From the enviable booth at the rear corner of Dee’s Diner—in all its antique, wood-stained glory, and the disembodied bison head, named Chip, staring down at him from its mount behind the coffee station—Mickey Verona, Esq., sipped his incredibly rich coffee and watched as Dr. Smith entered the vestibule disheveled, brushing snow off his tweed coat and unwrapping his scarf.

This was why his spot at Dee’s was the best office in the Flathead Valley. Eventually, everyone came into the diner, so if you stayed long enough you got to watch them. As a student of human nature and an armchair anthropologist, this position suited Mickey well.

The half-moon booth butted against the southwest corner, facing the door; its leather was soft, worn into the exact dimensions of his ass. If he needed a break from all the lawyerly bullshit, he could gaze out at the cradle of a valley formed by the friendly Salish Mountains to the west and the majestic Missions to the east. These two ranges held in their arms the great Flathead Lake—the largest natural body of freshwater west of the Mississippi. It was a moody, aqueous gem that turned, on some days, cobalt, at evening, amethyst, or, as it was now, beneath the snowfall, a granite tombstone. And like all great bodies of water, a folkloric cryptid—portrayed as an orca on postcards—dubbed the Flathead Monster lurked elusively within its volume.

Dee’s food was delicious, and the coffee was strong and always hot. But what kept him coming back for more, day after day for the last five years, was the waitress. Foxy Prewwett, with two Ws for Wow Wham! And two Ts for Tits and Tush.

Five years he had fantasized about popping the pearly buttons of her uniform to free those full, firm milk melons. He imagined the softest, pinkest areolas studded with hard yet tender nipples. And what the hell would he do with her if he could ever—ever in a million years!—grow the cojones to ask her out? Oh, he’d come close a few times, but had always ended up entangled in the wreckage of his own words.

Today, however, was going to be different. It had happened the moment Comstock began shouting at that boy in the interrogation room. Something in his head had popped, a pressure that had been building for years, and in that second, he’d made up his mind that the world needed more love than hate, and that each individual had to do their own part. For Mickey Verona, today was the day. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to look at himself in the mirror if he had to go stag, yet again, to the Lake County Halloween Gala.

“Over here, Doc.” Mickey waved.

Dr. Smith navigated between the tables, bumping the backs of two occupied chairs on the way, oblivious to the sharp looks from their annoyed occupants, to arrive and seat himself across from Mickey.

“Your office?” he asked.

“Best seat in town. Let’s munch and work. I got a few ideas for a defense strategy.” He pushed a menu across the table. “I know it’s lunchtime, but I suggest the Lumberjack Stack. Hot cakes are so fluffy you’d think you were eating a cloud.”

“I’m okay.” Smith pushed the menu aside. “Let’s get to work.”

“Suit yourself, Doc. More for me.”

“Alan,” said the shrink bluntly.

Mickey guessed the man had crested the hill of middle age with as much grace as he walked through restaurants. His brown hair salted with gray, and a few days’ growth of facial hair threatening to bloom into a beard if left unchecked, helped him look the part of his profession.

The aloof stereotype of a shrink would have been his first guess as to the man’s career. Yet, there was a fire in him now that he’d been looking for but hadn’t found back at the jail. Only… he couldn’t discern whether it was a fire of passion or something else. There were a lot of hurting people these days. Perhaps he was a vet and had put his time in fighting FEEN—a fate Mickey was lucky to avoid due to bad genetics and the influence of his father’s doctor: flat feet. Hell, for all he knew, the guy across from him could be on the spin right now. Escape drugs were getting better every year: more addictive, more subtle, more deadly. At the very least, there was a puffy weariness around his eyes that suggested he didn’t sleep well. Was he a drinker?

“Hair of the dog that bit ya?” Mickey ventured. “Foxy stirs a beautiful Bloody Mary.”

“Just coffee, thanks,” said Alan.

Yep, a drinker. Poor guy. In his work, Mickey had met a lot of shrinks. It wasn’t uncommon for them to find a crutch for their depressing careers in either bottle or barbiturate.

“Hey, Mickey, who’s your new friend?” asked the pretty blonde woman holding an order pad.

“Hey there, Foxy. This is Dr. Smith, head shrink extraordinaire. But just call him Alan. He doesn’t like titles. So, toots, you have anything you wanna get off your chest?”

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Foxy looked down with long, purple eyelashes at her ample bosom straining against her waitress smock.

“I don’t think so,” she replied, smacking her strawberry-scented bubble gum and straightening the yellow ribbon pin on her lapel, just above the firm slope of her cleavage.

If the boys on the Eastern Front knew they had this depth of warm support back home, it’d stiffen their resolve against FEEN through those long, hard, lonely winter nights.

“You sure? Looks like you do.” Mickey let her catch his wink to Smith.

“Oh, Mickey, you’re so bad!” She smacked him on the shoulder with her order book. “So, what can I get you fellas today, huh?” Foxy was no broad, but she played the part to a T.

“Numero uno, a pot of fresh coffee, and I’ll take the Lumberjack Stack, side of bacon—make them black—and eggs, you know how I like them.”

Foxy giggled. “Sunny side up,” they said in unison.

