Chapter Text
A cold wind hit your sweat-coated and blood-speckled face. The breeze swept up leaves, napkins, wrappers, and empty cigarette packs littered on the ground, blowing past you as if they were fleeing the scene. As you gasped for air, you heard the ambulance doors slam shut and the vehicle drive off.
All this for a well-deserved slugging? If it wasn’t a sign that discord was about to break out, you’d be flattered. But you had it under control, everything would fall into place.
You were having all kinds of firsts tonight: first fight, first run-in with the police, and now your first arrest. How exhilarating.
“You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney, if you cannot afford-“ the officer was quickly cut off. The scowl on his face deepened, aware you had not an ounce of respect for him.
“I can,” you said sharply. The disgruntled pig continued blathering on, making you wish you could spit on him. His mouth moved, but everything he said went in one ear and out the other.
Despite its exhausted state, your body was practically vibrating. From the small hoops in your warm, reddened earlobes to your bloody fingertips—clenched tightly behind you as you heard the lock click. It was a lot less tolerable than you were expecting, but that was a small price to pay. The hard metal was freezing on your wrists, causing involuntary shivers that nearly made you stumble on the way to the police car.
In the dead of night, there were no onlookers. This was a blessing, because you knew this story would spread like a wildfire once someone heard about it. Wasn’t like you needed any help in motivating other students to avoid you, anyways.
After muttering something into his walkie talkie, the cop swung open the door and brought his hand down to push you into the backseat. As you were shoved and buckled in, your head swiveled to a giant billboard just a couple hundred yards away. The mustard-yellow background was eye-catching, though it didn’t even compare to the memorable logo or the advertisement’s main man. It was the largest, most detailed picture of him you’d ever seen, so you knew you had to do it here.
The area wasn’t exactly the American Dream, so to speak. Instead of white picket fences and picture-perfect suburbia, there were rickety chain link divides and families living from paycheck to paycheck. You knew pigs loved to hang out here, lazing in their cars and waiting for something to happen so they could hit their weekly quota.
That was one of the countless reasons why you hated the police. They liked to pretend they were fighting for a greater good and helping people, but it was just a shield for brutality and discrimination. A disgusting excuse for first-responders.
Lawyers, on the other hand, were usually more upfront about their desires. You knew lots of them were shady, but you were certain there had to be some who genuinely wanted to help people. Unfortunately in the ABQ, profit was their priority. Extremely high rates for the worst criminal lawyers, and even higher for the worst criminal lawyers.
This fixation on the law was heavily shaped by the subject of your affection. You fell fast and hard, the infatuation having taken over your mind like possession—it had fully consumed you. He was the first thing you thought about when you awoke, and the last thing before you fell asleep. At night he wandered your dreams, and, if you were lucky, he’d fuck you hard enough to see stars.
Never in all your years did you see yourself crushing on a local celebrity. You’d use a better term if there was one. He was on billboards, benches, commercials, newspapers, even flyers around campus. It was like the universe was stringing you along, dropping breadcrumbs until you’d finally require his services.
The Villas neighborhood was a notorious hotspot for meth, but you didn’t want to get involved with that. Although you needed his attention, you were still hesitant to commit a crime that could land you in bonus rehab. Opposed to a felony that came with buying crystal, a misdemeanor would be less damaging to your future academic and career opportunities—that is, if he negotiated properly.
In your moment of reflection, you hadn’t even noticed the door closed and the cop started the car. Your thoughts were rudely interrupted by him hitting the gas.
The billboard grew smaller and smaller as you were driven away. Saul Goodman’s shining grin was highlighted by the overhead lights, making you swoon. His finger pointed at whoever was paying enough attention, making it appear that he knew you, and he would make you his number one client.
You resisted the urge to rest your cheek against the window and sigh, your eyes fluttering from a mixture of exhaustion and lust. You’d see him soon, and that wasn’t even close to quickly enough.
Once you arrived at the station, the pigs stripped you of your personal items, preparing you for a somewhat-secluded room to be questioned. They removed your jewelry, took your gas station bag full of snacks, and reached into your pockets; fishing out your wallet, BlackBerry, and a bright slip of paper torn off from one of those flyers encouraging contact. Just as they were about to lead you further inside, you got out one last sentence: “Call him.”
Now all you had to do was wait.
Your mind was in a daze as these supposedly intelligent, fair-minded jackasses searched for a weakness. After over an hour of no progress, you could feel their patience wearing thin. Yours was as well, but you held on for your savior in a bright shirt and gaudy tie. What if they hadn’t called him? Fuck no, you wouldn’t accept that. He was coming.
One of the only two voices you’d heard in this room repeated for god knows what time. “What is your affiliation with Mr. Jack Lessard?”
The cops wouldn’t stop prying for answers, not while you were alone with no legal assistance. They’d promised you they were here to listen, here to help. Bullshit. They were here to weasel a confession out of you, then lock the door and throw away the key.
As much as your arms were starting to scream at you, the dried blood on your palms becoming slick with sweat, you refused to open your mouth. Mr. Goodman once had a recurring commercial that if you said anything at all without a lawyer present, you were saying something stupid. That was something you took to heart now. Hopefully he’d be impressed that you remembered.
You bit inside of your cheek, trying not to smile when his face reappeared in your mind. That was almost talking, or potentially even worse than that.
