The three of us were weeding the garden when our amiable banter was interrupted by my ringing phone up on the patio table. I ran over to it, my man bits flopping loosely about in my haste to get to it before the call went to voicemail.
I was expecting someone trying to set up a massage appointment, but the name on the screen said, “Moab City District Attorney’s Office.” I’d attached that name to the contact I’d created for Martin Wexler from the business card he’d left with us the other night.
“This is Davie Bhat.”
“ADA Martin Wexler,” the familiar voice answered.
I quickly pulled the phone away from my ear, poked the speakerphone button, and took the block of mage kryptonite down into the vegetable garden, placing it on the same low table the prosecutor had used for his things a few days back.
“You’re on speaker with Kaitlyn Gutierrez and Chanel Brantley, sir,” I informed him formally.
“Good,” he answered, “I have news for all three of you: before he left for the weekend, the DA told me to drop the investigation.”
“That’s wonderful!” my wife said.
“Also,” the tinny voice added, “we’re filing charges against Mr. Goetz for harassment against you three and for waste of public resources. It is now clear to us that this is a pattern of behavior, something we need to nip off right here. My boss is taking the case personally, actually: he wants to throw the book at the guy; make a point.”
I sighed, then said, “Can’t say he doesn’t deserve it. Thank you for calling, Mr. Wexler.”
