THE STRANGE CASE OF
PADILLA V. PADILLA

A Short Story

Cooper Katz, Esquire, did not enjoy the view out of his window. Basement-level offices tended to do that, he mused, as he sat gazing. They offered scenery limited to alleyways boasting no more than a few illegally parked cars, empty cardboard boxes and the occasional stray. To see the foothills and gable roof of the Boulderado Hotel, one would have to take the elevator up to the fifth or sixth floors. Unfortunately, only the big boys like Twitter and Splunk could fund office space with skyline views of scenic, historic, downtown Boulder.

Nor did Cooper enjoy the eyesore scuttling across the floor in front of him. He raised his foot then lowered it with a thud. “It was either you or me, pal. Dog eat dog world. Can’t have clients looking at the likes of you. I’m not going to eat you, though,” he said, wrapping a tissue around the flattened, oozing cockroach corpse before depositing it in the trash bin beside his desk. Cooper eyed the ball of tissue. “On second thought, I might. Cooper K. Katz will try anything once.”

Cooper returned his gaze to the alleyway and the stark brick exteriors of the buildings opposite it.

“Roaches, and brick walls,” he sighed, swiveling his chair around to face his desk and his Katz Law Firm, LLC, carpeted office. Cooper reached for his mouse.

Clicking, Cooper muttered, “Damned Rogers case. Broken leg. $20,000, tops. And that’s if the case goes to trial—which it won’t.” Mental images flashed before Cooper of the dozen-or-so other broken leg and sprained finger cases he had represented for pittance winnings or losings. With a sigh, Cooper slid the mouse away. He leaned back in his chair and fell to wondering—as he did every day and maybe every hour—when Mr. or Mrs. Right was going to walk through his door with their million-dollar dilemma. The paraplegic, the corporate fraud complaint, the gross disfigurement by egregious splash of acid, the whole thing caught on video.

Cooper reached to straighten the framed photo of Reese Witherspoon on the corner of his desk that the after-hours janitor must have bumped with his feather duster. “There we are,” he said, setting it at its proper sixty-degree angle. “That’s better”

Framed photos of Hollywood starlets and office assistants with names like Crystal Breeze and Becky Wondrous had the tendency to do that—make things better. Chin in his hand, eyes all over Reese, Cooper wondered, as on occasion he did, why he chose to scour the strip clubs for job candidates instead of posting online.

Cooper assured himself, as usual, that it was not that he had been scouring so much as he had simply been at the club and then saw some blondie who looked to have half a brain and not too much dope in her system. He felt sorry for her, and so he offered her a comfy office job as an alternative to selling her body onstage to hooting, grubby men.

No drugs, that was Cooper’s one rule. Maybe a girl could dance a pole while on meth, but she probably could not write subpoenas or summonses too well.

Coop raised his sights to see Becky, his paralegal, seated at her desk just outside the door of his office, typing up a motion for the Rogers case. Looking up, Becky waved.

“These ladies that I got here now, they put out…” Cooper said softly, winking and waving back “…good work.”

Suddenly, Crystal appeared in the doorway, khaki slacks, the requisite tight-fitting Broncos jersey, and the requisite bleach-blonde hair. “Mr. Katz, there’s a man here to see you,” she said, sipping from the requisite Broncos-emblemed mug in her hand. “He doesn’t have an appointment. I screened him, just like you showed me. He wants us to represent him in a suit. Are you busy? Can you see him?”

Cooper scoffed. “How many times do I have to tell you, Crystal—it’s Coop, not this Mr. Katz business. Once a man and a woman exchange bodily fluids and the receptionist is faithfully wearing her Broncos get-up, all that Mister and Missus stuff is pretty much out the alley-side window, wouldn’t you say?”

Crystal laughed. “Guess I so often don’t know what to say, do I? Or how to say it.” Crystal slapped at her leg, almost spilling her coffee in the process. “Dang, I’m just not very good at this white-collar, social-etiquette type stuff, am I, Mr. Katz—I mean, Coop?” She licked the dribble off the side of her mug. “Is that why you made me the receptionist and Becky the paralegal?”

Cooper sipped his bottled water. “Maybe.” He pointed past Crystal. “Or maybe it’s because the paralegal desk is right across the ways there.” He craned his neck. “This present arrangement gives me the chance to gaze all day long at the long legs and killer smile of the one, the only, the magnificent, the beneficent, the bountiful, the wondrous, Becky Wondrous.”

Crystal narrowed her eyes. “You’d make a lousy strip-club announcer, Coop,” she said, laughing weakly. Her shoulders slumped. “Also, you sure know how to hurt a girl’s feelings. You like Becky better than me because she’s, like, a challenge, don’t you?

