Every hearing was another storm at sea, and the defense attorney, Horace Quackenbush, was the weatherman. He had a new forecast every time we set sail.
First came the flu. He coughed into the phone, apologized profusely, promised he’d be there next time. The case was rescheduled.
Next time, his dog died. Not a metaphorical dog. An actual dog, allegedly. I never saw a death certificate, but the court bought it. Another delay.
Then a flat tire. Because of course, no lawyer in the history of the profession has ever heard of roadside assistance. He limped into court late, flustered, waving the excuse like a note from his mother. The judge nodded politely.
After that, high blood pressure. He claimed he nearly passed out. The way he told it, you’d think cross-examining me was a cardiovascular event. We adjourned early.
Next hearing: divorce. His, not the client’s. Apparently, he was splitting assets while fighting over someone else’s boat. Court paused for him to sort out his personal life.
And just when we thought we’d seen it all, he actually did faint. Right there in the middle of the courtroom. Collapsed like a stage actor milking his final line. A deputy rushed in, paperwork scattered, and the case went on hold. Again.
Each excuse was more absurd than the last, like he was spinning a wheel backstage: flu, dog, tire, blood pressure, divorce, fainting. I started to laugh before hearings even began, bracing for whatever storm was next.
The prosecutor would lean over, whisper the line: “We better close this case before I retire.” We’d both laugh because it was either laugh or scream. And the judge, calm as ever, nodded and smiled as if all of this was completely normal.
By the fifth or sixth delay, it wasn’t a trial anymore. It was vaudeville. And everyone had front row seats. Meanwhile, as if the case wasn’t complicated enough—courtroom mutiny, prosecutors with their own agendas, Horace Quackenbush making a fool of himself—but then there was Viviette Babylon. Over the course of the investigation and a hearing, she left me more than fifty voicemails and texts. Not about the case, mind you. About their divorce. Advice. Updates. Questions like, “Do you think I should keep the house or the car?” As if I was suddenly her lawyer, therapist, and best friend rolled into one. Every time my phone buzzed, I wondered if it was a new lead. No—just another plea for relationship counseling. The mutiny trial was bad enough, but the mutiny of my voicemail box nearly broke me.
By the time the excuses had stacked into double digits, my own career had started to drift. I transferred divisions not once, but twice while this case stubbornly refused to dock. Each time I packed up my desk, met new partners, adjusted to new supervisors—yet somehow, this boat and its ridiculous trial followed me like a curse.
It didn’t matter where I went. Burglary, domestic violence, robbery—somehow this case would sneak its way back onto my calendar, like a ghost ship charting my movements. I’d walk into a new office thinking I’d finally escaped it, only to find another email reminder, another hearing notice, another excuse waiting on the horizon.
My career moved farther than the boat ever did. The thing sat in the same sad port, gathering more rust and gull droppings, while I clocked years of transfers and the prosecutor ticked days off his retirement calendar. By then, it wasn’t a trial anymore—it was a voyage without a destination. The courtroom became our Bounty, the prosecutor and I the weary crew, the judge the too-polite captain, and the defense attorney the storm that wouldn’t pass.
The boat at the center of it all still sat rotting at the dock, worth less by the day, yet powerful enough to drag us through years of absurd hearings. And when the prosecutor finally did retire, he went out with the same joke on his lips: “We never closed it, did we?”
The answer was no. The boat still sits. The case still drifts. And that’s Part 4.
