Page 57 of The 1 Lawyer

I WAS enjoying a deep, boozy, dreamless sleep. It was interrupted by a literal kick in the ass.

I opened my eyes and found my head resting on my suit jacket, wadded up for a pillow. I could hear the surf pounding on the beach; I smelled salt in the air. I reached out to prop myself up, and my hand pressed into the sand.

With some difficulty, I managed to roll over onto my back. A light shone in my face, blinding me. I lifted my arm to shield my eyes. “What the hell?”

From the darkness behind the beam of light, someone said, “You need to move along.”

“Who says? God?”

A second person spoke: “Get up.”

That wasn’t happening, not yet. I struggled into a sitting position, pulled my knees up, and rested my head on them. My brain was still blurry with all that Jim Beam. I sat like that for an extended moment, hearing the waves crash. When I lifted my head, the flashlight was lowered, and I could make out the figures of two men. Both wore the uniform of the Biloxi police department. I looked down and saw matching pairs of boots on their feet.

I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of another kick from one of those boots.

The taller cop said, “Time to get up and go. You’d best keep walking.”

Clumsily but successfully, I pushed myself to my feet. Sand fell from my clothing. I tried to wipe it from my face, but the grit got into my eyes.

“You got any identification on you?”

I cleared my throat, coughed up a wad of phlegm, and spit it onto the sand before turning to the cops. “Sure I do.” Digging in my back pocket, I asked, “What’s the problem, Officers?”

The shorter guy sounded like the younger of the two. “Problem is, you can’t pass out on the beach like that.”

As I checked all the pockets of my pants, I said, “Now, gentlemen, I’m familiar with the municipal law in Biloxi. I know my rights.”

“You don’t have the right to crash here.” The young cop was getting mad. “Where’s the ID?”

I bent over to pick up my jacket, hoping I’d find the wallet inside. My head swam, and I almost toppled sideways. But I recovered my balance, shook the sand off my jacket, and checked the pockets.

No wallet, no keys.

My recall of the night was spotty. Surely I’d remember if someone had robbed me, but someone could have relieved me of the wallet as I lay in the sand, insensible. I groped through my pockets a second time, panic spiking in my muddy brain. A man without his wallet is in a vulnerable position.

“This stretch of beach is public property,” I said as I struggled to get my arm into the sleeve of my coat.

The young guy said, “Yeah? And there’s no camping on the beach.”

I got the jacket on and fastened the middle button as I often did when arguing in court. “I wasn’t camping, Officer. Do you see a tent? Any camping gear? There’s no campfire. I was simply resting.”

The older cop grabbed my upper arm. The abrupt movement surprised me; I’d been focused on the other guy. My reaction was pure reflex—I jerked my arm from his grasp and shoved him away.

Bad move on my part. The young guy pulled a baton from his duty belt, and his arm flew back as he prepared to swing at me. I aimed a punch at his face, and my fist hit his jaw before the baton could connect. He grunted as he went down in the sand.

I watched him fall, shocked that my reflexes had been quick enough for me to outmaneuver him. While I had my eyes on the young guy, the big cop swung his eight-inch aluminum multipurpose flashlight and landed a brutal hit on the back of my skull.

Now I was on my knees in the sand. As I clutched my head, howling in pain, he struck me again and again, raining blows on my shoulders, back, and arms. The beating stripped away any shred of dignity I’d had left. I cried out, pleading, “Stop! I’m not resisting! For God’s sake, I’m not resisting!”

He landed another blow on my hands where they covered the back of my head. I heard him shout at his partner, “Get over here and cuff him, goddamn it!”

My hands were snatched away from my head. I didn’t fight him as he jerked my arms behind my back. Once he’d fastened the handcuffs, the cop pushed me into a prone position on the sand and pressed his knee into my back.

The pressure on my torso cut off my wind. I lifted my head and tried to tell him he needed to back off. My words came out in a whisper, the sound lost under the shouting of the cops and the pounding of the surf.

That’s the last thing I remember before everything went dark and I passed out.

CHAPTER 45

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