Cooper leaned back in his chair. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s a challenge, all right. Frustration, fascination, a challenge, all in one life-sized, ponytailed package. Won’t even wear her Broncos shirt because she says it’s too itchy. Can you believe that? Personally, I think it’s because she’s an undercover Chiefs fan.”

Crystal looked down at herself. “Why do we—I mean, I—have to wear these things, again? You said it’s because, like, they’re your favorite team and everyone else’s favorite team around these parts, and so it’s good for business?”

Cooper nodded. “Brings me peace, too, seeing that horse’s head. Gets my mind off all the money I’m not making, all the clients we’re not getting, off of this peeling wallpaper and the funk on the carpet that the janitor keeps missing with his vacuum—if he even uses one. Damned Twitter gets all of the good cleaning contracts.”

“At least he leaves the place with a nice fragrance in the morning.”

Cooper sighed. “That’s cannabis, Crystal. He tokes on the job, in here, in this very room.”

Crystal plucked a piece of lint off the sleeve of her Broncos jersey. “Good thing we have a window here to air things out.”

Cooper snatched at his trusty ballpoint. In frustration, he began to click it. “Nah, Crys, I gave Becky the paralegal position because, remember, she took those few law classes online? Dancing was just a side gig to help pay her tuition.”

“Beck’s real smart. I think you should make her, like, general manager one day.”

Cooper scrunched his face up. “General manager?”

“Or, whatever.” Leaning forward, Crystal pressed her chest up against the doorframe. “Last night was fun, Coop. I hope we can do that again sometime.” He returned her longing gaze with the hint of a smile. Wetting her lips, Crystal said, “I may not be as smart as Beck, but I have learned some things since I’ve been here. You’ve done more than just show me how to screen new clients. Your idea last Saturday with that feather, for example, was a super good time. And educational.” Crystal lost the smile. “By the way, where did you get that big, colorful feather? It was so tickly.”

Eyes on his computer screen, Cooper replied, “The most ticklish ones are found in this alleyway here.” Setting his pen down, he raised an eyebrow. “Had to chase one down. It’s hard. Pigeons flutter. They’re stubborn, just like Becky.”

Crystal flitted a nod at the window. “If there are ticklish feathers out there, I’m sure you’d spot them. You spend half the day just looking outta that glass.” Crystal laughed. “And the other half looking at Beck and me.”

Cooper said, “Getting kind of tired of looking out of this glass here, and this whole basement-level-office in general, if you’d like to know the truth.”

Crystal turned to peer out the open door into the hallway. “Speaking of truthful stuff…Beck says it’s the first floor we’re on, that basement levels are underground.”

“Yeah, but let’s keep calling it the basement. It sounds way more depressing that way.” Cooper crossed his legs. “Know what else I’m getting tired of? The fibs I have to tell about feathers I harvested out of the alleyway on the other side of this glass which in fact I’d picked up at some novelty shop on Pearl Street. It was a peacock feather.”

Crystal blinked, as she thought about it. She guffawed. “Ah, you big kidder.”

Cooper feigned a smile. “Bottom line, we need more clients. Preferably some high-end ones.”

“Well, we may have just gotten one of those. He’s a real fancy-looking dude, a suit and tie and everything.”

Cooper sat upright in his chair, capped his water bottle, adjusted his necktie. “Send the dude in.”

Crystal was right about the suit and tie. What she failed to mention, Cooper mused, as he observed the gentleman standing beside the chair opposite his desk, was the patent-leather briefcase, the tall, dark, healthy-looking frame, the firm handshake, the measured paces as he strode into the office, the obligatory smile—neither too subtle, nor too flashy. The gentleman was a gentleman, indeed. He had the air of a leader.

And seemed to fragrance the air with the smell of money.

Cooper cursed himself for forgetting to gel back the few remaining non-bald spots on his head after last night’s rumpus with Crystal.

“Cooper Katz, attorney at law,” he said, shaking the man’s hand then running his fingers over the undisciplined frizz around his ear. “You tell me how much you’re hurtin’, I’ll tell you how much you’ll be gettin’.” Cooper laughed.

The gentleman stood with a deadpan expression.

Cooper cleared his throat. “How can I help you? And please, do have a seat.”

The gentleman plopped onto the chair with a sigh. “You can agree to be my damned lawyer is how you can help me.”

Cooper snorted. He eased a smile. “Well, why not let’s talk about that. What seems to be the problem?”

The gentleman wrinkled his nose. “Stop the presses. What’s that smell?”

