The Mentor

by Rebecca Forster

  “This isn’t about God, it’s about circumstances.” Allan pushed away and spoke clearly. There would be no mistake about where he stood. “It is about men doing what men do. You protected me and gave me a second chance. I’ve paid you back a hundredfold by being the kind of attorney you could be proud of.”

  “I wanted you to show me that you became a man I could be proud of,” Wilson thundered, his voice rising so that the men outside took note. Almost instantly he lowered it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to lose my temper, but it breaks my heart that you miss this point. The mere fact that you do, means I failed, and it means what I did was wrong beyond any measure.” Wilson’s eyes were tearful, yet in the face of Allan’s selfishness Wilson put aside his emotions. “This is about ethics, not power. It’s about character, not success. If I had done the right thing all those years ago then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “No, we wouldn’t. Then again, nothing would have changed for you back then, would it?” Allan goaded.

  “Everything changed for me the minute I did what you wanted me to do. I just didn’t know that until Eli Warner pressed me for an explanation, and I had to face myself.” Wilson listened to the silence and watched as Allan seethed. They were almost done. There was only a little more to say.

  “In my arrogance, Allan, I denied you an honorable future. You aren’t the man you should have been because of me, not despite me. I am so sorry for that.”

  “I am what I was meant to be, Wilson. I’m successful, I have money, and I have clients who respect me. That’s a hell of a lot to destroy just because you want to ease your conscience.” Allan’s voice was flinty with fear. Wilson was stoic.

  “If your material success is compromised, then so be it. Eli presented us with a second chance, and I am going to take advantage of it.”

  “Nobody asked me if I wanted to participate, Wilson. Has it occurred to you that Eli Warner is a little man who sees a chance to make a big name for himself by taking the both of us down?”

  “He is an honorable man doing his job, Allan.” Now Wilson chuckled wearily. “There’s a certain poetic justice that someone like Eli should be the one to call us into question. We pretend to such heights and yet who do we demand respect from? From men just like him. So why shouldn’t he question our claim to it?”

  “That’s a bunch of esoteric crap,” Allan snapped. “I don’t want respect from him. I don’t care about respect.”

  “Not even from me, Allan?”

  “No, not even from you,” he said, and it was the lack of hesitation that wrenched Wilson Caufeld. Allan leaned forward to underscore his frankness. “If it comes down to this, Wilson, I don’t want your respect. I will accept that you are willing to give up a seat on the Supreme Court. I will help you decide the best way to handle that situation. I will accept that this is the end of our personal relationship. But I won’t accept what you propose. You taught me the game, and I’m not going to let you change the rules now.” Allan swallowed hard. He was forcing his anger back down inside because he knew Wilson too well. There was no way to argue with a man who saw so clearly that there were only two choices. Bad and good. There was, however, one way to appeal to him. “Walk away, Wilson. Please, I’m begging you. For me. Resign the confirmation, and the problem goes away. We can go on like before.”

  Wilson shook his head and it appeared to be hard to do so. “No. I owe a full hearing to the president who nominated me, to the people who have believed in me, and to myself. I must prove I’m not above the law, and you must accept that you aren’t either.”

  “I’ll be branded as a criminal. What we did was nothing compared to what others have done and gotten away with. Do you want me ruined? Is that what you want?”

  “You know it isn’t,” Wilson said quietly.

  “Then don’t let them ask the questions. Don’t say a word if they do.”

  Allan hesitated only a moment when he saw that Wilson remained unconvinced. He had no more time to waste. In three long strides he was back at his chair and putting on his jacket. He snapped the collar down and pulled at the lapels. He shook his cuffs. Anger rolled off him in waves.

  “I don’t have to even worry about this, Wilson. I don’t know why I’m buying into this whole confession thing. If Henry Stewart doesn’t get you, then the president’s handlers are going to. They’ll cut you loose the minute Warner turns in your file.” Allan held his lapels and looked at Wilson Caufeld with clear, unremorseful eyes. “If that nomination doesn’t die, Wilson, I’ll call in my markers with the politicos and kill it myself. If that doesn’t stop this nonsense, there are laws against slander, Wilson, and I’ll use them. I’ll fight back with everything I’ve got. You’ll be lucky to hang onto this seat, much less get another.”

