SYNOPSIS

Busted is the fourth in the series of Bruce West Novels.  Bruce is hired by the  300+ pound mother of a drug dealer who is charged with possession of the illegal drugs her son hid under her bed.   Her only defense is that she didn't know it was there. Bruce concocts an imaginative defense just moments before his closing argumant to the jury.
      He becomes deeply involved with an insurance adjuster and experiences events that will  forever alter his personal life.
     Busted is filled with humorous stories, courtroom drama and, of course, some hot sex!   You'll laugh out loud.

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                                                        EXCERPT

I walked up to the desk sergeant, slipped my business card through the opening and asked if I could see my client, Josephine Carter.

“Have a seat, Counselor, I’ll get someone to let you in,” he instructed.

I hate being called Counselor ... all lawyers hate to be called Counselor.  Everybody in law enforcement and the courts ... cops, correctional officers, security guards, FBI, DEA and INS agents, court clerks and even some judges use the word like a term of derision.  What happened to Mr. West, or just plain Bruce ... why fucking Counselor?

After a short wait, a female uniformed police officer emerged though the door next to the desk sergeant’s window and said, “Follow me, Counselor.”

I couldn’t help but snicker.  Not because she called me counselor, but because she reminded me of the old joke about the female sheriff in Texas ... she had the biggest passe in El Pusso.

She led me through the heavy wooden door to the lock-up. There seated on a wooden bench, elbows on her knees, with her head propped in her hands, staring at the floor, about as dejected as I had ever seen another human being, sat my new client, Josephine Carter.  She was so large and the cell was so small that she looked like a giant macaw in a canary cage. 

“Josephine, your friend Maybeline Hicks retained me to represent you ... I’m Bruce West,” I introduced myself and handed her a card through the bars.

She examined the card and asked, “Is you any good?”

“Would Maybeline have gotten me to help you if I weren’t?”

“She ain’ neva been in no trouble as I knows of,” she declared.   “So how she know who ta git?”

“Reputation!” I stated. “Reputation ... I get all of my clients off.”

“Well, ha’ ya figure ya gonna git me off?” she wanted to know.

“I don’t know yet,” I replied.  “First, I’ve got to get you out of here.”  

As I unzipped my soft leather Mark Cross portfolio and unscrewed the cap from my Monte Blanc fountain pen, Josephine commented, “Mmm-mmm, ain’ we fancy!”

“Thanks for noticing,” I said.  “We’re going to appear before the court commissioner in a few minutes and I’m going to try to talk him into releasing you on your own recognizance.  Let me get some information from you.”

“Wha’ kinda information?”

“You ever been in any kind of trouble before ... ever been arrested for anything?”

“Whachu think, I be some kinda Bonnie 'n Clyde?”

“So you’ve never been arrested before?”

“No, I ain’ neva been ‘rested!” she exclaimed.”

“Maybeline told me you live at 1302 North Caroline Street.  Are you renting or buying that house?”

“I be buyin’ it from de landlord, like on some kinda ‘stallment plan.”

“So tell me what happened?” I asked.

“I tell ya wha’ happened,” she repeated.  “Dem muthafuckers come crashin’ inta ma house, bustin down dohs and wreckin’ the whole fuckin’ place, is wha’ happened,” she spat out angrily.

“Maybeline told me they found drugs.”

“Yeah, dey sayed dey foun’ ‘um unner ma beyd ... bull sheeyt!  Dey wasn’ no drugs unner ma beyd, les’ dey put ‘um dere theyself.”

“So how you suppose they got there?” I asked.

“Like I sayed ... I sure didn’ know dey was dere, or dey done put ‘um unner dere theyself,” she declared.

“How about your son? Could he have put them there?” I asked.

“I spoze he coulda, but I din’ know nuffin’ ‘bout it.”

“How much did they find?”

“Dey on’y showed me two a dem li’l baggies.”

“How long have you lived in Baltimore?” I asked her.

“Ma whole life ... wha’s ‘at gotta do wit anythin’?”

“I need to convince the commissioner that you will show up for trial.  I want to tell him you’re not likely to skip town.”

“I got some rel’tives in Nough Carlina,” she said.

“Well, don’t tell anybody, okay?”

“Ain’ nobody here ta tell!” she declared.

“Okay, I’m going to go talk to the commissioner and see about getting you out of here ... don’t go anywhere.”

“Where I’m goin’? ... I ain’ no Houdini, an’ I sure cain’ squeeze through dese bars.  Y'all will recognize me when ya comes back?I  be de big ol’ fat lady in da cage.”

I couldn’t believe how heavy the door was that led from the lock-up.  The lady cop opened it with ease.  I nearly pulled my arm out of its socket when I tried to yank it open.

I wandered down the hall to the courtroom to see if the commissioner was there.  He was seated at the bench where a judge would have presided over the court, reading The Baltimore Sun.  He looked up at me over his reading glasses which were perched on the end of his nose and said, “What can I do for you, Counselor?”

“Am I that obvious, or did the sergeant tell you I was here?” I asked as I handed him one of my cards.

He smiled and said, “The sergeant ... so what do ya got?”