Cooper flinched. “Air freshener that we, er, use.” He gulped. “Has a unique herbal scent, wouldn’t you say?”

The gentleman narrowed an eye. “I’ll say.” He squirmed around in his seat. “Problem?” he said. “I’ll tell you what the damned problem is. It’s that little pissant in my apartment suite who dresses up in-in women’s lingerie, dresses, sparkly headbands and pink hats. I had a company party at my suite last week. People saw the lingerie and nylons on the floor in my bedroom and immediately assumed it was me who was wearing the stuff. Rumors are spreading now. I want to sue that bastard for defamation of character!”

Cooper clicked his pen. “Sparkly…headbands,” he said, scribbling on the notepad in front of him. “A def case, huh?” He looked up. “Well, see, I usually represent malpractice type cases, workplace injury, that sort of thing. For a defamation case, we would have to prove an actual injury, say, that your job is at stake, or could be. For lawsuits, I charge on a contingency basis. I receive forty-percent of the settlement or trial winnings. I require a deposit upfront of $15,000. These are competitive rates, mind you. The larger firms will charge you much more.”

Shaking his head, the man wheezed. “Fine. Whatever. Really, it’s not even about the money.”

Cooper raised an eyebrow.

The man slapped his palm overtop his fist, grinding his hands together. “If nothing else, I wanna make a statement by filing suit against this fairy.”

Cooper sorted through some papers on his desk to make it look like it was an actual workspace and not just a flat surface on which to tap pens and play computer solitaire. “So, this, er, fairy fellow,” Cooper said, leaving the papers alone. “He’s your roommate?”

The man shifted around in his seat. “Mr. Katz—I am the CFO of a large, independent, food processing company here in Boulder. Two-timin’ Tomato. Now, listen, I cannot simply stand by and allow my reputation to be stained by—”

Cooper straightened in his seat. “Two-timin’ Tomato? Yes, I’ve heard of them. They make organic food products. That would win us a point or two with the jury, straight off. And you’re the CFO of this company?”

Looking down, the gentleman handled the chunky gold ring on his finger. “I do not traipse around in flower-print tops,” he said. “That wasn’t me. Ok, it was me, but don’t you see it was the other guy’s fault!”

“Other guy’s…fault,” Cooper muttered as he wrote on his notepad. He furrowed his brow. He bit his lip. “Er, why don’t we start from the beginning. I’m a bit confused.”

The other man rubbed his chin. “The beginning?”

“Yes, like, for example, well, telling me your name. This is a family-friendly law firm where the sharing of names is encouraged. You can call me Coop, everyone does. And you are Mr…?”

The gentleman exhaled, noisily. “Hector Padilla.” He narrowed his eyes at Cooper’s blank expression. “Padilla,” he said, louder. “Perhaps you’ve heard of the powerful Padilla family? Controls most of the shipping industry in Veracruz, Mexico?”

Cooper shrugged. “Should I have? It sounds like you came from a good family, at least.”

The gentleman lowered his briefcase onto the floor. “Not hardly. I’ll be blunt, Mr. Katz. My family ran with the cartel.”

Cooper’s mouth fell open.

“Yes, the cartel. I had a very traumatic childhood, Mr. Katz. Finally, I was able to break free after I hightailed it to the States. I was determined to make something of myself, mostly as a way to push from my mind all of the bad memories. The flashbacks. The nightmares. I worked my way up to CFO of Two-timin’ T.” Padilla’s eyelids fluttered. He put a hand to his head.

Cooper furrowed his brow. “I realize this must be stressful for you.” Cooper slanted a look at the small refrigerator over by the printer with the Broncos sticker plastered across the front. “Would you like something to drink? To help you with…”

“The flashbacks I’m having. Yes, please.”

Cooper stood, then stepped along the faded, crumb-laden carpet over to the refrigerator. It hummed loudly as he opened the door.

Cooper returned. “Compliments of Katz Law Firm,” he said, handing Padilla a can of cranberry-essence water. “These cost a whole two dollars at the store. We spare no expense for our clients.”

Cooper sat down, as Padilla popped the top of the can.

“Mr. Padilla,” Cooper said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I guess I should have clarified what I meant by let’s start from the beginning.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t actually need your whole life history. Now, in regard to this present issue you’re having…”

Padilla took a swig of his water. “Yes, I think so.” He wiped his mouth. “A roommate of mine, is what I think he is.”

Cooper furrowed his brow. “You think? You’re not sure?”