  “Allan, please. This type of behavior will only hurt you more.”

  “No, it won’t. I couldn’t be hurt more. You betrayed me. You’ve betrayed the public. You’re not winning any friends hedging on George Stewart’s standing. You dealt yourself a blow by reducing Henry Stewart’s bail. Now you’re dead all the way around. Salvage what you can.” Allan rotated his head. He licked his lips. He faced Wilson Caufeld and spoke concisely. “I want to be very clear, Wilson, because I don’t want another misunderstanding between us.”

  “There never has been a misunderstanding, Allan. We both knew exactly what we were doing.”

  “Oh, yes there was a misunderstanding. I thought what happened to us was between us.” His voice warbled with self-indulgent emotion.

  “It didn’t happen to us,” Wilson reminded him “We acted, and it is time to face that.”

  Allan ignored the subtlety. “I’m going to start protecting my ass as of now. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, Allan, I do.”

  “And I’m not going to think twice about how I do it, and do you know why?” Wilson sat stoically in his chair knowing he would have to hear. “I won’t think twice, because no one cares about honesty anymore, Wilson. They only care about the perception of it, and I can make people believe anything.”

  “You’re wrong. I care. Eli cares about honesty. Lauren cares.”

  “Lauren!” Now Allan laughed harshly. “Lauren cares about rewriting history for herself. That’s not honest.”

  “And this isn’t about Lauren except in regard to how we will fare in her eyes,” Wilson said forcefully, but that was not a subject that interested Allan.

  “No, it isn’t. In fact, I wonder what you’d be doing if all this was about Lauren.” Allan’s smile was cruel. He wanted to hurt, and he pulled out his arsenal indiscriminately. “But I suppose that’s a stupid question. You’re screwing her in court; you’re going to screw me the minute you get the chance. Whatever the future brings, Wilson, I want you to remember one thing. You were my mentor. You showed me how far to push right and wrong. You showed me when to cut the corners. No one was hurt then, but a whole lot of people are going to be hurt now if you open your mouth. So, think about it, Wilson. Who was the teacher and who was the pupil?”

  He stared at the old man with eyes that shined with one last desperate hope, but Allan’s hopes were tied up with his fears and arrogance. Wilson’s mouth tightened. The fact that Allan had no love for him was clear now. Wilson understood there was no need to discuss the matter further.

  “Fine, Wilson. Fine,” Allan said quietly. “You’re forcing my hand. I’ll do what I have to do.”

  “And so will I,” Wilson Caufeld answered. “So will I,” he murmured again but there was no one left to hear.

  Allan Lassiter was gone.

  Wilson Caufeld was alone except for the men in the hall charged to guard his body.

  Pity they couldn’t have somehow saved his heart.

  10

  “Mr. Jackson?”

  Mark put aside his magazine and stood up, adjusting his jacket as he did so. He was resplendent today. Pale blue shirt, white collar and cuffs. His tie was a subtle print of blue and brown a
nd beige. His suit was navy. Blue was his color. Blue was his mood because he had found Nicholas Cheshire here, in one of the two places he hoped he wouldn’t. The morgue was the first place on the list, a hospital the second. He supposed he should be glad he hadn’t been summoned to number one.

  “This way.”

  The nurse held out her hand to lead the way but followed it herself before Mark cleared the door. He tracked her down the hall, silently lamenting the changes in the world. Take nurses. They used to look like angels. This one looked like she’d just gotten out of bed. Her hair was permed and dyed once too often to look soft and touchable. No starched, authoritative little hat perched atop that horrid hair. Her clothes were no more a uniform than the sweats his wife wore around the house on cold days. She wore sneakers instead of those substantial, wedge-heeled white nurse shoes of decades past. He missed the days when women looked like women. Call him old-fashioned. If he were in a place like this an angel is what he’d want to see when he woke up, not someone who looked like they were just making a pit stop between carpool and the gym.

