Free Proof of Intent by William J. Coughlin

client left.
    The desk sergeant sat down and went back to his paperwork. Tick. Tick. Tick.
    â€œHey! Hey! What about me?” It was my client calling from the bullpen.
    â€œSergeant?” I said. “You intend to let my client out of here sometime today?”
    Sergeant Ross looked up at me with a mock-innocent expression on his face. “You still here?”
    â€œYes, Sergeant Ross, I’m still here. Still waiting on my client.”
    â€œWell, see, the thing is, Mr. Sloan, I still have some paperwork to do before his booking is complete. And if I don’t get him booked by . . .” He looked at his watch. “. . . by two-thirty, then he won’t make it to court today and, gosh, I guess we’ll have to send him up to County along with your other client. The one, you may recall, who struck a fellow police officer this morning before pulling his weapon on her? That ring a bell with you?”
    â€œNow, Fred, it didn’t happen quite like that.”
    â€œMy name is Sergeant Ross.”
    Behind me Lisa was pacing up and down, up and down.
    â€œCut me a little slack here, Sarge. That poor guy back there had nothing to do with Miles Dane.”
    â€œThe problem is, you made yourself unpopular around here. Counselor.” The sergeant raised his voice so that all the prisoners in the bullpen could hear him. “And when that happens, all your clients suffer.
Maybe your new client would be better served if he hired another lawyer
!”
    I raised my hands in surrender. It wasn’t two-thirty yet. “Take your time, Sarge.” The truth was, Fred Ross could do anything he pleased back there. I figured the best strategy was to let him get his licks in, bust my balls a little, and hope he’d relent. If two-thirty started rolling around, then I’d take the gloves off. But there was no point in getting ahead of myself.
    Tick. Tick. Tick. I could see my client watching me with an annoyed expression on his face.
    Sergeant Ross flipped to another pink form. Tick. Tick.
    Lisa continued pacing up and down.
    Tick. Tick. Scribble, scribble. Tick, tick.
    Finally Lisa walked over to the counter. “Hey, ASSHOLE!” she yelled. The veins were sticking up in her neck.
    The desk sergeant looked at her, wide-eyed.
    â€œSweetheart,” I whispered. “Easy. This is not New York City. Around here you have to go along to—”
    â€œYes, SERGEANT ASSHOLE, I’m talking to you!” Lisa screamed. She pulled out a cell phone, then yanked her sweater off over her head revealing a ratty T-shirt. She threw her sweater on the ground.
    â€œLisa!”
    Lisa pointed at Leon Prouty. “That is my client. Do you see him, you moron functionary bureaucrat?”
    The desk sergeant just stared at her.
    Lisa waved her phone. “This is called a cell phone. I am about to use it to call every TV station in the city of goddamn Detroit. I am going to tell them that you are trying to fuck my client, Mr. Prouty, just because my partner, Mr. Sloan, made you look bad today.”
    She took off her T-shirt, threw it on the floor. Now she was wearing nothing above the waist but a black jogging bra.
    â€œAnd just to sweeten the pot, you third-rate pencil-pushing miserable excuse for a cop, I’m going to take off all my goddamn clothes and parade my skinny, naked ass up and down in front of this building. You better damn well
believe
that the cameras will show up for that. Are you listening, you moronic witless cretin?”
    The stunned desk sergeant looked around for guidance.
    Lisa started punching numbers into the cell phone. “I’m dialing! I’m dialing!”
    â€œNow, hold on, miss. Just, look, hey . . .” Fred Ross, I happened to know, was Knights of Columbus, a pillar of the church down at St. Luke’s, the whole bit. I don’t think he cared about the TV exposure, but somehow the idea of this nice-looking young woman parading naked up and down