The sign read, “Welcome to Possum Lick.” The BMW’s driver, a high-powered lawyer from Jackson, laughed and thought, “Don’t want to know where this town got its name. And besides, it’s opossum.” His foot pressed the gas pedal, making all 560 horses under the hood come alive.
He looked at the clock on his dashboard. He was running late. Very late.
The sun was peeking over the Mississippi pines. It was 7 a.m. and he had an hour to get to the trial in Jackson. He looked down at the climbing speedometer. “C’mon car. Go.”
His hand reached over and grabbed his cell phone to send a text. Suddenly he looked up to see that a car in front of him had stopped.
Brakes squealed and a right front tire blew. A mean piece of driving sent him into the bushes of Myrtle Jones’ front yard instead of the back of the Preacher Johnson’s wife’s Nova. Dirt flew and steam poured from under the red BMW’s hood. Airbags kissed the lawyer’s face.
A proper Possum Lick lady would not say what lawyer said next.
“You aw-right Mister?”
The lawyer looked up, groggily at a tall, thin man in gray coveralls. Oil stains covered him from head to toe.
“#$%$.” The lawyer cussed again.
“I take that to mean, ‘no.’ My name is Gabriel Johnson. I’m here to help you.”
The town’s only police car pulled up. A chubby, young policeman got out with his ticket book. He observed the damage to the widow Jone’s yard with disgust and started shaking his head.
“You boys from the big city think you can just blow right through our little down. Trust me, you can’t.”
“Sorry Officer,” the lawyer honestly said as he rubbed his forehead. Where the airbag had impacted was now bright red and very sore.
“Sorry won’t cut it, boy. We don’t tolerate this sorta stuff in Possum Lick.” The officer began writing a ticket.
The morning had gone from bad to worse. The lawyer looked around in his car for his cell phone. It was broken in the floorboard. OK, it just went from bad to worse to bad to worse worse.
“You’ll get one phone call at the station. Maybe. If the phone works. You wanna hear your Miranda Rights?” The lawyer couldn’t believe his ears. He needed help, not jail. What kind of weird town was Possum Lick?
“I’ll get your car fixed up for you, Mr. Lawyer!” the Gabriel the mechanic said as the lawyer’s head was being pushed down into the patrol car. Myrtle Jones was being consoled over the death of her rose bushes.
The premature death of those rose bushes was the biggest tragedy to hit the town since the tornado of 1967.
The grand courthouse in Possum Lick was built right after the Civil War. General William T. Sherman had used their old one as a bun warmer and the good people of Beauregard County had decided to build a new county seat instead of feeding the widows and orphans. It was a brick structure with a broken clock. The lawyer noticed that it had stopped at the same time as his broken watch had stopped. Weird. But what do you expect from a town that has “Possum” and “lick” in its name.
The officer led him up the steps into the courthouse. What the lawyer saw when they entered the giant oak doors was nothing like he had ever seen before. He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly.
For a building that was nearly 150-years-old, it was surprisingly modern. While most courthouses from that era were dark and dank, this one was light and airy. There was minimal clutter and it was accented with marble and what looked like gold. “You guys must write a lot of speeding tickets in this town,” the lawyer quipped. The police officer ignored him.
They entered a second set of doors which entered into the giant courtroom. This was the central room of the courthouse and was equally as modern as the rest of the building. The officer led the lawyer up to front of the courtroom and uncuffed him. “The Judge ain’t going to be happy with you. He was out painting landscapes on the Ross Barnett Reservoir and had to rush back to deal with you.”
“Great,” the lawyer thought. “Trumped up charges in a small town AND a pissed-off judge.”
A third man entered the room from the back door. He was in a black suit and had slicked-back black hair to match. His coal-like eyes pierced the lawyer’s soul when he looked at him and his voice could be best described as serpent-like. “Good morning. My named is Lucien Deveraux. I’m the District Attorney in this county.” His handshake was uncomfortably clammy and cold.
And then a fourth person came in from behind. “Got yer car settled. Parts are on the way. Will get you fixed up as soon as I’m done representin’ you here today.”
The lawyer’s stomach dropped.
“Uh, I’m a lawyer. I can handle this.”
“Don’t be silly. You know the cliche: He who is his own counseller will often have a fool for his client.”
Today had gone from worse worse to worse worse worser.
And then, the back doors swung open, revealing a bright light from the judge’s chambers. An older man, in white robes (not black) entered the courtroom. The police officer snapped. “All rise.”
“Uh, we’re already standing,” the lawyer said.
“SHHH,” the mechanic said.
“This morning we’re hearing the case of one Jackson Douglas III.”
“I know Judge, I was speeding and I took out the rose bushes. I’ll pay for it all.”
“SILENCE!!!!” the Judge bellowed. The lawyer wasn’t even sure his mouth moved when he said it.
“Deveraux, prepare the evidence against the defendant.”
A giant screen appeared and floated freely in the space between the Judge and everyone else.
Images started playing on the screen. Not images of the crash, but of the lawyer’s life. And they weren’t pleasant images. Every slight against another person were painful replayed. Scorned girlfriends. Crying children with special needs. The poor who went unfed. Talent wasted. Time wasted. Scrooge himself did not have to go through so torture.
The lawyer started to speak but found he had lost the ability. His tongue had fallen silent.
The District Attorney spoke and said, “Your honor, as you can see, this man’s life is not worth sparing. He has wasted it in the pursuit of money and flesh. He deserves the maximum punishment.”
The day had gone from worse worse worser to devastating.
The judge rubbed his short beard and said, “Defendant, how do you respond to this charge?”
For the first time in his life, Jackson Douglas III was speechless.
The Gabrielle the mechanic, however, wasn’t. He started to speak and said, “Um, your honor, I’d like to say a word in his defense.”
The lawyer knew he was doomed.
But at that moment, the mechanic’s oily coveralls began to rip away. Giant white wings appeared and a white robe covered the man’s body.
“OK, Gabrielle,” the Judge spoke. “You may have the floor.”
“You believe in second chances. And of forgiveness. I’ve read the Good Book. No, this man doesn’t deserve Your mercy. But what man does? Send him back and give him one more chance. See what he does with the rest of his life from what he’s learned from this experience. Deveraux gets plenty of customers. He can live without one more.”
The Judge rubbed his beard. His eyes pierced the lawyer’s eyes. “OK. You get a second chance. I’ll release you with a warning.”
Even the lawyer recognized a good piece of lawyering when he saw it. “Thank you, Gabrielle. ” The District Attorney walked over and shook his hand. “Congratulations. I had big plans for you.” The lawyer realized at that moment how close to damnation he had come.
The Judge banged his gavel repeatedly and bellowed, “CASE DISMISSED.”
The sound of the gavel was replaced with the sound of beeping machines.
“Doctor, he’s awake!” The voice belonged to an I.C.U. nurse.
“Why hello there. We thought we had lost you a couple of times. Don’t try to talk. You’ve been in a coma for a few days since the wreck. You tore up your BMW pretty good. Funny, they say you never saw that parked car. You’re one lucky man, Mr. Douglas.”
Only the lawyer knew how lucky he truly was. He looked around the room at all the flowers and balloons. And there on his nightstand was a lone post card. On it was a picture of an old courthouse and some writing that read, “Greetings from your friends at Possum Lick.”
