would’ve tagged me and laughed it off. That dirtbag Levine, up on first-degree, claiming Santa tried to do him in?
Went through the back door to the D.A.’s office. Been here plenty of times, usually to pick up discovery for attorney clients. Sometime over the past year an office manager had decided it’d boost employee morale if they decorated the narrow hallway and inner sanctum of cubicles, the result being a theme-less explosion of brightly colored streamers and shiny objects with no observable function. Added to this were strings of glowing Christmas lights, a line of stockings with people’s names in glitter, and, in the corner, a cardboard stand-up of Bill Maher in a snow-flocked judge’s robe with some kind of tribal-dreidel headdress.
I suppose the mish-mash of decorations were meant to lighten employees’ mood from the daily grind of dealing with crime and lawsuits and court proceedings. For me, it was like walking into an LSD flashback. Except for Bill Maher. He made sense.
I stood at the counter, staring into the olive eyes of a middle-aged matron with more wrinkles than a Shar Pei, a mass of curly, dyed brown hair like Jerry’s before he went gray, and lips that might crack if she attempted a smile.
So much for decorations boosting employee morale.
“May I help you?” she asked, sounding as though it were the last thing she cared to do.
I looked down at her badge. Patricia M. Hardin.
“I’d like to request a copy of a supplemental report, Ms. Hardin.” Supplemental report is another term for police report, although no one in the court system seems to want to call them that anymore.
Her painted-on eyebrows smashed together, creating a squiggly line across her forehead. “Haven’t we seen you before? Rick? Levine? Murder?”
A legend in my own time. “That’s me.”
“And you want to order
your
supplemental report?”
“Yes.” I paused. “Please.”
“There are rules about these things.”
“I’m sure there are,” I said with a smile, “and you’re going to remind me of every one of them.” I flashed on Jack Nicholson ordering a chicken salad sandwich on toast.
“No, I’m not going to remind you of every one of them, Mr. Levine, as I’m sure you know most of them from your previous career.”
“I have a constitutional right to adequately prepare my defense.”
She gave me an oh-really look. “Smart people don’t try their own murder cases.”
“Even dumb people are entitled to their police reports.”
“Supplement—”
“Supplemental reports.”
She heaved a deep, world-weary sigh as though contemplating the very sanctity of the United States Constitution as it might apply to a slug like me.
“Incident occurred last Friday night. We’d only have the patrol deputies’ reports. Detective and crime lab reports are still in process.”
“But CAD would be available now.” CAD, computer aided dispatch, are the dispatch and 911 summaries.
She grunted affirmatively.
“I’d like those, too. Please.”
She retrieved a sheet of paper from a shelf next to her.
“That’ll be sixty-four dollars and twenty cents, payable in cash or money order. We don’t accept checks. There’s an ATM machine at the court house next door.” She slid the form toward me. “Fill this out, bring it back to this window with your payment. Meanwhile, I’ll grab my magic marker and redact addresses and phone numbers.”
The courts make sure to redact—cross out—any personal information of witnesses, others, in case said defendant goes berserko and decides it’d be a good idea to hunt down those poor souls and do vile things to them.
I accepted the form, thanked Ms. Happy Go Lucky, and nestled into one of the uncomfortable, hard-backed plastic chairs in the waiting area. After filling out the form and returning it, along with most of the cash in my wallet, I sat back down and called Sam to ensure he’d ordered the supplement reports, too. Attorneys don’t get the
Went through the back door to the D.A.’s office. Been here plenty of times, usually to pick up discovery for attorney clients. Sometime over the past year an office manager had decided it’d boost employee morale if they decorated the narrow hallway and inner sanctum of cubicles, the result being a theme-less explosion of brightly colored streamers and shiny objects with no observable function. Added to this were strings of glowing Christmas lights, a line of stockings with people’s names in glitter, and, in the corner, a cardboard stand-up of Bill Maher in a snow-flocked judge’s robe with some kind of tribal-dreidel headdress.
I suppose the mish-mash of decorations were meant to lighten employees’ mood from the daily grind of dealing with crime and lawsuits and court proceedings. For me, it was like walking into an LSD flashback. Except for Bill Maher. He made sense.
I stood at the counter, staring into the olive eyes of a middle-aged matron with more wrinkles than a Shar Pei, a mass of curly, dyed brown hair like Jerry’s before he went gray, and lips that might crack if she attempted a smile.
So much for decorations boosting employee morale.
“May I help you?” she asked, sounding as though it were the last thing she cared to do.
I looked down at her badge. Patricia M. Hardin.
“I’d like to request a copy of a supplemental report, Ms. Hardin.” Supplemental report is another term for police report, although no one in the court system seems to want to call them that anymore.
Her painted-on eyebrows smashed together, creating a squiggly line across her forehead. “Haven’t we seen you before? Rick? Levine? Murder?”
A legend in my own time. “That’s me.”
“And you want to order
your
supplemental report?”
“Yes.” I paused. “Please.”
“There are rules about these things.”
“I’m sure there are,” I said with a smile, “and you’re going to remind me of every one of them.” I flashed on Jack Nicholson ordering a chicken salad sandwich on toast.
“No, I’m not going to remind you of every one of them, Mr. Levine, as I’m sure you know most of them from your previous career.”
“I have a constitutional right to adequately prepare my defense.”
She gave me an oh-really look. “Smart people don’t try their own murder cases.”
“Even dumb people are entitled to their police reports.”
“Supplement—”
“Supplemental reports.”
She heaved a deep, world-weary sigh as though contemplating the very sanctity of the United States Constitution as it might apply to a slug like me.
“Incident occurred last Friday night. We’d only have the patrol deputies’ reports. Detective and crime lab reports are still in process.”
“But CAD would be available now.” CAD, computer aided dispatch, are the dispatch and 911 summaries.
She grunted affirmatively.
“I’d like those, too. Please.”
She retrieved a sheet of paper from a shelf next to her.
“That’ll be sixty-four dollars and twenty cents, payable in cash or money order. We don’t accept checks. There’s an ATM machine at the court house next door.” She slid the form toward me. “Fill this out, bring it back to this window with your payment. Meanwhile, I’ll grab my magic marker and redact addresses and phone numbers.”
The courts make sure to redact—cross out—any personal information of witnesses, others, in case said defendant goes berserko and decides it’d be a good idea to hunt down those poor souls and do vile things to them.
I accepted the form, thanked Ms. Happy Go Lucky, and nestled into one of the uncomfortable, hard-backed plastic chairs in the waiting area. After filling out the form and returning it, along with most of the cash in my wallet, I sat back down and called Sam to ensure he’d ordered the supplement reports, too. Attorneys don’t get the
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