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juvenile court, Deano.”
    “Ah,” said Deano with a dip of his head.
“Enjoy the circus.”
    Larkin nodded. A fly on the wall in the
juvenile and domestic relations court could hear tales of cheating
spouses, physically abused children, and undisciplined juvenile
hellions on their ninth strike in a three-strike system. While the
subject matter remained juicy, generally, an attorney could make
much better money in the courtrooms on the higher floors of the
building. Despite this, Larkin could not deny that he received a
certain satisfaction from participating in the theatrics of the
state family court. But it was not the same rush as winning a
sophisticated legal battle in the circuit court. It was more like
winning a street brawl at the flea market.
    “It’s where you get the best stories,” said
Larkin as he cruised through the metal detector. He didn’t know if
he was lying or not; just riding the Bowland’s train. He nodded
once more to Deano and hustled down the hall. As he rounded the
corner, his finger slid along the glass wall. Normally he tried as
hard as he could not to touch a damn thing in the courthouse. That
rang doubly true for juvenile court.
    “Feels like I drank a bottle of Purell
anyway,” he muttered as he navigated his way through the mob of
people milling about in front of the three juvenile court rooms. A
young deputy standing like a rancher in the thick of the herd
rapped a clipboard against his hand. Larkin waved and whistled. The
deputy nodded, looked down at the docket, and held up three fingers
directing Larkin to the third court room. Larkin snapped his
fingers and continued his way through the crowd. He did not spy
Deveraux amongst the members of the crowd, but given Larkin’s
tardiness, he assumed that he was most likely already seated in the
courtroom.
    “Mr. Monroe, sir,” shouted a voice to
Larkin’s left. He squinted at the man erupting from his chair
against the back wall. The vaguely familiar client pawed at the air
and eventually barreled his way in between Larkin and the courtroom
door.
    “Mr. Monroe, sir!” he stammered.
    “Yes, hello to you, Mr. . . .” Larkin held
out the last syllable and nodded to encourage the man.
    “Craig Powers,” he replied. He nervously eyed
the deputy standing not ten feet away. Sweat dotted his brow.
    “Ah, yes, Mr. Powers,” said Larkin. “We’ll
begin in a moment.” He attempted to slide past Mr. Powers, but the
bigger man side-shuffled like a basketball player defending the
paint.
    “Am I going to jail? Just tell me now if I
am. I need to know.”
    Larkin sighed. He opened his brief case and
rifled through the manila folders until he located the Powers file.
“Let’s see,” he said as he deciphered his own hastily scrawled
chicken scratch. “Three hundred and eighty dollars a month to . . .
Ms. Tracy Fitzgerald . . . arrearages of around nine thousand bucks
. . . hmmm.” He flipped through a few more pages before looking up
at Mr. Powers. The taller man seemed as if he was about to burst in
tears. “No,” Larkin finally said and proceeded to scoot past Mr.
Powers.
    “Are you sure, Mr. Monroe?” Mr. Powers asked
as Larkin grabbed the door handle.
    “Absolutely,” said Larkin. “I have certain
things worked out with the department attorney in these cases.” He
turned and entered the courtroom. The thick doors closed gently
behind him and his ears stopped ringing with the din of the lobby.
“I’m glad these things aren’t open to the public,” he announced as
he made his way to the defendant’s table.
    “Why is that, counselor?” asked a woman’s
voice. “Are you worried about losing face?”
    Larkin quickly looked across the courtroom.
Though she was no more than five feet tall and seated, Wendy
McAdams looked down at Larkin through her heavy framed black
glasses.
    “Ms. McAdams,” Larkin said with a start. He
scanned the courtroom for Deveraux’s wrinkled hound dog face, but
it was very clear that he was