“Well, that went badly.”

"Yes," Henry said over the din of karaoke in the background. "I think that's a fair postmortem, Marsh. A terrible day in court. Or Council Chamber. Whatever it's called."

Henry and I were back at the Blarney Stone, tucked into a corner booth. We had both forgotten a small detail about traveling through the energy portal: time-dilation. It occurs every time we cross to and from the inter-dimensional plane where the Council Chamber exists.

So when we left Lord Farkvold and used the portal to transport back to the third stall in the men's room of the Blarney Stone, no significant time had passed since we left. It was still a little past seven o'clock. Which meant I’d have to sit through rush hour traffic again to get back home to Sherman Oaks. Since were already in a bar, Henry and I agreed that it made much more sense to wait out traffic.

The Slatt Territories are ruled by a system of government that could be described as fascist-neo-feudalism. Or maybe neo-monarchial-fascist-colonialism. At any rate, it's not very democratic. The High Council of Slatt, led by Lord Farkvold, pretty much call the shots on all forty-eight planets in the Territories. Most of the planets have local governments of some sort, but the High Council, with their limitless and unchecked military power, have the final say in all matters.

When Lord Farkvold wants something, he generally gets that thing and he gets it fast or blood starts to spill. He's what I would call 'results oriented.' Checks and balances, separation of powers, due process – as an Intergalactic dictator, these are things that Farkvold understands little of and cares even less about.

Farkvold expected us to deliver him Doug Dobbins by tomorrow afternoon. Dobbins was currently in LAPD lockup; most likely he had already been brought before a judge and a bail amount was set. The bond wouldn't be much, not for a non-violent possession charge. Henry and I could make arrangements with a bondsman – but then what? Dobbins catches the first spaceship out of town, or hops into an energy portal back to the Slatt Territories, never to be seen on Earth again. Doug Dobbins, the first interplanetary bail jumper. Henry and I would have aided and abetted his escape. We'd have to answer to the police and the State Bar – not a good look for Marshall / Todd and Associates. But what other option did we have?

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“Why do you think they need him back so badly?" I asked Henry, pushing aside my watery gin and tonic. "And what was an Agent of Slatt doing with a bunch of drugs?"

Henry chuckled, a steady stream of liquor had mellowed him. "Well, he probably wanted to get high. That's what people do with dope."

"People, yes. Regular people. But an alien? An Agent of Slatt?" I checked the traffic app on my phone again. The 101 Freeway was a red standstill. "I mean, what was Dobbins doing in Los Angeles in the first place?"

"Looking for a party, I guess?" Henry sipped on his third double single-malt.

Something wasn't adding up, and I became more and more curious about Dobbins. What was his role as an Agent? Why was he so important? Was he in Los Angeles on assignment, on a mission for the Slatt Territories?

All of the Agents of Slatt report to Commander Boarvex, and Boarvex himself seemed overly-concerned about retrieving Dobbins from jail.

"Well, what do you think we should do?" I asked.

Henry's eyes glazed over momentarily. "Huh? Oh. Well, I guess we need to get Doug Dobbins released. So… I should talk to a judge in the morning, and see if we can get the charges dropped. Shouldn't be too hard."

"Henry, we don't even know what the charges are!"

"Pfft! Come on, a little drug possession? With a clean record?" He slurred the last word. "I'll just turn on the ol' Henry Todd Charm and get this dismissed, no worries."

I glanced at my phone again. “Look, traffic is still terrible," I showed Henry. "They're holding Dobbins over on Olympic, it's just a few blocks from here. Why don’t we go visit? Maybe talk to the arresting officers?”

“What, now? Aww,” Henry placed his head onto the table and spoke into his muffled sleeve.

"It would be nice to know what's actually going on with this case. Do you have something better to do?"

"Yes. I have to have two more drinks, and then call a cab to drive me home. I have a very busy schedule."

"Come on, let's go."

“Really?” Henry whined, lifting his head and rolling his eyes all at once. “All right. Screw it. The evening’s already ruined. Let’s just get this shit over with. One more for the road, then I'll close out my tab.”

I offered to drive.

After a quick check-in, the staff at Olympic Division gave us a privacy room to speak with our new client.

Henry and I sat on two folding chairs in front of a small table that was bolted to the concrete floor. Under the pretense of attorney / client privilege, I made sure there were no cameras or recording devices placed in the room so we could speak freely.

I bought us two coffees in flimsy paper cups from the machine down the hall and we waited in the room for Dobbins, sipping silently. I knew that the coffee wouldn't help to sober Henry up, but it did help cover the smell of his whisky breath.