  But he wasn’t Nick, so he paid little attention to the woman when she ushered him into an office and closed the door. A doctor who looked like a doctor approached.

  “Mr. Jackson. Dr. Temple.”

  The man smiled, and it didn’t seem part of the job. They shook hands. The doctor’s were soft and small fingered. Mark would have been surprised to know that the doctor thought the same of his. But that’s where the similarities ended. Mark’s inscrutable expression was in direct contrast to the doctor’s concerned one.

  “Nice to meet you,” Mark said evenly. “How’s Nick doing?”

  “I suppose as well as can be expected.” The doctor moved, so did Mark and they both landed in chairs. The doctor made an offer before he actually sat. “Coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I’m anxious to see Nick.”

  “I can understand that. I’m sorry it took us so long to find you. Agent Cheshire didn’t have any identification on him when they brought him in. We had to work pretty fast just to get him stabilized, and that really didn’t happen until he was with us for about forty-eight hours. There was a mix-up with the local police, too. I don’t exactly know what happened but no system’s perfect. We’re certainly glad you’re here now.”

  “I am too, Doctor. What are we looking at with Nick? He’s pretty important to an investigation we’re conducting.” Mark Jackson hesitated then added, “I might as well tell you, he’s also a personal friend.”

  “I see.” The doctor nodded and Mark wondered if he did, indeed, understand how Mark Jackson felt about Nick Cheshire. Mark couldn’t have cared for him more if he was his own son. Dr. Temple seemed to read Mark’s mind and pulled out all the stops on his bedside manner. He spoke with sensitivity and gentility. “Well, I must tell you Mr. Jackson, Nick isn’t in any shape to help anyone, and I honestly can’t tell you when he will be. Coma is unpredictable. He could open his eyes the minute you enter the room. It would be hard for him to talk because we’ve had to wire his jaw shut, but if he was to suddenly come out of it, he might be able to communicate to yes or no questions. On the other hand, Nick could remain as he is indefinitely.” Dr. Temple’s voice softened even more. “We’ll do everything we can, but eventually we’ll have to transfer him to a facility that can properly care for him if his situation doesn’t change. For now, we’re trying to deal with all his injuries, not the least of which is massive cerebral edema.”

  Mark Jackson plucked at the button on his jacket. His eyes never left the doctor’s. He saw nothing behind them except professionalism, and that he could appreciate. That’s how people saw him, after all. Everyone except Nick. He understood that Mark was his own worst enemy. There was something in Nick’s demeanor that always made Mark Jackson stop and think, staving off Mark’s natural impulsiveness. He owed him a lot for that.

  “Doesn’t sound too good, Doctor. What exactly is that and how are you going to take care of it?”

  “Massive cerebral edema is an excess amount of extracellular fluid in the brain. That’s what’s causing him to remain unconscious. We did an MRI to determine there was no bleeding, so surgery wasn’t necessary. Intravenous medication is causing decompression by absorbing the fluid around Agent Cheshire’s brain cells. As decompression occurs, his status will change. Hopefully for the better.” Dr. Temple gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Are you sure you don’t want coffee?”

  Mark shook his head and watched the doctor pour himself a cup. The man was thinking hard and, when he turned back, some decision had been made.

  “Look, Mr. Jackson, I know this is none of my business, but whatever your agent was working on has really given me pause. I mean, in the final analysis, I’m just a citizen and what I saw when Nick Cheshire was brought in gave me the willies. I’m surprised he survived that beating. He must be dealing with some extraordinarily frightening people.”

  “I don’t quite follow you,” Mark said, and touched his mustache. He wasn’t ready to confide in Dr. Temple no matter how good he’d been to Nick. But the doctor wasn’t prying; he was trying to figure out what the world had come to.

  “Nick’s injuries weren’t just sustained around the head. Those were serious, of course, but whoever beat him was extremely personal about the whole thing. Every single one of Nick’s ribs was broken. That creates a flail chest, there’s nothing to hold it up so he couldn’t breathe.” He used one hand to circle his own chest. “We had him on life support until the fibroblast...” Dr. Temple hesitated, even chuckled a bit. “Sorry, fibroblast are the connective tissue cells that grow between the ends of the fracture. Takes about four or five days for that to happen, and then he’s okay breathing on his own.”

