Richter vs. The Commonwealth of Australia

The minute and hour hands jointly tick onto twelve and Edward Soden, white shirt under suspenders, kicks open his office door, left hand holding Jamesons and right with tumbler of ice: 'Johannes White. Wants to plead guilty but his daddy's the heir to the Flat-White fortune, takes half of every cup ordered.' Pouring whiskey uno. 'Makes coffee damned expensive but I never touch the stuff, and the father is coked to the gills courtesy of Flat-White money. We need a defence. Who wants front row seats?'

Renee the paralegal stands from her desk: 'Me! Me me me me!'

Finishing whiskey uno: 'You? The only thing your stoner ass can do is pass piss tests.'

Renee slams hands on desk: 'CUUUUUUNT.'

Edward nods with clenched lips, pours whiskey dos: 'I like your moxie. Ok, find a precedent for tomorrow's not-guilty or you're out of here.'

Whiskey dos is flung over carpet as Edward spins towards the intern: 'Get. Me. Pictures. Of. Spiderman.'

Tomorrow. Huh. Renee scoops files into her arms and sprints through the door. A grandfather of seven toddles to the open door of the only taxi on rank. Renee sweeps the walking frame from beneath the elderly gentleman as she runs for and lands into the taxi with a shoulder-roll.

In the police station visitation room, Renee searches through the unrelated documents with which she has covered the table: 'So, uh, what did you do exactly?'

Johannes slouches with arm over chair back: 'I brought the lols. Lawman couldn't handle my lols.'

Renee actually finds the relevant police transcript: 'You, ah, this says you drove a bulldozer through the Mount Pleasant country show. They, aaah, found the produce pavilion in Springton.'

'I took shortcuts.'

A newspaper clipping is attached: 'Yes. Through quite a few farms. Quite a few fences. They're expecting quite a few lambs of mixed breed in five months.'

Johannes leans forward and points: 'That's racist.'

Renee throws a hand open: 'That's bad husbandry. And on your, um, getaway, you shouted, to the angry mob and police in slow pursuit, your name and, um, YouTube profile?'

'I livestreamed it.'

'I see.'

Soden & Underlings deals in contract law, not criminal. When Renee returns fruitless to the firm to make this point, two hours later, she finds Edward unconscious in his office, facedown in regurgitated whiskeys undici, dodici and tredici. The intern cosplays as Spiderman, sitting on the desk with right foot on left knee and taking a selfie. The intern sees Renee and shrugs.

Fuck. Renee clocks off and, in a city side-lane, shrieks with fists in the air. Woe betide the ambitious, for the whims of fortune dangle opportunity. I bit the bait and, now, may or may not struggle against this doom reeling me in.

Ok, ok, Renee knows someone who deals in last resorts. The cat cafe shuts at five but the remaining girl lets Renee in through the fire escape - $100. A table shared with Midnight the ragdoll, with ten minutes of privacy and the fire alarm removed - $50. Blueberry muffin and flat white - $25. For everything else, there is theft, murder, blackmail, extortion and the exchange of the aforementioned. MasterCard leaves a trail.

Renee downs overpriced coffee and removes plastic wrapping from a tube (length 10cm, diameter 1.4 cm). The latest Catnip Page is unrolled from around a brandless cigarette and unfolded, once vertically, once horizontally. Renee lights the cigarette and Midnight yowls long and happy.

Renee disapproves: 'Don't drop your game, cat. You're a professional.'

Tom, in orange puff hoody and discarding half a muffin, enters from the kitchen: 'Reneeeeee. Dee-tee-eff?'

Another drag on the catnip: 'You know I'm gay, right?'

'Didn't stop you last time.'

'I thought you were flat-chested and playing at butch.' Renee, straight faced. 'I was high off my tits.'

Tom spins on stool: 'And I got high on them.'

Renee points at the Catnip Page, at item 17#: 'Richter vs. The Commonwealth of Australia.'

