze. "The snacks, sure, bad decision. We've all made mistakes. But why the hell did you have a GUN?"
At least the defendant had the decency to appear ashamed. "I have a concealed carry permit," he stammered out. "My holster must have gotten unclipped somehow and it fell out. I didn't mean nothing by it, honest. I-- I screwed up, okay? I woke up covered in cheese dust and couldn't make it to church and I don't even like Doritos!"
Juror three's hand shot up. "Guilty," she said, looking around in confusion. "Sorry. I mean, is it time for us to vote yet? I can still make the second episode of People's Court if I leave soon."
John Boy's fingers dug craters into his eyes. Stupid jury and their obsession with drama. Stupid attorney being too hungover to read his notes. Just a stupid day in a stupid courtroom with a stupid, stupid, STUPID client. "Fine. We'll plead guilty for three months probation and he’ll pay for the Doritos."
Mr. Sharp laughed. "Try minimum prison sentence. Did you not see the video? He brought a gun to a convenience store!"
"No, no. He had a gun inside a convenience store. He didn't bring the gun to the store for any reason in particular. The man could hardly walk, okay? He didn't go there to rob anybody."
"No reasonable human--"
"C'mon! You saw how surprised he was when it slipped out. Who here hasn't had a few too many beers and needed some carbs to help soak it up? Who here can say they're innocent of massacring a bottle of cola while drunk?"
Stupid juror three nodded in sympathy.
"Six months in county and six months probation,” Mr. Sharp said. “He pays for the Doritos and the cola. With good behavior he'll be out in two months."
"Unbelievable. You're the reason people hate the justice system in this country. Public defenders try to do their best, but who can stand against this type of hate?"
Mr. Sharp took his glasses off and carefully polished them with the hem of his suit jacket. "Well, we could leave it up to the judge for sentencing."
The threat hung in the air. Would he really get a better deal by falling on the mercy of the court? "Fine. Fine. No jail time, six months of probation and then six months of weekend community service. He'll pay for the Doritos."
"And?"
"And he'll write a letter apologizing to the clerk."
"And?"
"And it'll be a great letter. You already won the case. No need to shoehorn in any extras."
Mr Sharp held out his hand expectantly. John Boy stared at it for a second. A chill went through him, and it wasn't from the aging AC struggling to adjust the sweltering courtroom. Slowly, carefully, John Boy opened his wallet and pulled his loyalty card to Sam's Subs and Sandwiches. The tattered card had fourteen out of the fifteen smiling faces already punched. That bastard.
Mr Sharp smiled his bright toothy smile as he tucked the loyalty card into his pocket. "Judge? We have a deal."
The Judge rapped his gavel, once, and then twice on the wooden block. "Guilty plea stands as charged. I expect the plea arrangement on my desk in the morning."
John Boy shook hands with his client, promised the paperwork would be on time to the Judge, and flatly ignored the gloating from Mr. Sharp. He walked out into the sticky heat feeling even worse than he had felt walking in. Sandwich camaraderie was over exaggerated anyway. A new poke place down the street had opened up, hadn't it? Hopefully they served Advil with their salmon.