Sighing, Padilla set the can down on the desk. He threw his hands in the air. “Ay, Dios Mio! Rosa del Loro, apologies!” he exclaimed, eyes to the ceiling. “You would roll over in your grave if you knew I was engaging in such unholy practices. Would it stir you, my dear? Would you haunt me, like you did those banditos?” His cheeks flushing, eyes watering, Padilla dropped his head and muttered a prayer in Spanish. He looked up. “Do you,” he asked Cooper, “think that sharing a living space with the maricas would classify as unholy activity?”

Cooper sipped his water bottle. “Probably not. You’ll be safe from any ghostly apparitions or lightning bolts from heaven. Those deals are generally reserved for the shyster types who with impunity commit heinous acts against their fellow citizens then escape justice.” Cooper rolled his eyes.

Padilla’s eyes widened. “Yes, you may be right. No lightning bolts or specter images yet.”

Cooper looked at his wristwatch. Lunch break in fifteen minutes, he thought, thank god. He plucked a tissue from the box on his desk and offered it to his visitor.

“Gracias,” Padilla said, blowing his nose.

Cooper tapped his pen on his desk. “Now, this word. Maricas. Tell me, what does it mean? You say he’s LGBT. That’s a rather broad term, Mr. Padilla. You’ll need to be more specific. Is this individual gay, transgender, bi…”

Watery eyes bulging, Padilla exclaimed, “He dresses up in sparkly headbands and mini-skirts. I’d say all of the above! He’s a degenerate, a freak. And he’s ruining my life!”

“Mr. Padilla, with all due respect, I think we might need to tone it down with the defamatory language.”

“Look, sir,” Padilla growled, “when a marica deliberately hangs his filthy, frilly boa and off-the-shoulder floral top on the second hanger from the end—which he knows is where I keep my white dress shirt, and then, thinking it’s my dress shirt, I grab that preposterous flower top, and unthinkingly put it on because I’ve had one too many Pale Ales and fail to notice, then saunter out to my company party in the living room dressed in the thing—well, then I think that gives me a right to be upset. No, the right to reparations! They were snickering at me, Mr. Katz. My associates. My employees! On Sundays, I deacon at the Church of the Immaculate Conception. If word ever gets out there…”

Cooper scribbled on his notepad. “I see. So, in addition to the clothes he scattered all over your floor, you accidentally dressed yourself up in a…floral-print top of his?”

“It was no accident. He made me do it. He tricked me!”

Cooper sipped his water. “So, again, who is this individual? You said he’s your roommate?”

“Not a roommate. An intruder! Who breaks in at night and…manipulates me when I sleep!”

Cooper leaned forward. “Manipulates you?”

“I wake up in the morning with makeup on, Mr, Katz. Rouge, lipstick!”

Cooper scratched on his notepad. “Rouge lipstick,” he said as he wrote.

“No. Rouge and lipstick. I even hired a private investigator to try to help me identify the culprit.”

Cooper’s eyes brightened. “Really? How did that go?”

Lowering his eyes, Padilla rubbed at his pant leg. “He, er, told me to have a nice day.”

Cooper tapped his pen, then laid it down. “So, an intruder, posing as a roommate, broke into your apartment and put makeup on you. He hung his clothes on your hangers, spread them all over the floor…”

“No, Mr. Katz. No. What happened was…” Padilla wrapped his arms around his head. “Oh, God, a flashback. Again. That thing you just said about bodies spread all over the floor…”

“Bodies?” Cooper eyed his visitor, warily. “Mr. Padilla, a quick word about these types of cases. Let’s just say…a jury might not appreciate your, well, hypocritical approach to persons of alternate lifestyles.” Cooper peered in. “Are you ok?”

“Yes, it’s passed, I think.” Sitting up in his seat, Padilla took a deep breath. Trying to fight back a smile, it broke forth all at once. “The maricas,” he said, in an even voice. “Nothing that a good sock in the nose can’t fix.” He tossed his used tissue into the trash bin. “That’s what Rodrigo, my older brother, always used to say. Although, the way he said it was not nearly as nice.”

Cooper shook his head. “See, that’s exactly what I mean. In today’s society—in any society, any time, or place, for that matter—you don’t badmouth people’s bedroom practices. It’s a faux pas, and even more so in the courtroom. For having the courage to dress up in drag, the jury might end up ruling that you pay him. As for yourself? Well, who’s to say, Mr. Padilla, the jury wouldn’t think you were just the cutest thing ever in that floral-print top of yours?”

“Mr. Katz!” Padilla exclaimed, rising from his seat.

Cooper shrugged. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, sir. Welcome to Boulder, where you’ll see T-shirts, banners, flags displayed in front of the Bolderado Hotel, parades, Pridefests. In fact, the Gay Pride Festival happens right here on Pearl Street next week.”