  “Sounds pretty standard to me. If someone’s going to get beat up, they’re usually moving around trying to protect themselves.” Mark still couldn’t understand Dr. Temple’s concern. “I can see how his ribs might be broken. People don’t just lie there and let someone beat them over the head with a bat. That bat lands a whole lot of other places.”

  “Oh, certainly, I understand that. It’s just the extent of these injuries. Agent Cheshire was meant to die, but he was meant to get an important message before he did. Someone wanted him to die, literally, without his balls.” Doctor Temple cleared his throat. “I’m going to hate to tell him that he’s actually going to have to live without at least one. He was beaten with great verve in the genital area and ended up with a massive hematoma. We had to do an emergency orchiectomy to remove the damaged testicle and control the bleeding.”

  Unprofessional as it was, Dr. Temple shivered. Mark Jackson was statue still.

  “I see,” was all he could think to say.

  He closed his eyes briefly. The bastards. Damn militia. He’d show them who had balls and who didn’t the minute he got his hands on Henry Stewart and his buddies. He’d take one or two back for Nick—from each and every one of those slime buckets.

  “We’ll keep him comfortable, of course,” Dr. Temple went on, back on track with his clinical talk and feeling quite comfortable the more he chatted. Mark appeared to listen, standing as soon as the doctor’s tone indicated it was appropriate.

  “I want to thank you for taking good care of him, Doctor. Now, if you don’t mind?”

  “Of course. I’ll walk with you. I need to check on him anyway.”

  They walked side by side until they reached Intensive Care, where Mark zeroed in on Nick’s place before Dr. Temple could lead him there. He glanced at his friend, a young guy so dedicated to his work that he had followed orders and stayed where exposure was always a possibility. Mark let his eyes glaze over to buffer the shock of seeing Nick, then focused once more as Dr. Temple checked Nick’s chart, fiddled with the machines surrounding the bed and spoke quietly to a nurse. The doctor pulled open one of Nick’s eyelids and shined a penlight then did the same to the other. Finally, he put his hand out to Mark.

  “Stay as long as you like. Talk to
him. Call me if there’s anything more I can do.”

  When he was alone, Mark whispered, “Nick?” He touched the other man’s hand. It was dry like his lips. His eyelids didn’t flutter.

  “Damn it all, Nick,” Mark muttered as he hung his head.

  He was actually finding a few words to say to God right then, and he used them over and over until he was exhausted with praying. He looked up when the nurse came in and laid his hand on Nick’s bed, close enough so that the sides of their fingers touched, when she left. When another woman came in after midnight, Mark stretched.

  “I’m going to get some food. Is it okay if I come back?”

  “Sure, of course,” she smiled softly and spoke quietly. He was glad she’d be with Nick. Before he left, though, she couldn’t resist one question.

  “Do you know who’s responsible for this?”

  Mark looked from her to Nick and his eyes lingered on the man in the bed. It was hard to recognize his friend given all the tubes and monitors.

  “I don’t know who did it,” he said, “but I know exactly who’s responsible.”

  She looked at him curiously, but Mark left without explaining further. The only thing on his mind was the man Mark Jackson held responsible for the situation Nick Cheshire was in: Wilson Caufeld. His damn letter of the law had kept Nick Cheshire in the militia camp too long. That was all that Mark Jackson could think about while he had a sandwich in the cafeteria. The thought that Caufeld deserved no less than what Nick had gotten stayed with him during the long night as he sat by the younger man’s bedside. And, by the time dawn would have been breaking, if he had a window to see out of, Mark Jackson knew he had to do something to ease the guilt he felt for not pulling Nick Cheshire right out of the Independent Militia cell, despite Wilson Caufeld’s idiocy. So, though it wasn’t much, Mark Jackson flipped open his phone and dialed a number that put him in touch with one of the two agents who had spent the night outside Wilson Caufeld’s home.