Before I go any further, I should explain an important side-note concerning our relationship with the aliens of the Slatt Territories:

There is a planet in the Umbra Octant named Oxtaile (like oxtail soup). The planet happens to be located in a part of space that is ideal for capturing and reflecting wavelength transmissions from nearby solar systems. Nearly the entire population of Oxtaile is in the business of re-broadcasting entertainment from other planets, much if it originating from Earth. Oxtaile is, essentially, a large-scale bootlegging operation: an extra-terrestrial Napster.

The swindled content could be anything as mundane as a jingly 1950's dish soap commercial, snagged off a rogue television signal, or something more private that the Oxtaile satellites managed to pick up, like the phone call you had with your doctor last week about a rash in your groin.

Taste in entertainment varies greatly from universe to universe, so Oxtaile does good business catering to the needs of a wide audience. Sometimes the most surprising content becomes a runaway hit on another planet. For example, mundane phone calls from Earth are very popular throughout the Slatt Territories. Last year, a recording of a phone conversation between a man in an Indiana home-improvement store and wife (“Bob and Cindy Discuss Kitchen Backsplash Patterns”) broke all existing sales records and became a smash hit.

Before we formed Marshall / Todd and Associates, my partner Henry Todd worked at the third-best criminal defense firm in the city. He also had a side gig as the on-air legal expert for a cable news program called The Angry Gavel.

A few times a week, Henry would report to a dingy studio by the airport to do his schtick while the cameras rolled. Flanked by two wholesome midwestern blondes, who nodded and encouraged every sentence, Henry would rail about legal procedure and preach quasi-libertarian doctrine for thirty minutes, shouting down anyone and anything that resembled an attack on personal freedom.

For Henry, the TV job was more of a hobby, an outlet for some of his surplus vanity. It was a small show. The highest-profile guests were an occasional state senator or local union representative. But Henry did his job well - he was consistently entertaining. He could bemoan the state of the judicial system, cite fictitious court decisions, feign indignation, and wax poetic patriotism as well as any of the big-name TV news personalities. The Angry Gavel lasted for two seasons before funding dried up, and the entire network went into Chapter 7 bankruptcy.

Just like Bob and Cindy's phone call, some episodes of Henry on The Angry Gavel were captured by Oxtaile satellites and shot back out to paid subscribers on planets in the Slatt Territories.

The Angry Gavel, a barely-watched, low-rated, low-budget courtroom news show from Inglewood, California, was an instant hit in space. There's even a Henry Todd Fan Club on the planet Romay VII.

I mention this only because it's important to understand that Henry is something of a celebrity amongst the aliens. His status allows us a certain amount of leeway with the Council: appearing in casual dress, openly disrespecting the Head of Security, criticizing the Lord High Councilman – for anyone else, these are actions that would end with a beheading.

But as Henry is well-known and oddly adored in alien circles, his jackassery is tolerated by Lord Farkvold. Up to a point. One of these days I'm sure Farkvold will reach his limit and execute both of us.

Back in the Intergalactic Council Chamber, Henry adjusted the non-existent cuffs on his track suit. There was a deafening silence after my partner suggested that we leave Mr. Dobbins in lockup for the night, and I decided that was my cue to jump in:

"You honor, Lord High Councilman, may I be recognized? Evander Marshall, of Marshall / Todd and Associates." Lord Farkvold threw a dead gaze in my direction, and I took that as an affirmative answer.

"Thank you. The request of the Intergalactic Council of Slatt to return Mr. Dobbins to your jurisdiction is in direct violation of many Earth Laws. Not only would your request be contrary to our professional ethics, it may also be beyond the scope of our powers."

Commander Boarvex erupted from the corner of the Chamber. “This a matter of Slatt Security! Hail Slatt!”

“HAIL SLATT!” A chorus of alien voices echoed from the gallery above. The Council members can be very enthusiastic about the Imperial Planet.

"Lord Farkvold, we're not going to spring your guy from prison." Henry said flatly. "Or help him skip out on bail. That's not what we do. He can face a drug charge in Los Angeles, and our firm will represent him."

"You must retrieve him, Earth Attorneys!" Boarvex squealed. "Bring him back to Intergalactic Territory immediately!"

“Perhaps, Commander,” I offered, “you could tell us why it’s so urgent that you get this Agent back?”

The Lord High Councilman, perched high above the gallery, stood slowly from his stone and metal throne and looked down at us. Lord Farkvold, nine feet of blue-gray exoskeleton with eyes like dead planets, opened his mouth to moisten chitin lips with an oily, blackened tongue.

“Attorneys of Earth," Farkvold's voice rained from above like an electrical storm. "Commander Boarvex has assured me that the Agent in question is involved in an ongoing, covert operation that is of the utmost importance to Territorial Security. Details of such matters cannot be safely shared.

“Henry Todd of Earth,” the Councilman croaked. “You are to obey the orders of Commander Boarvex and retrieve our Agent at once."

"You honor," I started.

“Silence!” Farkvold said. And silence obeyed; the Chamber was quiet. "This matter is not open to debate.” The words bounced off the virtual walls of the Chamber and vibrated from my molar up through the base of my skull.

"Release Doug Dobbins from your planet’s bizarre system of incarceration,” Lord Farkvold flashed his sharpened teeth. “Or face punishment from this Council. Bring Doug Dobbins here at 3pm your time tomorrow, and we shall reconvene. Hail Slatt!”

“HAIL SLATT!” The gallery chanted back three times.