'So you are going to get someone off.' Tom steeples fingers. 'A legal precedent capable of defending anyone for anything. At least once, because they will close this loophole once it is cited. Nobody has yet, because I hold the original transcript. A get out of jail free card, if you will.'

Sceptical: 'High court?'

A wide smile: 'The highest. It involved two kilos of El Dorado Green, back when they first diversified away from precious metals. Shit's so potent, the entire bench got buzzed just by being in the same room. Then they decided to sample Exhibit B. You think you were high during our sloppy fuck? That was nothing compared to this.'

Renee has thoughts: So El Dorado exists? How do I score their weed? Cunt calling me sloppy? Too many questions. Tom slides off the stool, left hand cradling his chin:

'In exchange, I need you to acquire the Paifurōtā, one of the Hakujin No Tabemono, forged in the bowels of Mount Chōkai by mercenary heretics that broke away from the Shugendō. An electric guitar that chews the player's soul and spits it back out a jazz, math-rock fusion that is an affront to all that is holy. Not that I mind, being something of a affront myself, but it's good marketing.'

So, for those of you playing at home, here is Renee's plan:

1.      Steal the 'pay fury, ta' or whatever.

2.      Exchange the guitar for Richter vs. Australia

3.      Use the legal precedent to defend Johannes from multiple counts of trespass, property damage and reckless endangerment of lives.

4.      Career progression? (Contingent on Edwards BAC.)

The Paifurōtā is in the possession of Adrian Albert, touring the country with his self-titled trio. The local venue hosting tonight's gig is a tucked away, heritage listed bar with empty vases in window sills. Two-to-four around tables with wine or craft beer, the patrons either have established careers in social sciences and niche media or aspire to such jobs via rubbed elbows. As such, the ambition to fit in, to imitate, is parallel to the ambition to stand out, to appear independent, so that the dictates of fashion are blurred and nobody knows who exactly is trend-setting. Five patrons have already imitated Renee's style by removing their left stocking and slipping it over their head.

The trio consists of a drummer, a pianist and Adrian on guitar. Two thirds through their set, the drummer notices Renee's beeline to the stage and smirks to the pianist:

'Hey man. Groupies.'

The pianist snap-freezes: 'We play jazz, math-rock fusion. We don't get groupies.'

The pianist knows to duck the first bar stool, aimed at Adrian but instead flying into the piano, to back up to the wall with hands in the air. Renee steps onto the stage, ready to swing another bar stool but, come to think of it, unsure as to where to strike Adrian without damaging the guitar. The audience is struck by Renee's modish panache and begins throwing furniture. The drummer continues his understated tisk-ta-ta-tisk.

Renee: 'I am a paralegal and that guitar  is a breach of the Quarantine Act 2015 subsection, uh, two.'

Adrian clutches the guitar to his chest: 'It's mine.'

'Gimme.'

Backing away: 'Damn it, what are you two waiting for?'

The pianist shrugs: 'Your comeuppance, mostly.'

Tisk-ta-ta-tisk: 'Same. Been six months.'

A magazine rack is thrown into the stage and Adrian falls. Renee grabs the guitar and attempts to wrest it from Adrian, on his back and pleading:

'You can't take this from me.'

Renee removes her right shoe, reckons she can drive the heel into Adrian's left eye. In those eyes: Woe betide the ambitious, for the whims of fortune dangle opportunity. I bit the bait and, now, may or may not struggle against this doom reeling me in. Renee lowers the shoe at her side, sighs:

'OK, I get it, you took one step too - '

'What else can I do as a straight white male with no soul?'

So that is how Johannes White accrued the legal representation of Renee Hodge, Edward Soden, Adrian Albert and a narcissistic Spiderman.

The judge: 'How do you plead?'

Johannes stands: 'Yeah, I'm going to plead guilty so you guys deport me to New Zealand.'

Renee slams hands on desk: 'CUUUUUUNT.'

Edward pours whiskey ventisai: 'Moxie.'