“Can we get you some water?”
The younger of the two officers, who you remember being referred to as Dave, interrogated you and wrote in a small notebook, while the other glowered at you and occasionally whispered to his partner. Dave must have run through the usual questions, since you could see the gears in his head were turning. They hadn’t been able to get a peep out of you, when these kinds of cases were often clear-cut. There was an argument about something—in that area usually drugs and/or money—there was a fight, and that was it. You guessed their tiny little pig brains couldn’t comprehend that you would be a UNM senior, beating the shit out of a former acquaintance for seemingly no reason.
“You’re sick, you know that?” The staring cop sneered, causing a moment of weakness. Eye contact wasn’t your strong suit, but in this situation you had to make sure you were safe. Your eyes flicked to his, narrowed and about to burst a blood vessel. His simmering rage had gradually accumulated, now on the verge of reaching a boil.
“Larry,” Dave began, setting the pen down to look at his partner. He was worried about what this could lead to, legal-wise.
“Uh-uh, don’t ‘Larry’ me. This pansy bitch assaulted my nephew,” the older cop spat, pointing straight at you. “He’s an honest, good kid who doesn’t associate with junkies or delinquent shit. I bet this punk lured him out to the Villas, there’s no way he’d be there otherwise!”
Larry stood up and pushed his seat back, palms flat on the table. Calming down would be impossible with these conditions. You tried to look away, but he sensed your anxiety and leaned closer. With your hands tied and heart pounding, you were a deer in headlights—right where they wanted you.
Just when you could smell the coffee and cigarettes in Larry’s breath, the door slammed open. You assumed a slightly less awful cop had come in to intervene, but you were wrong, and you couldn’t be more delighted.
“Alright, alright, back it up here.” His voice was the same from all his commercials: a bit scratchy, yet warm and passionate, and just the right frequency to play your heartstrings.
Tall, dark, and handsome, Saul Goodman stood at the entrance. He kept his hand on the door, the other holding a black leather briefcase you figured every lawyer got after passing the bar. He wore an earthy-brown suit, light green button-up, and, of course, one of his signature flashy ties. As ugly as they were, objectively, you adored them. Today he donned a cornflower-blue dotted with green and yellow, complementing his crisp shirt. You loved how confident he was to stand out from the typical crowd with their dull grays, blues, and blacks.
Holy shit, he was actually here. And he was here for you.
“Come on, you’re scaring the poor kid. I mean, Jesus, look! He’s literally trembling.” The lawyer put his foot in front of the door to gesture to you.
Your leg tended to sway while you sat, just because you had a hard time staying still, but it seemed to have spread across your body when Larry cursed at you. Carefully, you lifted your head to peer at Mr. Goodman’s expression. Though keeping it lighthearted, he was clearly pissed off, which caused a quick tremor in your torso. Whether it was out of fear or elation, you didn’t know, but the shaking certainly got your attorney fired up.
“I want you both out, now. He probably hasn’t said anything yet, has he? Let me work my magic with the power of lawyer-client confidentiality.”
Larry and Dave stared at Mr. Goodman before looking at each other, the former clenching his jaw and grabbing his now-lukewarm cup of decaf. He stormed out and disappeared behind the one-way mirror on your left, his partner nervously sweeping the room before following behind.
Mr. Goodman shooed them out as if they were flying pests, nearly getting a chuckle out of you. Larry would never let you hear the end of it. “Go on, git. Have a little tea party with the rest of the force, you all probably need the caffeine.” Once they were gone, he slid his foot out for the door to close.
“Cops. Always acting like they got a stick up their ass.” He set down his briefcase on the table, opening it right away to get to work. That didn’t stop him from making a few more wisecracks, though.
“See, I’ve always said that half of lawyers are crooks and the other half are idiots. Police? They took both the red pill and blue pill, then followed it with a shot of bleach,” he said, briefly glancing at you before starting to shuffle through some files.
After a long, rough day, you doubted that you had anything in you to giggle, but you did. This plan had taken so long to formulate, and after step “Hand Lessard’s Ass to Him” you had little to no idea what would be in store for you. So this, as small as it may be, gave you a bit of hope—not to mention gave you butterflies like crazy.
Laughing at Mr. Goodman’s joke made you realize how damn awful you looked. Your nose had been dripping from the cold night air; your hair was ruffled and unkempt; and your hands were still splotched with part dried, part wet blood. What a predicament you’d gotten into, just to see this man.
He didn’t mind. And despite his boisterous “I don’t need others’ approval” attitude, he appeared to be grateful that you had a sense of humor.
“Ah, see that? I knew you had a smile in there,” Mr. Goodman said with a triumphant clap of his hands, before continuing to work through the unorganized pile he carried with him.
Holding a stack of papers between his thumb and forefinger, the attorney flipped through them until he reached the ones relevant to your case. Considering it had happened just a few hours prior (and you didn’t have any kind of criminal record up to this point), it was pretty bare.
What caught your eye was a set of photographs, mostly of Lessard. Several shots showed his fucked-up face, terrified and sniveling. It almost scared you, how you’d done that. You figured most people used guns to kill not just for convenience, but because they didn’t have to get their hands dirty. What you did was personal, and you’d have to live with it for the rest of your days.
But you’d get through it, you called Saul.