Padilla pursed his lips and shook his head, as he sat back down.

“Oh, but Mr. Padilla,” Cooper grinned, “what you fail to consider is that whether one dresses up in women’s clothing, sleeps with folk of the same sex, or two or three folk of the same sex, or two or three blondies of the opposite sex in the confines of a fourth-floor condo on Fulsome Street—” Cooper smirked “—that’s really nobody’s business but our—I mean, their—own, isn’t that right? It’s called freedom of expression. First Amendment. Look it up.” Cooper took a deep breath. “Do you understand?

Padilla gritted his teeth. “I do. I see. It means you’re not going to take my case.”

“Now, I didn’t say that. I’ll have to conference with my team. You can expect to hear back from us within a few days. Here’s my business card.”

“Thank you, Mr. Padilla,” Cooper said, handing over his business card and shaking his visitor’s hand.

Grunting, Padilla rose. “Within a few days, huh?” he said, then walked with heavy steps to the door, nearly bumping into Becky on his way out.

“Look,” Padilla exclaimed. “A blondie.” He rolled his eyes.

All smiles, Cooper nodded.

Exchanging glances and muttered pleasantries with the man as he passed, Becky closed the door behind her. She leaned up against it. She started. Opening the door, she called out, “Go, Broncos!”

Cooper heard Padilla reply from out in the hall, “Real football is the kind played with feet kicking a ball.”

Becky shrugged. She closed the door. “So, how’d it go?”

Cooper threw his pen down on his desk. “It didn’t.

“Really? But he’s got money, I bet. He looks like he’d be a good client.”

“Money doesn’t matter if he doesn’t have a case.”

Becky folded her arms. “He doesn’t have a case?”

Cooper checked his cell phone. “Remember what I told you girls about truth-telling in the legal profession?”

Becky shifted impatiently from one foot to the other.

“Rule Number One: always tell the truth.” Cooper pocketed the cell phone. “He can’t get his facts straight, Beck. He’d get eaten alive on the stand. No jury would ever believe that guy. That’s first off.”

Becky reached back to fluff up and straighten her ponytail. “And second off?”

“Second off, he’s a bigot. He says it’s a law of the universe that lightning bolts will streak down from heaven whenever three people working together in a law firm try to get together for some threesome action.”

Becky smiled. “He did not say that.” Becky lost the smile. She eyed the toe of her shoe as she petted the rug with it. Lifting her head, she said, “Coop, it’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that, well, I don’t think I’m ready.”

Cooper folded one leg overtop the other. “Not ready? But you will be, eventually, is that what you’re saying? You’re a former stripper, Ms. Wondrous, who even kept her stage name. Why so shy?”

Becky’s shoulders slumped. “It’s not that. See, in the community I grew up in,” she said, approaching Cooper’s desk, her ankles wobbling in their high heels, “there were certain things that were considered, well, wrong, dirty.”

Cooper set both feet on the floor. “And stripping is not one of those things?”

Becky exhaled, noisily. “Stripping is all about looking, not touching, Coop. Heck, in the community that I grew up even premarital sex was considered a worse offense than stripping. Stripping is just taking your clothes off, something we all do every single day when we, like, change our underwear.”

Cooper raised an eyebrow. “You change your underwear every single day?” He looked at Becky. “I mean, that’s good!” Squelching a smile, he averted Becky’s inquiring gaze to home in on his computer screen. He said, weakly, “Anyway, you were saying?”

“I was saying there’s a kind of sacredness to the actual, physical act of…and three people, together? It just seems so...”

Leaning back, Cooper folded his hands behind his head. “That’s Great Grandma and Grandpa speaking to you live from the cornfields of South-Central Iowa.”

“Nebraska.”

“You’re not Doris Day, Miss Wondrous.” Cooper scanned her up and down. “Far from it!” Cooper swiveled his chair around to gaze out of the window. “The Pridefest happens here next week. No parade, but all of the major cities like New York and LA have them.” Cooper swiveled back. “Just think, maybe they’ll hold a parade for us one day.”

Becky wrinkled her nose. “What’s this with you and parades all of a sudden?”

Cooper’s arms dropped to his side. “I love parades. Doesn’t everyone? Wouldn’t you like to be honored for your contributions to culture, the strivings for tolerance and, like, peace on earth or whatever?"

“So, this guy in the suit and tie is a no-go?” Becky said, changing the subject.

Cooper swiveled again to stare out the window. “We wait a day or two. Make him think we care enough to at least stew over it, then call and tell him we can’t take the case. Just think, Beck, a parade! World peace is within our grasp.”