Page 58 of The 1 Lawyer

LATER, I learned that the cops had mistaken me for a vagrant. If I hadn’t been so buzzed, I would’ve realized it immediately.

I was lucky to be alive.

Long hours passed as I sat on a hard bench in the holding cell of the local jail, clutching a bloody towel to the back of my head. A collection of men who’d also been arrested overnight sat talking on benches nearby. I certainly didn’t want to compare notes, share details, and recount my experience of being passed-out drunk on the beach before the police inflicted a beating. My disgrace rendered me silent. They mostly left me alone.

I was sitting on the bench in my filthy clothes, reeking of sweat and blood and stale booze, when I heard the footsteps clicking down the tile floor of the hall.

A short guy wearing a black Stetson and a pair of shiny alligator boots appeared outside the cell. Searching the faces of the men behind bars, he called out, “Stafford Lee Penney?”

“Hey, Gene,” I said, rising from the bench with effort. As I limped over to the cell door, I added, “Damned glad to see you.”

I knew Gene Taylor. He was a local bail bondsman whose smiling face appeared on benches outside court facilities and jails in Harrison County. He didn’t recognize me right off. I saw a look of surprise as he took in my filthy appearance; he sniffed, and his nose wrinkled.

He said, “Jenny called and said to get right over here. She didn’t tell me you got the shit beat out of you.”

Jenny hadn’t known. When I was given the opportunity to make one phone call after they booked me, I’d called Jenny. She didn’t pick up, so I’d left a short message.

While I sat and waited in the cell, I’d wondered whether I had a prayer of being released anytime soon. It was possible that Jenny had purposely ignored the call. She didn’t approve of my new relaxed and laid-back lifestyle. She’d made that clear just a few days ago.

I followed the bondsman to the rear exit of the jail. It was difficult to keep up with his brisk pace; my body was weak, sore, and weary. When we got outside, I was surprised to see that the sun was up. I’d lost track of time inside the jail.

Jenny was waiting in the parking lot, standing by the passenger door of Mason’s white Lexus. Mason sat behind the wheel.

I turned to Taylor. “Gene, what do I owe you?”

“Jenny and Mason worked it out. She got me out of bed this morning. You owe her one, Stafford Lee.” He pulled a pen from his pocket and clicked the button. “Just need you to sign.”

I lifted my right hand, the one with the injured middle finger from the cop’s flashlight. The pain and swelling made it impossible to hold a pen. I took the pen with my left hand. “This signature won’t be pretty,” I said. I pressed the pen to the paper on the clipboard the bondsman held. My hand trembled so violently that the signature was illegible.

Taylor didn’t comment. He handed me a copy of the paperwork and said, “Don’t you go missing any court dates, Stafford Lee. I know where to find you.”

I shuffled over to the car. Jenny looked me up and down. “What on earth? God, Stafford Lee—you’re hurt. What happened to you?”

I didn’t have the energy to tell the story. “Just get me out of here.”

She inspected the back of my head. “Good Lord. Stafford Lee, you need stitches.”

“I need a drink,” I said. It was supposed to be funny, but Jenny didn’t laugh.

She opened the back door, and I crawled onto the seat. When I sank against the upholstery, Mason reached back and dangled a set of keys—my keys.

“Thanks. Hey, do you have any idea what might have happened to my wallet?”

He held it up. “You left your wallet on the bar when you stormed off last night after Porter cut you off and I relieved you of your keys.”

I’d inadvertently confessed to a total blackout. I’d have preferred to keep that information close to the chest.

Jenny joined Mason in the front seat and slammed the passenger door shut. She said, “Mason, we have to stop at the ER.”

When Mason drove out of the jail parking lot, I ducked down in the back seat. Jenny turned around. Staring at me with a bemused expression, she said, “What are you doing? Are you going to pass out?”

It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. But I said, “Mason is going to drive by the courthouse. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

“Really? You think you can hide?” She turned back around, making an unflattering snort.

That snort destroyed whatever had been left of my self-esteem. Affronted, I said, “What’s up with that reaction? Mason knows what I’m talking about. Don’t you, Mason? I have to protect my professional reputation.”

I couldn’t see Mason’s face, but his tone was grim when he said, “Jenny’s right, Stafford Lee. By ten o’clock this morning, everyone in town is gonna know exactly how you messed up. You can’t keep something like that under wraps. Not in Biloxi.”

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