“I’ve got a three hundred pound lady locked up in a tiny cage back there,” I said, nodding toward the lock-up. “She’s been charged with constructive possession of a small amount of drugs that were found under her bed, which I can assure you she knew nothing about.”

“How small an amount?” the commissioner asked.

“I believe two dime bags ... what’s that about an eighth of an ounce?” I replied.

“How do I know she’ll show up for trial?”

“She has no prior record, is buying the home she lives in and has lived in Baltimore her entire life ... she’s not going anywhere.” I assured him.  “I’d appreciate it if you would let her out on her own recog.”

He was scribbling on a printed release form which he handed to me over the bench, glanced down at my card which he still had in his hand and said, “Okay, Mr. West, give this to the desk sergeant and take her home with you ... the city can’t afford to feed a three-hundred pound inmate.”

I thanked him and went to retrieve my client.  I couldn’t wait to see how she was going to get into my car.  I only hoped she’d be able to get out.  If she couldn’t, where would I put Jill and how was I going to get to the Pimlico Restaurant?

I handed the release to the desk sergeant and waited for the female police officer to fetch Josephine.  I watched carefully how she was able to make it appear so easy to open the door to the lock-up.  I figured she must be as strong as an ox.

“So, what now?” Josephine asked as we headed down the path to the parking lot.

“”First we’ve got to figure out how to get you in and out of my car,” I said.

“Whachu mean?” she asked.

“You’ll see when you see my car,” I replied.

As we approached the car, I pressed the button on the key to unlock the doors.  The lights flashed and Josephine looked over at me and said, “Might jes’ as well take me back to dat cell.  Ain’ no way I gonna fit inta dat car!”

“I’m going to put the top down and move the seat all the way back.  You might be able to squeeze down most of the way into the seat.  At least we don’t have too far to go.”

This was a scene that should have been videotaped.  Josephine got her left leg into the car and then leaned in wriggling her ass against the back of the seat.  I was certain the back of the seat was going to snap off under the weight.  Then she got her right leg in and was now sort of standing in the car with her ass up near the head-rest, her full weight pressed against the seat back. She began to slide down, wiggling from side to side in an effort to stuff her ass down toward the seat.  Once she was wedged into the car, the next challenge was going to be closing the door.  I pushed from the outside and managed to get the door closed enough where the latch engaged and I didn’t think it would fly open.  There was no possibility of fastening her seat belt.

Once she was securely wedged into the seat, I climbed into the driver’s side, put the key in the ignition and then found that the gear shift was lost somewhere in the folds of fat hanging from Josephine’s thigh.  I was afraid to attempt to put the car in gear for fear that Josephine might think I was groping her.  This experience gave the term blivit a new meaning ... a blivit is ten pounds of shit stuffed into a five pound bag.

“Umm . . . Josephine, I . . . umm . . . need to put the car in gear, and . . . umm . . . like I can’t find the gear shift, because it’s . . . umm . . . like buried in your . . . your . . .  umm . . . thigh someplace.  Can you . . . umm . . . like maybe help me out here?” I asked delicately.

“Where’s it at?” she asked.

 “Right about there,” I said, pointing my finger to the place where the gearshift had been when I last saw it. She tilted over to her right and partially exposed the buried gearshift. 

“Will it be okay if I . . . umm . . . reach in there and put the car in gear?”  I asked.

“Don’ you try nothin’ funny,” she warned.

The car kept pulling to starboard on the way to Josephine’s house.  My major concern until we got there was that the tires on the right side of the car would flatten.   When I became confident that the Michelin’s would stand up to the heavy load, I began thinking about how I was going to extract her from the car.  She was stuffed in there pretty tightly.  It was already pushing five o’clock and I didn’t have time to wait for a crane to lift her out of the seat. 

When we arrived at 1302 North Caroline Street, I opened the passenger door, placed my foot against the frame to get some leverage and pulled on her arm to help twist her around enough to get her right leg out of the car.  Fortunately, Maybeline saw us pull up; she came out and crawled into the driver’s side of the car and pushed while I pulled until our combined efforts dislodged Josephine from the SL’s bucket seat.  She came out with a popping sound almost like when a cork flies out of a champagne bottle.  There was an audible sigh from the car as the right side rose back into its original alignment.

“Thanks fo’ da lif’, Bruce,” Josephine said. “I ain’ never rode in a ca’vertible befo’. We gotsa do it again ... maybe affer y’all’s car grows up!”

I got back into the car and waved as I pulled off into the sunset. “I’ll be in touch,” I promised.

Maybe it was just my imagination, but the car seemed to be acting funny ... as if it were protesting, “How could you have done this to me?”

Getting Josephine out of the car reminded me of an incident not long ago when a neighbor called me to solicit my help to move a sofa that he somehow had gotten wedged into the door of his apartment.  When I got to his apartment, I was confronted by this over-sized sofa stuck fast in the doorframe and sticking halfway out into the hall.  He hollered out from behind the sofa, “Okay, let’s give it a try.”

I pushed as hard as I could for the better part of a half hour, but the sofa simply wouldn’t budge.  “Bruce,” he hollered out in an exasperated tone of voice, “I give up.  We’re never going to get this thing out.”

I hollered back, “Out! Whaddya mean ... out?"

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