“And you, doctor, er, Alan?”

“Just coffee, please,” said Alan.

“Oh, cat got your appetite?”

“He’s had a hell of a morning, darling,” said Mickey.

“Okay, I’ll be right back.”

She strutted off to place the order with the kitchen, her shapely hips swaying seductively from side to side with the rhythm of her rump.

Mickey whistled and peeled his lustful gaze away. Alan stared at him narrowly, so he reluctantly dawned his professional façade.

“The way I see it,” said Mickey, “we have certain cards in our hand and need to play them very carefully. There will be an arraignment on Monday in front of Judge Myers. Francis will appear virtually. He’ll plead not guilty, of course. Because of our unfortunate luck in winning the John Taylor lotto, Myers has asked for an emergency calendar session tomorrow morning. We’ll know more about what the prosecution has up its sleeve at that time. In short, this isn’t gonna be over next week.”

“I guess Taylor has an election to win,” said Alan.

“I think what we need is time on this, so maybe a few weeks isn’t a bad thing.”

“Can we get Francis out of there?”

“We’ll try. I’ll make a motion to have him moved to a juvenile facility, but don’t hold your breath. 8 AM. Don’t be late. And don’t wear a red tie. Judge Myers is a confirmed Democrat.”

“I don’t own a tie,” said Alan.

“Even better. Makes you look more relatable.”

“I am relatable,” said Alan.

“Sure you are. My first move will be to try and get the case thrown out on lack of evidence. They don’t have much to go on.”

“CCTV?” asked Alan.

“What appears to be a hug,” said Mickey.

“That’s it?”

“It’s hard to make out. The camera had a glitch.”

“Figures.”

Mickey added, “There’s the play of witness bias. The Winesworth boy’s father is in the High Mountain Rangers, and Mx. Dale, well, shi-with-an-i has filed complaints against male students three times in as many years.”

“Open and shut then.”

“Not really. Like I said, John Taylor’s daughter has obviously experienced some form of trauma, enough that she’s still mute. You know anything that could cause that?”

Alan shrugged. “If trauma is severe enough it can cause people to stop talking. It’s called psychogenic aphonia. I’ve seen it in soldiers. It’s usually temporary. But I don’t think Francis could have done anything to her in the few minutes they had before class started.”

“Let’s hope she finds her tongue soon. Comstock wasn’t bluffing. You should prepare yourself for the prosecution to elevate this to a sexual offense. It plays better with the jury.”

“Bullshit. This is all bullshit,” said Alan.

“The system knows that,” replied Mickey.

“Our cards aren’t looking so strong.”

“We’ve got to make them strong. It would be nice to have a couple of character witnesses who can attest that Francis is a good boy. Teachers. A friend, preferably White, preferably female. But at this point we’ll take anyone. Maybe his guardian since his folks seem to be out of the picture. Look, I’m going to be filing paperwork all day. Can you drop by where he lives, see if someone can say something on his behalf?”

“I can do that. What if the judge doesn’t dismiss the case?”

Mickey sighed. There was a better chance of getting a tiger-blood snow cone in Hell. But he wouldn’t tell the shrink that. He knew these types of cases. It was important to keep rays of hope, even if they were false.

He looked out the window at the flurries. Here it comes. The trick knee always wins.

“You heard him today… magic, hocus-pocus. I think we have a strong case for mental incompetence. He won’t be able to stand trial. That is an option.”

Alan’s hands balled into fists on the tabletop. “I don’t think Francis is crazy. That’ll tarnish his record forever. It’s important we don’t go down that path. Claiming something like that has a way of turning into a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Alan,” Mickey used his well-oiled, courtroom voice, “Hunters who? The magic what? He’s psychically leading her where? Down the Yellow Brick Road? That shit is now in the fucking record.”

Alan turned to watch the flakes. Eyes locked on the rough surface of the lake he said, “He’s been abused. He’s got scars all over his body.”

“Christ,” whispered Mickey. “Listen, we’re not gonna mention that fact tomorrow unless we have to. This prosecutor, I know her work. She believes in the doctrine that the abused become the abusers.”

“That’s not where the literature is. It’s a gross oversimplification,” objected Alan.

“Hah! The literature? Welcome to reality, Doc. This is crime and punishment. Entertainment for the masses. The ‘No Touch’ Policy. They wanted that.” He gestured broadly to the smattering of customers throughout the diner. “We have only ourselves to thank. I know it sounds callous, but in today’s world, being officially classified as insane is a hell of a lot better than having ‘sex offender’ printed on your license plates.”

“Fuck, he’s too young,” said Alan. “This is going to destroy him.”

“Welcome to reality, Doc. Nothing is a secret these days. Look,” Mickey pushed his phone across the table. On the screen was a headline from one of the local newspapers: TEEN SEXUALLY ATTACKS CLASSMATE AND TEACHER.

Alan read the caption aloud: “Names are being withheld because the victim and perpetrator are underage, but sources say a male juvenile was taken into custody on overwhelming evidence and the testimony of several witnesses.”

“Shit,” said Alan.

“Not just shit,” said Mickey, “a good old fashioned Montana winter shit storm.”