I’ve already been through the ringer on the national cable news, so I know what’s coming-constant coverage, all of it bad for the defense. He turns up the stereo and Marcy Faith’s shrill voice is replaced by the soothing sounds of the Dubliners. I realize you three are the best customers I have, and that my bar probably can’t survive without you, but I’d rather the pub go under and I live under a fucking bridge than listen to another minute of that crazy bitch.” “Sorry, gents,” Seamus says with his thick Irish brogue, snapping off the TV with his remote. “That’s it! Someone cut his microphone, pronto!” Marcy’s eyes nearly pop out of her bulbous head. “Well, Waikiki isn’t an island, Marcy, it’s a-” You won’t see me on vacation with the twins on the island of Waikiki anytime soon.” Her southern drawl is so grating that Seamus slightly turns down the volume even though Jake, Flan, and I are Sand Bar’s only three patrons and we’ve asked him to keep the volume up. “Then just what are you saying? That the Kingdom of Hawaii has its own laws?” “Actually, no, that’s not what I’m saying at all.” “You’re trying to tell me that the Constitution of the U-nited States of America grants special privileges if you commit mass murder in the state of Hawaii?” Uno momento, por favor,” Marcy bellows as I take a bite out of my cheeseburger and peek at the screen above Seamus’s head.
“Wait a minute,” Marcy Faith snaps at him. “Well, Marcy,” the quote-unquote legal expert says, “the Eighth Amendment of our Constitution guarantees-” I’m off the scotch today because I’m attempting to maintain a somewhat clear head for tonight, when I’m scheduled to meet Erin at her home-ahem, place of confinement-in Kaneohe on the windward side of the island. I turn my head away from the television above the bar and send some rum and Coke down my throat. “How is this woman out on bail?” the talking head with the platinum-blonde wig and bug eyes demands to know.
I bow my head yes, knowing all too well that Jake isn’t hungry. I could go for some kalua pig and Tater Tots.” “Sure,” Jake says, “but let’s sort through them downstairs, all right? I’m awfully hungry. I sigh, grimace at the daunting task before us. Flan pushes a stack of videotapes toward me.
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